Chapter 8
Harper
It’s the start of my third week.
That little heart-to-heart with James did nothing to ease the tension between us. If anything, it made things worse. I’m hyperaware of him.
Hard not to be when the man works five feet away from me.
I always know when he’s watching me. And when I glance up, there he is, staring in that cool, disapproving way of his, like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve yet.
Then, there are the accidental touches. His fingers brushing mine when he hands me a spoon or a plate. Every time it happens, my entire body sparks like someone struck a match under my skin. It’s ridiculous.
And his scent. Even surrounded by garlic, butter, roasting meat, and a dozen other smells, I can always pick up the clean, dark note of him when he’s nearby.
I try not to look at him. Try to keep my focus on the food. But a few times, he’s caught me staring.
And when he does, his eyes gleam like he’s just uncovered some private joke.
Ugh.
It’s the lull between lunch and dinner service. I’m using the time to start early on my dinner prep. I want to make sure I’m ahead of the curve. I want to use the extra time to get my recipes just right.
Not that His Royal Grumpiness will notice.
Right now, he’s in his office working on something, which means I have some breathing space. Thank God.
I'm headed for the dry storage to get the ingredients needed for dinner prep.
"Bet she's good with a whisk." A voice carries over the hum of the exhaust fans. "All in the wrist action, yeah?"
Ugh. That’s one of the line cooks. He’s leaning against the stainless-steel counter near the pass with his buddy, both pretending to work, but really looking for a way to get cheap shots at me.
It’s nothing I haven’t faced in previous restaurant kitchens.
Sexist pigs who think a woman existing in a commercial kitchen is asking for jokes at her expense.
The other guy laughs in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"Forget the whisk. I want to see how she handles heavy cream. Probably needs personalized instruction."
Heat crawls up my neck. Bloody knobheads. I want to walk over and demand they apologize, but I don’t want any trouble.
I have my mind full, just contending with my boss.
I pass Garrett at his station.
Mid-forties. Heavy-set. Mullet that probably looked good when he was fifteen, but now, only serves to confirm he's a has-been.
The kind of chef who’s been stuck at the same level for a decade, blaming everyone but himself.
I catch him scowling at me, clearly unhappy that a young upstart like me could land a sous chef position.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand move toward my arse. It’s too close, too deliberate.
My stomach tightens. My instincts fire. I sidestep him in a fluid move.
He stumbles into the edge of his prep table with a satisfying thunk.
Fuck. This. Shit. I’ve had enough.
My pulse is racing from pure, unfiltered fury. I spin on him, fingers curled into fists at my sides, jaw tight. My eyes lock on his like daggers, burning with all the violence I feel in regard to small, entitled men like him.
“Try to touch me again, Garrett, and I’ll reduce your balls to demi-glace.”
My voice is low, lethal, each word sharp enough to slice through the clatter of the kitchen.
He freezes, wide-eyed.
I let him marinate in the full force of my glare. I don’t run to James. He needs to know I can handle myself.
I have a lot to prove in this kitchen, and I won’t let anyone undermine that. I want them to realize that I’m not just angry; I’m dangerous, too.
I turn on the other two clowns.
"If you expended as much energy on knife skills as you do on high school comedy, your stations wouldn't be twenty minutes behind. Grow up or get out of my way." My chest heaves.
This is the reality of professional kitchens.
Men who think a woman on the line is there for their entertainment. Who think my presence is a novelty instead of a threat. It's not new. It's just exhausting. I wish I could claim that giving them a piece of mind helped.
Unfortunately, it’s only added to the exhaustion I’m carrying around from working on too little sleep and too much adrenaline.
Footsteps approach. Sharp. Deliberate. Coming from the corridor that leads to the dining room. I know that heavy, confident tread. It’s my boss.
James stalks through the doorway. The walk of a predator. The pressure in the room changes the moment he enters.
A charged silence descends. Every knife stops mid-chop. Every conversation dies. Even the exhaust fans seem to hold their breath.
His eyes sweep the line. Left to right. Slow. Methodical. Landing on Garrett. Then the other two.
Finally, me.
I resist the urge to vibrate like the string of a violin that’s been plucked by the maestro. My entire body wants to shiver. A heavy weight pushes down on my chest.
He takes in my face. Seems to understand exactly what transpired, for I see the light in his eyes change. His jaw tics. The tips of his ears turn white.
I draw in a sharp breath. James Hamilton has a tell when he’s angry.
He cracks his neck. An ominous sound that echoes around the kitchen.
He crosses the floor, boots clicking against tile. The only sound in the entire room.
He stops in front of Garrett. Close enough that Garrett has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.
"Clean out your locker."
James's voice is low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that's more terrifying than shouting.
Garrett's mouth opens. "Chef, it was just—"
"I didn't ask for an explanation." James doesn't blink. "I told you to get the fuck out."
Garrett goes pale.
“B-but I—”
“Out,” James growls.
Garrett seems to shrivel in size. Head bent, shoulders hunched; he walks toward the corridor that leads to the staff lockers with his head down.
James turns to face the line. Every single chef is standing at their stations now. All men. Hands at their sides, eyes forward, not daring to meet his burning gaze.
"If I hear one more bottom-shelf comment about any member of this staff…
If I see a hand move toward someone without consent…
If I witness behavior that belongs in a secondary school playground instead of a professional kitchen, you're gone.
All of you. I don't care if I have to cook the entire line myself. "
His voice echoes around the space.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
"This kitchen operates on respect. For the food. For the craft. For each other." His jaw tightens. "Without that, we have nothing. Without that, your technique doesn't matter. Your experience doesn't matter. Your Cordon Bleu degree doesn't matter." He looks at the two jokers. "Am I clear?"
"Yes, Chef." The response ripples through the kitchen.
I wasn’t going to draw attention to what happened, but here he is, like a wrathful, vengeful god, punishing the man who tried to assault me.
It’s thrilling seeing him in his element. Having him come to my defense makes me feel protected.
A melting feeling pools in my chest.
“Excellent.” He claps his hands. Thrice. "Back to work. Service starts in two hours. I expect your best."
The kitchen explodes back into motion. Knives hitting boards. Pans clattering. The buzz of voices calling out to each other.
James turns to me.
His gaze sweeps over me like he's looking for a physical bruise. The mask is back on his face, except there's something raw flickering behind the blue. Something enraged.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him show any emotion. And it was on my behalf?
The melting sensation in my chest spreads to my fingers and toes.
He walks over slowly, each step feeling like he’s the hunter stalking me, his prey. He stops in front of me, and the space between us seems to shrink.
And when he searches my features, everything else in the kitchen vanishes. We seem to be enclosed in our own little bubble of intimacy.
When he speaks, his voice is low and rumbling, meant only for my ears.
"You alright?”
I nod slowly, crossing my arms over my chest, meeting his stare with my own. Not that I don’t appreciate what he did, but I don’t want him to think that I need him to fight my battles in the kitchen.
If I want the brigade to respect me, I need to hold my own. I tip up my chin.
“Thanks. But I can take care of myself."
Something flickers across his face. A vein throbs at his temple. His expression grows even more remote.
He stalks past me and to his counter.
I head back to the dry storage. I grab olive oil, shallots, and fleur de sel, then head to the prep area adjoining the main kitchen.
I peel, slice and dice the shallots. Two-millimeter cubes. Perfect. Uniform. Just as the master commanded. He’s not here, but his voice is in my ears.
I plop them into the bowl and cover them with red wine vinegar. Let them macerate while I try to remember how to breathe normally.
Ten minutes. I can breathe for ten minutes.
I lean against the prep table, close my eyes, and count my breathing.
In.
Two. Three. Four.
Out.
Two. Three. Four.
When I open them, the shallots have mellowed, pickled slightly in the acid.
I add Dijon. A tablespoon. Whisk it together. Then the olive oil. Slowly. A few drops at first, whisking constantly until the emulsion starts to form.
Then a thin stream. Steady. Controlled.
The vinaigrette comes together—thick, glossy, creamy. I add the fleur de sel. Three-finger pinch. A crack of black pepper.
Footsteps sound behind me. Steady. Ominous. The hair on the back of my neck rises. The Ice Commander comes to a halt next to me. Suddenly, the space feels too small. It’s like he’s sucked all the oxygen out of the room; I can’t breathe. My skin suddenly feels too tight for my body.
Without looking at him, I slide the bowl of vinaigrette in his direction. My actions are measured, yet every nerve in me is aware of how close he is, how the scent of his soap cuts through the aroma of lemon and herbs.
He picks up a spoon and tastes it.
I hold my breath. Wait for his judgment. For the ringing ‘Adequate’ that’s sure to fall from his lips. Every second stretches until it feels like minutes.
Instead, he murmurs, “Perfect.”
Did he just say ‘Perfect?’ Not ‘Adequate.’ But ‘Perfect?’ Nah. I must have imagined it. I spin around to face him.
“Wh-what did you say?”
For a few seconds, his blue eyes blaze. The silver sparks in them light up. Oh, there are also swirls of gray in them. They are stunning, actually. Then, as if catching himself, a shutter falls over them.
“Not going to repeat it.” He nods in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m sorry for what happened.”
I blink, attempting to form a coherent sentence.
First, he compliments me on what I made. Now he’s apologizing. And for something which isn’t really his fault. I manage to get my shock under control and shrug. “It happens.”
“Not in my kitchen.” He tightens his jaw. “I should have let Garrett go a long time ago. I kept him on, wanting to give him another chance. It’s not easy being where he is. He’s tried to rise through the ranks in the kitchen and hasn’t succeeded. But that’s no excuse for his behavior.”
I look at him with new eyes. He understands more than he lets on.
“You didn’t have to fire him,” I say slowly.
A nerve pops at his temple. “He made an inappropriate pass at you. At my sous chef. He doesn’t get to stay.”
His words are possessive. A quiver of pleasure spirals up my spine. Of course, if there were anyone else in my position, he’d have done the same thing.
And to be frank, I’m glad that guy is gone. I feel a lot more relaxed and confident working in the kitchen now. So, I accept what he did and nod. “Thanks, again.”
He nods curtly.
He turns and heads off, then stops halfway to the door.
“Oh, and Richie?” He turns to look at me. “If you bring the same level of precision you did to the vinaigrette to the rest of the dishes, you might even have a future in this kitchen.”
I curl my fingers into fists at my side and open my mouth in a soundless scream.
What a sanctimonious, pompous git.