Chapter 5
Harper
"How long will it take you?" he drawls in that gravelly voice of his which I’m fast coming to hate.
And I thought I knew this man.
To be fair, I only met him that one night. Every other time I got together with Phe, he was deployed.
But apparently, he’s someone completely different when it comes to working for him.
How he could be my sweet-tempered best friend Phoenix’s brother; I have no idea.
"Ten minutes," I manage to sputter out.
He fixes me with his cerulean gaze. "You have six."
What the— "That's not—"
"Six minutes. The lunch service doesn't wait for you. Neither do I."
"Then stop talking and let me work.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Someone inhales sharply. I realize, belatedly, that I just told James Hamilton, my new boss, to shut up.
His gaze shutters.
This is it. I'm fired before I even started.
But instead of rage, I see something else in his eyes. Something that looks almost like…respect…and a glimmer of something else which confuses me. It can’t be desire. Can it?
"Six minutes," he repeats softly. "Clock's running."
He turns back to inspecting another dish.
I exhale and grab a fresh pan.
Shallots. Wine. Reduce. Butter.
My hands move on instinct—dice, sauté, deglaze. The wine hits the hot pan with a hiss, and I swirl it, watching it reduce to almost nothing. Only then do I reach for the cold butter.
"Four minutes." His voice cuts across the kitchen. He's not even looking at me. How does he know?
"I'm aware," I say through gritted teeth.
"Doesn't look like it."
"Maybe if someone stopped interrupting me—"
"Three minutes fifty." Why can’t he focus on his own station instead of breathing down my neck?
I set my jaw and whisk faster. Don’t rise to his bait. Because clearly, he is baiting me.
Cube by cube. Constant motion. Keep the heat low. Don't let it break.
The kitchen roars around me. Orders fly. Pans clatter. Someone curses in French. The ticket printer screams again.
I block it out. There's only me. The sauce. The emulsion. The slow alchemy of fat and acid becoming something silken… And him.
And how he’s watching me closely. The silver flecks in his eyes flash. The pulse at his temple is beating so fast, I can see it flutter under his skin.
Now, I know how it feels to have his complete focus on me. Following my every move.
My skin hums. My scalp tingles. It’s as if he’s touching me with his eyes. I need to focus on my cooking technique. I need to get this right.
I need to shut him out.
Easier said than done when he drawls almost cheerfully, "Two minutes."
"I heard you.”
"Then move faster."
"Then stop—" I catch myself. Take a breath.
He’s testing me. That’s all it is. I can’t let him get to me. I can’t get this wrong. The thought of having to accept defeat pulls all of my attention into a concentrated focus. I manage to push him to the fringes of my subconscious mind.
Whisk. Swirl. Taste.
Almost there.
I add a pinch of salt. A whisper of white pepper. One more cube of butter.
"One minute."
I don't respond. I'm tasting. Adjusting. Tasting again. At five minutes and forty seconds, I step back.
Perfect.
I set down the whisk and turn to face him.
He's watching me closely in a way that makes my skin shiver with anticipation. No, crawl with disgust. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
Yeah. I hate working in such close quarters to him. That’s what I try to convince myself, albeit not very successfully.
His arms are folded, his expression inscrutable.
"Time?" I raise a brow.
"Five fifty-two."
"Then I had eight seconds to spare."
"You had six minutes."
"And yet, I finished early." I gesture to the pan. "Are you going to taste it, or are you going to keep lecturing me about time management?"
Someone behind me makes a choking sound.
I don’t look at them. I don’t dare take my gaze off the predator who’s, once again, in my space before I can blink.
I take in the tension in his jaw, the scar on his cheek that makes him look like a knight from the dark ages.
“Dip the spoon in the beurre blanc,” he orders.
I frown. Why would I do that? But best not to question him.
“You’re the boss.”
“Don’t forget it.” His voice has a pleased edge to it.
I shoot him a glance, but his face, as usual, doesn’t convey what he’s really thinking. I dip the spoon in the beurre blanc, hold it up.
“Now what?”
He curls his fingers over where mine are wrapped around the spoon. That blue devil’s gaze of his locks with mine.
The sound of the kitchen recedes. It’s just him and me in this strange bubble of intimacy. My pulse rate spikes through the roof. Did the temperature in the room just turn up to incinerator levels?
What. Is. He. Doing?
I’m so shocked, I don’t resist when he brings the spoon to his mouth.
I can’t look away as he closes his pouty lips around the spoon.
He licks off the beurre blanc with a flash of his pink tongue.
And ohmigod. Ohmigod. I think I felt that in places I shouldn’t.
My toes curl. Also, I think I self-combusted.
I try to breathe, but my lungs burn. Try to say something, but my words have dried up. His beautiful throat moves as he swallows.
Then he slowly lowers my hand, until the spoon touches the counter, before he releases his hold on me.
The imprint of his fingers burns around my wrist. I feel incapable of moving. Or speaking. Or doing anything. Except stare at him.
Seconds tick by. Each one feels like an hour.
He finally drawls, "Adequate."
It breaks this trance I’ve fallen into. The sounds of the kitchen slap me across the face. Just like that, the sexual tension fades and is replaced by disbelief.
I draw in a breath. Cough. Regain my composure.
"I made a flawless beurre blanc in under six minutes and you're calling it adequate?"
Anger bubbles up my throat. I bite my tongue and try to hold onto my temper.
"I'm calling it what it is." He pulls back. Claps his hands. “Let's move, people. We're thirty covers behind."
He walks away without another glance.
I catch the chef across the aisle staring at me, wide-eyed. He has pleasant features and is not as tall as The Ice Commander. So, I don’t have to get a crick in my neck from talking to him.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing. It's just…" He shakes his head. "That's the closest I've ever seen him come to giving a compliment."
"That was a compliment?"
He grins. "From him? That's practically a standing ovation."
He says him like he’s talking about the one above. Of course, in this kitchen James is God.
"I’m Mark. The chef tournant.” He’s the swing chef, who rotates between stations as needed. He’s also below sous chef in terms of seniority.
"Harper." I have enough presence of mind to introduce myself.
He turns back to his workspace.
I look over at James, who's now berating someone at the grill station.
Adequate.
I don’t know whether to laugh or scream.
That’s when he turns and walks back to his station. My gaze can’t help but slide down to his behind. It’s covered by his chef jacket, but the way the fabric stretches over his backside confirms to me he’s in very good shape.
He glances over, catching me staring.
A flush steals over my cheeks.
He arches an eyebrow, a glint in his eyes. "Richie, I’m not paying you to gawk."
"Richie, did you do the three-step reset?" He comes up behind me, and he’s so tall that it feels like he’s looming over me.
The heat radiating off his body is different from the heat in the kitchen. There’s a particular masculinity to it that makes my pulse skitter.
"The what?" I say without turning around.
I feel like I’ve spent the day trying to keep up with him, and failed miserably. My feet hurt, my shoulder muscles ache. It’s almost nine p.m. I’ve been working flat out for almost twelve hours.
My head spins. His nearness is making me a little dizzy. No, that must be because I’m tired. That’s all. I clutch at the counter to steady myself.
"After tasting the sauce, you need to reset your palate,” Mr. Frost King drawls.
He’s so close, it feels like he’s boxed me in.
His breath stirs the fine hair on my head. Huh, did he sniff me? This is ridiculous. I can’t keep talking to him without looking at him.
I square my shoulders and turn, only to find he’s already stepped back. I’m both relieved and a tiny bit disappointed.
“Oh, I don’t need—"
He cuts me off with that cold stare. "I don’t need to do it because I have an evolved palate. You, on the other hand, must do it so you don’t mess up your already below-average cooking."
My jaw drops. I must have imagined being affected by his nearness because, surely, he’s the rudest man alive.
I want to tell him off for that not-very-veiled insult, but I bite my tongue and swallow down my retort.
He snatches up a bottle of sparkling water from somewhere beneath his station, because of course, he keeps supplies stashed in his pristine workspace.
With precise movements, he pours me half a glass.
He cuts a green apple slice with three efficient strokes. Then he pours a small amount of room-temperature still water into a second glass.
He slides all three toward me.
"Cleanse your palate. Then get back to work. You're holding up my kitchen."
Anger bubbles up my throat.
Who does he think he is, treating me like I don’t know my way around the kitchen? He’s James Hamilton. Chef extraordinaire. Lord and Master of this kitchen.
And currently, of my fate, apparently.
He waits, as if he’s sure I’m going to lose my temper.
But when I smile at him sweetly instead, he turns away. In doing so, he catches the edge of the bowl with the handmade hollandaise sauce. The bowl crashes to the floor. The yellow liquid splashes on my pants.
I flinch.
Did he do that purposely?
“Oops.” He looks me up and down. “You need to be more careful, Richie. Clean it up. Make a fresh batch.”
I’m aware of the brigade watching us with interest.
Heat flushes my cheeks. Indignation twists my guts.
I am so embarrassed. He dropped the bowl, and I'm embarrassed. I open my mouth to snap at him.
But he’s standing there, with a gleam in his eyes. An emotion very much like gloating on his face. Ugh.
“Oh, how clumsy of me."
Not going to give him the satisfaction of losing my temper. I grit my teeth and arrange my features into a sweet smile.
"I'll get that cleaned up right away... Sir."