Chapter 4
Harper
He wants me to repeat things, not twice, but three times?
At this rate, I’m never going to complete my tasks in time to meet the lunch crowd’s demands.
Also, I’m dressed for an interview, not for a day in the kitchen. Thankfully, I have sensible shoes on. But my feet are already killing me, and I’ve barely started. My slacks constrict my movement more than the loose pants I normally wear.
I’ve been thrown into this situation unprepared. Not that I’m complaining. The rhythm of the kitchen is familiar.
Only, I’ve never faced orders flowing in so quickly.
That, and the intense inspection of my every action from James, makes my stomach flip-flop. I calm myself, letting muscle memory take over.
When James calls out an order, I repeat it down the line. Plates land at the pass and I steady them before they reach him.
I taste for seasoning, adjust if needed, wipe a stray smear from the rim, shift a garnish a fraction to the left.
Then I step back and let him make the final call.
It doesn’t feel like I’ve been out of a job for a few months.
If only I didn’t have to work in such proximity to my hot boss. His nearness makes me very aware of his hulking body.
Oh, and he smells exactly as I remember. Sea salt infused with notes of leather and cedar.
It’s raw and masculine. Unadulterated. It’s not from a bottle.
Like most chefs, he doesn’t wear cologne to protect his sense of smell. I can recognize the unique scent of his body, despite the plethora of food smells in the kitchen. Must be survival instinct.
The way an animal in the forest knows when a predator is nearby so it can protect itself.
Ha! I begin to chuckle but, thankfully, control myself, turning it into a throat-clearing.
He glances my way before turning back to his own work, his hands moving in that rhythmic, terrifyingly precise way. He’s searing sea bass.
He flips the first fillet. One. The second. Two. The third. Three.
I grab a pan. My hands are shaking, but I force them still. I dice the butter. I measure the juice. I work through the first batch. Perfect shine. The second. Identical. The third. A mirror image.
I plate a sample of each batch on a side dish. Three carrots, aligned with deliberate space between them, lacquered in the new glaze.
“Taste,” he says, not turning around.
I cut into one and bring it to my mouth. “Bright. Velvety. Better.”
He stops. Reaches for a clean spoon and samples the first batch. Sets it down. A second spoon for the next. A third for the last.
Silence stretches. The low hum of the refrigerator fills it.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. My chest tightens. What’s he going to say?
“Adequate.” He sets the spoon down beside the others, aligning them with precise care.
“Adequate?”
My stomach drops. I just executed a culinary hat trick under a microscope and it’s… Adequate?
It tasted better than any glazed carrot I’ve ever made. I did it, not once, but three times. But he isn’t impressed.
The flare of anger cools, replaced by doubt.
He leans in. “Adequate means you haven’t ruined my reputation yet.”
Silver flecks catch in his eyes. His scent wraps around me, dark and familiar. Heat coils low in my belly.
It’s absurd that I remember every second of the few hours we spent together. Meanwhile, he seems unaffected. He’s focused solely on dismantling my technique.
Sweat trickles down my spine. The kitchen is a furnace, and standing this close to him doesn’t help. Neither does the pressure to meet his impossible standards.
“Perfect is a destination. You’ve barely left the driveway.”
His tone is almost lazy, as if it makes no difference to him whether I ever get there. I know better. The indifference is deliberate. A mask. Because he cares. A lot.
If I fall short, he won’t hesitate to say so.
A plate of venison is set before me.
For a second, I just stare. It’s flawless. Dark, glossy slices fanned over velvet purée, jewel-bright garnish placed with surgical care. It looks like art. Like something that belongs behind glass.
My pulse quickens. How am I meant to compete with this?
I wipe the rim carefully, aware that my hands are no longer as steady as I’d like. Then I pass it to him.
He studies it in silence. Measures the diameter with a ruler. Adjusts nothing. Then, almost absently, wipes the rim again with a pristine white cloth.
I already wiped that.
Heat floods my cheeks. Not humiliation, exactly. More…awareness. This is the level. This is the bar I need to aim for.
It unsettles me.
It excites me.
He claps his hands in—you guessed it—three sharp bursts.
“Service! Table twelve.”
My hands hover over my station. The tweezers feel like lead. How do I deliver on that level of exactness every single time? Under this heat? With him watching my every move?
The ticket machine spits out a fresh string of orders. Its rit-rit-rit echoes the frantic staccato of my heart. Fuck. My pulse spikes. My stomach drops.
I’ve survived frantic lunch hours before, but The Ice Commander’s standards turn cooking into a high-pressure performance, like heart surgery or competing in front of Olympic judges.
The weight of his expectations is heavy. Along with my own, bearing down on me.
I have to move fast and keep every detail perfect.
This is the big league. The real thing. The moment I’ve trained for my entire career.
I square my shoulders. I can do this. I will prove I deserve the sous chef jacket with my name on it.
"The beurre blanc." He jerks his chin toward one of the small heavy copper pots at my station. "What's wrong with it?"
I glance over. The sauce looks fine. Pale, emulsified, gently steaming.
But he said, 'What's wrong?' Not, ‘Is something wrong?'
I lean closer. Sniff. Taste.
"Too much wine. It wasn't reduced enough before the butter went in. The alcohol's still sharp."
He stares at me. The silence stretches.
“Can you save it?"
His voice is flat, like the blade of a knife resting against my throat.
Think. The answer is there. I know it is. "More butter. Splash of cream to soften the edges. I can balance it." I hold his gaze when I say it.
A subtle tightening around his lips tells me I got that wrong. The floor drops out from under me.
“I don't serve balanced.”
He steps into my space, and suddenly, the air is gone. He’s a wall of muscle and cold authority, blocking out the rest of the kitchen, until the only thing left in the world is him.
“I serve perfect. My name is above that door. My standing is on every plate. So, when I ask if you can save it, I’m asking if you can make it flawless. Can you?”
He frowns. His blue eyes are glacial.
A ball of anger squeezes my throat, pushing aside my earlier nervousness.
Perfect? I just rebuilt the glaze for the heritage carrots from the brink of disaster. I corrected it under pressure. And he’s standing there implying I still haven’t proven myself to him? He still doubts that I can deliver to his standards?
My fingers curl into my palms.
For a second, indignation burns bright and reckless. I want to snap back. To tell him no one hits flawless every time. That you can’t always cook with such mathematical exactness.
That variables exist, and for a reason. It’s the accidents which give rise to moments of genius which make cooking fun.
Then doubt seeps in, colder than his stare.
What if he’s right?
What if my way of thinking is wrong? What if my preference to approaching cooking in a more creative fashion means I’ll only ever remain a good chef and never become a great one?
I swallow. I’m acutely aware of how close he is. The heat rolling off him. That dark, magnetic scent that unsettles my focus. My pulse stumbles.
Focus.
This isn’t about him. It’s about the plate. It’s about honing my craft. About learning from him and outdoing myself or, at least, trying to. So what, if I don’t hit his level of excellence every single time. I’m not going to stop trying.
I set my jaw. “I can’t make it flawless. Not at this consistency.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Then what’s your solution?”
It’s the only one I know he’ll accept. I grab the handle of the pan.
"I remake it. Perfectly.”