Chapter 3
Harper
I came prepared with the menu memorized, and his plating style studied from every photograph I could track down. That he even asked is an affront.
I'll show him.
By the time I return from the washroom wearing the chef coat, he’s waiting for me with a look of impatience on his face.
It’s not monogrammed to show I'm his sous chef.
I’m going to prove to him that he made the right choice by hiring me. I’m going to earn my sous chef monogram.
'Thank you for believing in me, Chef. You won’t regret it." I school my features.
He doesn’t acknowledge my gratitude. Simply thrusts a chef’s skull cap at me, then steers me toward a station with a hand on my lower back.
The touch is brief but proprietary.
I pull away, not liking the shiver that courses down my spine.
If he notices, he doesn’t comment.
Instead, he points to a station at the center of the pass. The pass is the altar of The Edge. It’s the final, unforgiving bridge between the chaos of the kitchen and the elegance of the dining room.
This is where every plate passes under James’ assessing gaze. Where he inspects, dissects, and approves.
And as the new sous chef, I occupy the square foot of stainless steel directly to his right.
I have the most prestigious, suffocating, and high-pressure spot in the entire restaurant.
I’m the one who controls pacing, ensures all components come together. I’m the last filter between James’ genius and the rest of the world.
I’m literally his second-in-command.
It’s thrilling. And overwhelming. My hands go clammy. My chest constricts.
I’ve worked in high pressure kitchens, but I’ve never felt the weight to deliver as much as in this instance.
A chuckle wells up. I manage to bat it aside.
Whenever I’m nervous, I tend to laugh or giggle. It’s normally in the middle of a serious moment.
It’s gotten me in trouble before. I’m going to have to watch myself around James. I have a feeling he’s not going to appreciate my sense of humor.
"Plate and expedite." His voice is a low, dangerous vibration. "Now."
The command in his voice resonates with something deep inside. I’m moving before I can stop myself, and step into the slot.
The heat lamps above the pass glow with an aggressive, amber light, pinning us together in a private, sweltering bubble. To my right, the grill hisses.
To my left is James.
I can feel the tension emanating off his body, the absolute focus of a man who expects the universe to bend to his timeline.
My heartbeat ramps up. I feel so alive. It feels like I’m on the edge of something momentous. Like today is the first day of a brand-new career.
I center myself, then grab a plate and start arranging the seared scallops, roasted baby vegetables, and dollops of purée.
My hands move faster than I expect, following the rhythm I’ve seen him use.
Then I step forward and slide the plate onto the pass.
He takes a damp, white cloth and wipes the rim of the plate in three distinct, circular motions.
One.
Two.
Three.
He adjusts its position on the pass with his long fingers. Three millimeters to the right.
I can see the muscles of his forearms ripple under his skin, bringing his tattoo to life.
It’s three separate thorny vines which start at his wrist and spiral upward toward his elbow.
I’m close enough to make out that the thorns are also grouped in clusters of three.
He definitely likes that number.
I flick my gaze to his face and find his eyes narrowed. His lips are in a straight line. A bead of sweat glistens on his brow.
He focuses on the dish with single-minded concentration.
His movements are precise. Yet fluid. The exactness with which he works is terrifying…and thrilling.
If he ever looked at me the way he looks at that plate, with that much attention, I'd come apart.
Heat blooms, low and slow, like butter melting in a warm pan. I shift my weight from foot to foot.
This is not the time to let my desire for him intrude.
Less than an hour in this kitchen, and I’m lit up from the inside. The rhythm. The precision. I’m learning just by watching him move.
I've been at this longer than he has. But what James has that I don’t is the vision, and the nerve, to back it.
He found investors, opened a restaurant, and earned three stars, in less than five years.
That's not luck, and it's not just money, even if the Hamiltons have plenty of it. He's doing something differently.
He's a master of his craft. And I want that.
A few months here could sharpen my talent. Enough to let me open my own place.
However long I last with James, it will be career defining.
Only…his surgical style of working is the opposite of mine.
I prefer to cook by instinct, rather than be as precise as him.
Being able to please him is going to be a challenge.
“Garnish. Take over,” he growls in his deep gruff voice.
I shiver, ignore how my nipples tighten, and bring my attention back to the dish.
This is the final touch. Where taste and the presentation are either elevated to art or ruined by a stray leaf.
I need to get this right.
If I don't, he won’t hesitate to throw it out and have me build the dish from scratch.
I compose myself. Scan my station again.
Three types of purée sit in squeeze bottles, and five varieties of micro-herbs float in chilled water.
I wipe my board, then pick up the tweezers, ready to place the first sprig, when:
"Stop."
I freeze. "Chef?"
"You wiped your board once."
I look at my cutting board. Spotless. "It's clean, Chef."
"Wipe it again."
I do. Still spotless. Obviously.
"Again."
I wipe it a third time, pressing the cloth across perfectly clean wood with as much dignity as I can manage.
He watches all three passes with the same look he probably reserves for undercooked proteins: one of suspicion.
"Three times. Always. Every board. Every station. Every time you change tasks."
His tone implies that I should know this already. Like the entire culinary world runs on multiples of three. And I'm the only person who hasn't received the memo.
I stare at my already spotless board.
Talk about being super-detailed. His Marine training clearly shows. That’s the only thing I can think of that explains his relentless obsession and attention to detail. But then again, it could be something deeper.
You would think wiping it once should be enough. I don’t see the point of doing it three times. But then again, he’s the head chef.
Maybe he knows something I don’t.
He slides a tray toward me. Roasted heritage carrots, already glazed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
"The glaze... It’s over-reduced. It needs a splash of carrot juice and a hit of cold butter to bring the shine back."
Without any change in expression, he bites out. "Fix it. Make three separate batches.”
I widen my gaze.
Why three separate batches?
He must read my mind, for his lips thin.
“I want to see consistency. If you can't replicate it being perfect three times in a row, it was a fluke. And I don't hire flukes."