Chapter 5 #2
I snap back to the room, gasping for air. “I just need a minute to get changed.” I scurry off to the locker room to put on my whites and compose myself. I’m overwhelmed with embarrassment as I pull off my top and change into the whites I haven’t earned and don’t deserve.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I splash some water on my face.
Get it together, Aspen.
I dry off my face and button the whites before tying my hair up. I can do this. I’ve been cooking since I was three years old, standing on the stepstool next to my granddaddy.
“Are you coming out before the staff arrives for dinner service?” Chef Stevens calls out to me. Damn, he’s not a patient man. Duly noted.
I square my shoulders, taking one last look in the mirror before heading for the door.
At least I look the part. Fake it until you make it, right?
I walk to the door, making sure to show nothing but confidence when I open it, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
“I’m ready, sir.” I put a swing in my hips as I stride past him without looking back.
I think I made my point when I hear him mutter under his breath.
“Fucking hell.” I do my best to ignore it and focus on the task at hand. I’ve just made it ten times harder on myself. I need to blow his mind, and suddenly, I regret my choice of dish.
“Do I have permission to add a side to the meal I’m about to make for you?”
“Such a good girl, asking permission.” He runs his hand through that gorgeous, dark blond hair of his, looking freshly fucked. “You don’t need it. The kitchen is yours. What you choose to make is on you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” I pick up my pace through the dining room to the kitchen I’ve seen a thousand times before, yet never from this vantage point.
The ingredients are laid out on the counter, everything perfectly placed. He’s nothing if not meticulous. “Treat my kitchen with the respect it deserves.”
“Always.”
“Then get to work.” He takes a seat on a barstool he must have brought in here while I was getting changed. How long was I in there?
I take a deep, steadying breath, centering myself. This is where I was born to be—in a kitchen. Maybe not one as grand as Dulip’s, but I’ll never get another opportunity like this.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Walk me through your process. What you’re using? Why you’re using it?”
I start by finding the necessary ingredients for the side dish I’m going to prepare for him. It needs time to sit, so I want it done before I prepare the lasagna.
“I set out everything you bought. What are you working on?”
“I’m going to make some rosemary and rock salt focaccia. It’s my granddaddy’s recipe.”
“Seriously?” I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad ‘seriously.’ “Most people bake cookies with their grandparents. What age were you when you started making this?” He watches as I collect everything I need and start mixing them and kneading the dough.
“Three. And I would eat half of it once it was ready. Apparently, I decided early on that Italian food was my jam.”
“Have you ever been to Italy?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Maybe I’ll take you.” What? He senses my unease. “I was contemplating taking my team to train for a few weeks. If you impress me today, you might be part of that.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. I don’t always explain myself properly. I get caught up in the excitement of cooking, and only half of what I’m thinking seems to make it out of my mouth. It’s a problem.” He shifts on the barstool.
“It’s cute.” It’s cute?! Stop talking, Aspen. “I mean, it means you’re human. I was beginning to wonder.”
“I’ll take it.”
I am going to wire my jaw shut the next time I’m around this man. My chest is alight with fireflies fighting to get free, and my mouth is suffering the consequences. His grin is wickedly delicious, and that face.
I focus on what I’m doing. I need this to be perfect, and being distracted by how hot my boss is, is definitely not the way to do it.
Once I’ve wrapped the dough, I take it to the pantry to let it sit while I prepare the lasagna.
When I finally get my head in the game, I feel at home in a way I never have before.
The kitchen is incredible, and when I walked in here today, I was so intimidated by its grandeur.
Now, I feel a sense of belonging that surprises me.
I don’t have imposter syndrome, even though I’m cooking for a world-class chef.
If anything, I am empowered by his eyes on me as I cook.
With all the components on the go, he stands and saunters over with the swagger of a freaking Adonis, his proximity making it hard to breathe.
“It smells amazing. May I?” he asks, pointing at the sauce simmering on the burner. I grab a spoon and offer it to him, my hand trembling.
“Of course.” I clear my throat, eager to show no fear. Confidence. “Please, try it. I would love your feedback.
He gives me a sly grin before dipping the spoon in the pot and bringing it to his lips. “Fuck me,” he groans as he closes his eyes, savoring the taste. My heart takes flight in my chest, and that groan—other parts of me react, traitorous and shameless as my breath catches.
“Is it good?” I don’t recognize my voice, desperate for his approval. His praise.
“It’s fucking amazing. This holds up against anything I’ve had in Italy, in the Tuscan hills. I’m impressed.” I’m giddy with excitement.
“Really?” I see his eyes flit to the rapid rise and fall of my chest for a millisecond before he meets my gaze.
“I can’t wait to taste the finished dish.”
“Thank you, sir.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second, and I can’t tear my eyes away. When he puts some distance between us, I’m a little disappointed, but that’s something to examine later, when my future career could be made today.
“Ryder. Call me Ryder.” He takes his seat, letting me go to work.
“Thank you… Ryder.”
I spend the next few hours at ease as I concentrate on making every last detail perfect. Usually, I would let the focaccia dough sit a lot longer, but for today, this will have to do. I know it’ll still taste great.
By the time I’m done, my heart is full, the joy of food overflowing as I finish plating my dish. When I offer it to him, he takes it and asks me to follow him out into the empty dining room. We sit at the best table in the house, the eerie silence amping me up as I watch him slice into the lasagna.
I wait for a few moments, eager to hear his thoughts on my food, but at the same time, I’m terrified that it won’t be as good as he was hoping for.
“Jesus Christ, Aspen.” My stomach lurches up into my throat, my hands growing clammy as I wring them under the table. “This is phenomenal. I’d be proud to put this on Dulip’s menu.”
That’s the highest praise I could ever get from a chef like him.
“Oh my God, you like it?”
“No. I fucking love it.” My heart is hammering in my chest, ready to burst forth and fly high on his approval.
I watch intently as he takes a slice of focaccia and passes it across those beautiful lips. “You’re no longer a waitress at this restaurant, Aspen.”
“What? Whatever is wrong with it, I can fix it. I can learn. I’m a hard worker.”
“I guess I’ll need to make you a chef in one of my kitchens instead.” A wry grin creeps at the corners of his lips, reaching his eyes.
“Are you serious? You won’t regret this. I promise. Thank you. I… I’m speechless.”
“There are a few things you need to know about before you say yes. Don’t you want to know your salary? Or a benefits package? Or where you’ll be working?”
“I’ll cook for you on the moon if that’s what you want. I don’t care about any of that stuff. I want to work under you, sir. Ryder. Chef.”