Chapter 3
Freya
“Not enough salt,” I mumble to myself, tossing the spoon into the sink and sprinkling a pinch of the white flakes into the sauce and stirring it vigorously. My eyes dash to the timer on the stove, watching it to be sure I can get this pan off the heat before I need to pull the Wellington out.
My foot is tapping, the mustard oil is sizzling, and “White Rabbit” is blaring through the Bluetooth speaker on the counter behind me. This is the crescendo of the symphony, the high-pitch, full-vibrato climax when everything either comes together perfectly or falls apart tragically.
I whisper a quiet a prayer to myself as I wait. “Bhagwan ji, please let this go well.”
The timer buzzes, so I burst into motion, switching off the fire on the range, pouring the sauce into the individual cups, and grabbing my oven mitts to pull the Wellington out of the oven.
The spicy aroma fills my kitchen, making my mouth water as I take stock of the dish.
My nani would never touch it because of the beef, but it was something I perfected in culinary school, and I’m determined to make it shine.
“Crust looks good,” I mumble to myself, biting my bottom lip as I gently scrape the sharp edge of my knife across the exterior. “Could be a bit darker…and flakier…”
I don’t have time to make it again. Or the ingredients. Not that it would matter anyway. I’m sure even if I perfected it, it would still lack color and texture. In my eyes at least.
After covering the beef with foil to keep it warm, I turn to the Lahori chicken samosas, each filled with slow-cooked meat steeped in cinnamon, cardamom, and smoky dried chilies.
The buttery pastry flakes beneath my fingers as I plate them, adding a streak of chili-yogurt raita and a few edible marigold petals to brighten the tray.
The song has switched to something by King Crimson, and I get lost in the moody sound, taking my time on the presentation of each dish.
While I work, I get lost in thought. I think about how even getting this job—if I get it—is like a dream.
I’ve worked in so many kitchens at so many jobs I hate just for a chance to cook my own menu for clients who want my food.
And now…I’m getting to present my dishes for one of the wealthiest families in Paris. Granted, they are my best friend’s parents, but still. I’m getting my chance to wow them. I just hope I’ve done enough.
My mother would say to practice gratitude. To stop roughing up the edges of my blessings with self-deprecation. I can hear her voice in my head now. “Don’t stir your blessings with worry, beta.”
But then again, my mother is my biggest fan and thinks everything I do should be celebrated.
The truth is that my confidence in the kitchen is like this dirty old apron. It might be covered in key lime pie and chili jam and goat cheese, but it’s not the real thing. It’s just a type of armor. The dishes themselves stand alone, the real test of my skill and talent.
And I fear that with one bite, they’ll see the truth—that I’m just a fraud.
Once everything is plated, I take a step back and admire my work. No matter how hard I try, I only see the crystallized sugar on the crème br?lée and the burned bits on the bottom of the potatoes.
“Oh well,” I say with defeat. “I don’t have time to make any of it again.”
Time. Oh shit. What time is it?
Spinning around, I glance at the clock and see it’s half past three, which means I have thirty minutes to get ready, bag this all up, and rush over to Amelia’s house.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I stammer to myself as I tear my apron off in a mad dash for the bedroom. It lands in a heap on the floor of my messy flat. I quickly toe off each dirty sneaker and rip the Pink Floyd T-shirt over my head.
King Crimson dissolves into a thumping pop beat. The playlist is one I share with my dad, and it makes me instantly miss him. I’m trying to make him love my modern favorites, and he’s attempting to make me appreciate the classics. Successfully, I might add. Not that I’d admit it to him.
Snatching a midi skirt off the back of a chair in my room, I quickly pull it on and throw a bright blue silk blouse on top.
Before I even have a chance to button it, I stumble into my bathroom and assess myself in the mirror.
My thick black hair is piled on my head in a scrunchie/hair clip combination, and it takes a lot of wrangling to get it free.
Once it’s down, it hangs over my shoulders and doesn’t look half bad for being so unkempt.
Giving it a quick spray of water and a tousle with my hands, it almost looks like I intended it to be this wild.
Leaning over my sink, I wipe the smudge of flour from my cheek, swipe my lashes with a mascara brush, and smear on some red lipstick before calling it enough. That’ll have to do.
Then I quickly roll on some deodorant and spritz myself with perfume.
On my way out of the bathroom, I button my blouse, pull on a pair of black ankle boots, and throw my black leather jacket on in a rush.
A smarter girl might have taken more than ninety seconds to get ready for the biggest job interview of her life, but I’m not one of those girls.
It’s the dinner that has to shine.
Once I’m dressed and ready to go, I give Amelia a quick text and tell her I’m about to head out.
She offers to send a car, and normally, I’d probably say thanks but no thanks, but thunder cracks loudly outside, and I take it as a sign that I probably shouldn’t try to carry a gourmet meal across Paris in the middle of a thunderstorm. So I quickly accept.
It takes me quite a while to get everything loaded into the very expensive insulated bag I purchased for this occasion. They offered to let me cook in their kitchen, and for the event itself, I definitely would.
But today I needed to focus. I need my dingy Converse and my loud psychedelic rock and my very messy kitchen to make this magic. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to make my dishes in a bigger, better kitchen. That is the dream after all.
“Oh, Freya, this is delicious.”
Amelia’s mom wraps her lips around her fork, a bite of the gratin dauphinois in her mouth, and I gnaw on the inside corner of my lip as I await her judgment.
“You made these?” Amelia’s father asks, looking impressed.
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “It’s beef Wellington, but instead of mushroom duxelles, I’ve used spinach and paneer with garam masala.”
“Freya, I’ve told you already. Please, call me Ronan,” he replies kindly just before he puts the bite into his mouth. He hums with delight, and I have to control the bouncing of my knee as I watch them taste each dish.
Amelia wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight. “Isn’t she brilliant?”
“And I can do any menu, really,” I say, trying not to come across as too eager. “If you prefer less spice, I can do savory canapés with whipped ricotta and prosciutto or Japanese-style gyoza or a duck confit with a citrus glaze and herb-infused polenta.”
Amelia’s mother smiles warmly at me, and I get the feeling that I’m rambling, so I quickly shut my mouth.
“You are very talented, Freya,” she says. “And you have no problem cooking for thirty people?”
“No, ma’am—I mean, Mrs. Kade…Daisy, ma’am,” I stammer. “I have been a sous-chef for hundreds of events and in restaurants. I have experience, and I can bring in a team to help.”
There’s a twinkle of pride in her eyes, and I see so much of my best friend in her.
I felt myself drawn to Amelia’s family as soon as she and I became friends.
Whereas her family immigrated to France from America, mine immigrated to America from India.
Granted the experiences were far different, but there is something genuine and down-to-earth about her parents.
They don’t act better than anyone else or like their wealth stations them above me somehow.
Amelia and I met in Los Angeles while she was studying there in her design program.
We were in a bar, and when she got ditched by some uptight friends, I convinced her to come sit with me and mine.
I figured she was just another Hollywood starlet wannabe.
Imagine my surprise when I found out she was an ultrawealthy sex club heiress.
The moment I mentioned wanting to work in restaurants in Paris, she convinced me to move here. That was one year ago, and I’ve barely kept my head above water since.
Her parents offered to let me stay here when I arrived, and I know it gave my parents peace of mind.
I ended up getting a flat on my own instead because I needed to feel the independence.
Still, they treat me like one of their own, constantly checking on me and offering help when I need it, like my own personal safety net as I embark on this wild endeavor.
“Well,” her mom says as she wipes her hands on the towel. “I don’t know about you, honey, but I think Freya is exactly who we’re looking for to cater the party.”
I silently suck in a breath and hold it. Amelia’s much older father folds his napkin and places it on the table. “Without a doubt.”
My best friend squeals at my side, clapping her hands in excitement, but I can hardly move. Keeping my shoulders back, I start to feel the crippling weight of expectation.
Her mom seems to notice the deer-in-headlights state of my expression. “Freya, will this be your first time as lead in the kitchen?”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
This only makes her smile brighter. “Congratulations. You’ll do great.”
“Thank you.”
With that, Amelia’s parents stand from the table and leave the room.
The moment they’re gone, I turn toward my best friend and feel the air come out of my lungs all at once.
Grabbing her hands in mine, I squeal along with her, and before I know it, we’re both dancing around her dining room like a couple of kids.
“You did it, Freya,” she cries, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me in for a hug.
“Thank you so much for getting me this menu tasting.”
Immediately, she pulls away and squeezes me hard on my shoulders. “You got this tasting, Freya! You got the whole freaking job!”
Rolling my eyes, I wave her off. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But still…thank you.”
“Thank yourself,” she teases.
“That’s enough,” I gripe. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
Amelia and I get to work clearing the table and packing up my things in the kitchen.
As she’s assisting the staff with cleaning the dirty dishes, I walk back out to the dining room to get the tray of desserts.
A door opens somewhere in the house, and my ears perk when I hear a man’s voice coming from somewhere in the enormous residence.
From the sounds of it, Amelia is harping on him for something. That must be the infamous brother I have yet to meet. According to Amelia, he’s a bit bristly and doesn’t get along well with others.
Laughing to myself, I listen to her give him hell about being late. He was supposed to be here over an hour ago to taste the food for the party. She didn’t appear all that surprised when he didn’t show up.
The voices die down as I load up the desserts on a tray. Then I carry them toward the kitchen, but just as I reach the swinging door, it flies open and someone comes barreling into me, sending crème br?lée spilling over and crashing to the floor.
“What the fuck?” a harsh voice snaps as I gasp. The clang of the tray echoes loudly in the high-ceilinged room as it lands.
My head snaps up as I stare into the fierce, angry eyes of a young man scowling down at me.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” he shouts.
“Excuse me?” I reply. “You…”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell this self-centered jerk he was the one who crashed into me. He should be the one to apologize. But I just got this job, and I don’t want to lose it already.
With a huff, he snatches a napkin off the table and starts blotting at his black shirt where a dollop of custard landed in our collision.
I am too flabbergasted to move. My brows feel permanently fixed in a wrinkle as I watch him clean up a teensy spot on his shirt while sugar and cream seep into the hardwood floor and cover my blue blouse.
This is Amelia’s brother? How? How on earth did Amelia turn out to be such an angel, selfless and kind to everyone, and yet this is her brother?
When he turns his gaze back up to my face, I practically flinch at the villainous shape of his eyes. With heavy brows and hooded lids, he glares at me with pure evil in his expression.
Just as I’m about to open my mouth and really give this guy a piece of my mind, new job be damned, the door flies open, and Amelia scurries in.
“What is going on?” she asks, noticing the mess. “Oh my God, Freya, your blouse!”
She grabs a napkin and hurries to help me clean it.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Julian, what did you do?” She turns toward her brother assertively.
“Me? Who carries a tray of food through a swinging door without looking to see if anyone is coming?”
“Who barrels through the swinging door without caring if anyone is coming?” I bite back.
“Are you saying this is my fault?” he asks, and I can tell by the look of absolute shock on his face that people don’t often talk back to him, least of all someone who works for his family.
“I’m saying you could at least help me pick them up,” I murmur under my breath.
“I’ll help,” Amelia jumps in.
It’s not my place to discipline this grown man and tell him it really shouldn’t be us cleaning up his mess, so I swallow my argument and start wiping the floor. Amelia is crouched beside me doing the same, and to my surprise, Julian eventually leans down and picks some up too.
The tension is thick as we work, and knowing Amelia, she’s scheming ways to make everyone smile and be friends again. But unless he apologizes, she can kiss the chance of us being friends goodbye.
When I stand up, holding the tray, Julian rises too.
As we face off toe-to-toe, I glare up at him, and I don’t see one ounce of life behind his eyes.
I truly can’t stand guys like him—guys who are so unaffected by the world around them.
Guys who seem to think the world spins on his axis.
Who think they are entitled to far more than everyone else.
How the hell this guy came from this family, I have no idea.