Chapter 2
James
It’s her. Her.
Blonde curls plastered to her forehead. Big green eyes that swallow the room. That swallow me. Everything else fades, until there's nothing left but her. That gorgeous face. Her sweet scent. Those beautiful tits I pressed into my chest and marveled at.
Soft.
Perfect.
Seared into my memory like a brand I never asked for but couldn't burn away.
She takes a step back, still clutching the chef jacket.
It draws my attention to her generous hips. My palms tingle. My fingertips hurt with the need to squeeze them. Her thick thighs are encased in slacks that can't hide her hourglass figure, no matter how hard they try.
Five years. Five bloody years of dreaming about her.
I was on leave from the Royal Marines when I ran into her at the nightclub.
I was struck by her beauty, her zest for life. She lit up something in me which had begun to die, thanks to the violence I saw as a Marine.
And when it turned out that she was my sister Phe’s best friend, I insisted on driving her home.
Only, instead of dropping her off, we spent the night talking, taking in the sights of a slumbering London.
We’d kissed in the pre-dawn hush in front of Tower Bridge. A fusing of lips. A tangling of tongues. An intermingling of breaths.
There was a connection between us that shook me. I couldn’t control my emotions around her, and that scared me.
I cut off the possibility of anything between us before it could even begin. Then left for what would become my last tour of duty.
My teammates were killed. I came back with survivor's guilt and PTSD. The OCD I'd kept leashed for years finally slipped its collar.
The only way I've stayed functional is by locking everything down.
Emotions are the enemy. They fuel my OCD. They remind me of my birth parents leaving. Of my platoon and how they were gone in seconds. Of how every time I commit to someone, I lose them.
It's easier to feel nothing than to keep paying that price.
I became a chef because she told me that's what she was, and I envied her happiness. I had considered it before the Marines, and it felt natural to return to it afterward.
The same mechanisms I used to keep myself together—the precision, the discipline, the absolute intolerance for anything less than exactly right—gave me the tools to control the chaos of the kitchen.
Three Michelin stars in five years wasn't ambition. It was a damaged man who had found the one place his damage was useful.
I did it while keeping track of her career.
Perhaps, some part of me believed pursuing the same career as her would provide a link to her. Yet I never ran into her on the London culinary circuit.
When the opportunity presented itself, I asked her to interview.
She takes another step back, and something primal rears up in my chest. Panic. Raw and unfamiliar. My instincts fire, telling me that she's going to run. That I’m going to lose her again.
Not this time.
She came to interview for a junior role, but I’m giving her the role of sous chef. I’m being impulsive, but I don’t care. I’ve been given a second chance. I’m not going to waste it
Besides, she’s good. She’ll learn. She can fill the gap in the line, right now, and that’s what matters.
“If you don’t want it, there are many who’d give anything to trial as my sous chef.” I yawn, pretending a casualness I don’t feel.
“It’s a trial?” Suspicion sharpens her tone.
“Every employee has a three-month tryout. Consider your probation period as interviewing on the job." I nod toward the empty station that belonged to Miller.
She looks at the counter longingly. Then back at me. Her chin lifts a fraction.
There’s a challenge in her demeanor. She’s daring me to…say something that’ll convince her to stay.
But if I seem overeager, she’s bound to walk away. So, I go with my natural response.
“Yes or no, Richie?” I glance at the clock above the pass.
It’s next to a sign that declares:
EVERY SECOND COUNTS
Which is next to my personal favorite sign that reads:
DO BETTER. FASTER.
I glower at her.
“We’re ten minutes late for lunch service. I need to keep the line moving.”
I challenge every new hire to give better than their best under pressure.
“Well?” I cross my arms over my chest.
She scans the kitchen. The gleaming stations. The line cooks, pretending not to strain their ears to listen to our exchange. The counters, warm under the heat lamps.
She’s calculating. Making up her mind.
I don’t believe in luck. Or destiny. We show up. We survive, if we can. Then we’re gone.
That’s it.
But for the first time, I want to believe there’s more. I press my thumb against my forefinger once, twice, thrice.
My thoughts grow calmer.
Having her at The Edge means I can keep her close. Of course, we’ll be side by side all day, but I can control how I react, how I let the tension between us affect my work. How much influence she has over my thoughts and emotions.
Managing the variables. Controlling the environment. It's the only thing that keeps the chaos at bay.
That’s why I need her to say yes.
Her jaw tightens.
“Yes.” She nods once, decisive. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
Thank fuck. I release the breath I wasn’t aware of holding.
Excitement flickers in her eyes. It turns her green irises molten, gold sparking through them like something lit from within.
For a second, it's as if embers have been coaxed back to life, glowing hot and bright before settling into a steady burn.
Ember. That’s what she is. She could light up my life by being herself. The nickname suits her.
That’s what I’ll call her from now on.
Welcome to my lair…I mean, my kitchen, Ember. I’m never letting you go.
I clap my hands.
“Show’s over. Service in ten. Let’s go.”
There's a chorus of, "Yes, Chef.”
Every member of my brigade picks up the pace. The staccato of knives on cutting boards, the hiss of pans, the clatter of plates being stacked, fills the air.
Satisfied, I slide her bag off her shoulder without asking.
She gasps. "I need that—"
"No, you don't. Give me your coat.”
“Excuse me?" She blinks.
“You’re dripping water on my kitchen floor.” I stare at the puddle of water that’s gathering around her where she’s standing.
“Oh.” She reddens. “Sorry.”
“Put on your chef jacket.”
Instantly, she slides her coat off and hands it over.
Excellent. She’s a fast learner.
“These will be safe in my office."
Her forehead furrows. "Shouldn’t we talk about what happened when we last met? It will make it easier for us to work together.”
She’s right; we should. But I’m not ready. And I don’t want to delay the service further.
“We will, soon. I cannot spare a second more right now.”
I take her coat and bag to my office, leaving her to follow me.
"Three minutes."
I jerk my chin toward the corridor.
"Washroom. Hands. On your way back, study the plates on the pass.”
I glance back at her.
"You know the menu?”