Chapter 13
Harper
It seems like my third month at The Edge is going much the same as my first two. Badly.
However much I try, it doesn’t seem to be enough for Satan.
He’s found fault with me, criticized me, set unreasonable, outrageous, unrealistic, standards; then made sure I know that I’ll never reach them.
I have been tempted to quit at least once every day. But then I remind myself how much I’ve improved as a chef since I joined here. And how much of a difference the money has already made.
Freya is thriving in her drawing classes. Her teacher is one of the best in the city, and she lights up talking about him, even on the mornings she still drags her feet about school. I haven’t lost sight of my goal to get her into the Royal Drawing School. That costs money I don't have yet.
Briar dropped one of her jobs. She's enrolled in online courses, chipping away at her degree in whatever hours she can carve out. I want to make enough that she doesn't have to work at all. That she can just study.
Watching them settle into something steadier has made it all worthwhile.
It's also made me realize how much of a difference money can make. It doesn't fix everything. But it fixes enough.
I’ve also realized that no matter what I do, I’ll never be able to please my boss.
“This steak's so rare, it tried to moo at me," Cap'n Control Freak drawls.
It's not even that funny. But three nights of barely any sleep have destroyed my judgment, and a laugh claws up my throat before I can stop it.
I try to swallow it down. Fail. End up snorting.
"Does this feel like a joke, Ms. Richie?" my boss murmurs.
His voice grows softer. You’d think this was a casual conversation. However, the tips of his ears turn white. A sure sign it’s anything but.
His blue eyes, which resemble the icy expanse of the tundra, grow so stony; it feels like the temperature drops by a few degrees. I shiver.
His jaw hardens. His thick eyebrows knit.
That thin upper lip of his firms. His pouty lower lip, so plush it should look out of place on his austere face, juts out in a way that sends a weird tremor up my spine.
It’s hate. That’s what it is. I have never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate this man.
So what if he’s my best friend’s brother?
So what if for one night, he made me feel like I was the center of his universe?
In The Edge, he’s the owner and the chef. All I am is his slave. Sorry, sous chef.
“No, sir.” I resist the urge to snap to attention or toss off a mock salute.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash, darkening in a way that makes my stomach flutter. The way he lingers on me… It’s almost like he likes it. Likes being called sir. Likes the control it hints at.
Heat surges through me, sudden and undeniable. I try to keep my shoulders loose, my posture casual, but every instinct tells me he notices the shift. Every tiny twitch, every small movement, it’s all magnified under his gaze.
I’m helpless to look away.
"Your demeanor indicates otherwise." He stares down his nose from his superior six-foot-three height of brooding surliness.
He tightens his lips. But his eyes flash.
"Three times."
"What?"
"You will cook this steak three more times."
What. The. Fuck? His demand is unreasonable. And he knows it.
“How am I supposed to do that? We’re in the middle of service," I snap back.
As if to punctuate my point, there’s a crash from somewhere behind me. I recognize the swearing as coming from our line cook, Leo.
My boss’s gaze doesn’t flicker. It’s too much to hope he’ll let this pass. His next words confirm that he noticed the transgression.
"If you can’t keep the team under control then, perhaps, you shouldn’t be sous chef.”
His upper lip disappears entirely. His jaw could be carved from stone.
"Leave, and you won't be missed." His voice is almost bored.
"There's a stack of CVs on my desk an inch thick.
Cordon Bleu graduates. Chefs from two-stars across Europe.
" He pauses. "There's a sous chef from Copenhagen with impeccable credentials and twice your experience.
He's emailed three times, begging for a trial shift. "
His eyes meet mine. Hold.
"He thinks he's ready." The pause that follows is almost surgical. "The question is, are you?"
The blood drains from my face.
How dare he threaten to replace me?
I trained at one of the country’s top catering colleges. Worked my way up from being a kitchen porter in a middling restaurant, to joining a well-regarded French restaurant as a commis chef. By the time the place shut down I was chef de partie.
I’ve worked my arse off since the day I joined, so how dare he make me feel like I’m slacking?
This man has pushed me and prodded at me. He makes me feel like I’m the most stupid person in the world and… No more.
Maybe I’m lightheaded from the lack of sleep in the past month. Or maybe, I’m sick of this man’s superior attitude and the fact that he wears his condescension like it’s his birthright.
I’m also tired of being so aware of him.
I’m exhausted from the effort of putting up a front. And being civil. Because he’s, my boss. And I want to prove myself. But there’s a limit to how much I can be pushed.
I square my shoulders and thrust my forefinger into that massive chest of his which—gulp—doesn’t budge.
"Don’t you dare hold the threat of my job over me.
I’ve earned my title here, and you know it.
I’ve worked eighteen-hour days since I joined this restaurant.
I’ve barely slept four hours each night.
I’m the first in here and the last out. I’ve poured ten times the effort into this role compared to others. "
His broad frame feels like it’s made of steel. Or granite. Or some material that crashed to Earth on a comet. That’s how unforgiving he feels. Almost as forbidding as his features. Mistake. Mistake. My senses blare. I ignore them.
James tightens his jaw. Tension rolls off him. The air between us is so thick, it feels like if I lit a match, the entire space would go up in flames.
Around me, I’m aware people have stopped what they’re doing and are watching.
I see the junior chef pull out a phone and aim it at us. It’s against the rules to have a phone in the kitchen.
But it’s not like I can talk about rules, considering I’ve broken the most cardinal of them all: Don’t talk back to the boss.
I’ve started now. Best to keep going.
“Three months. Three months of barely sleeping and feet so sore I could hardly walk home. I forfeited holidays.” I lift my chin.
“Missed seeing my family. I’ve dedicated myself to perfecting every dish you’ve thrown at me.
I’ve adapted to every last-minute change you’ve made to the menu.
” I wave a hand in the air. “All your ridiculously over-the-top adjustments.”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot. His stance feels like that of a boxer’s. Where he’s settling in to absorb all the punches I throw at him.
A murmur runs through the kitchen. I ignore it.
“You ride me harder than anyone on this team. And maybe, that’s because you think I can take it. Or maybe, it’s because I’m the only woman in this kitchen?”
Silver sparks flash in his eyes.
A nerve pulses sharply at his temple.
That hit.
Good.
He’s been setting challenges which are almost impossible to meet since I joined. And while I don’t think that’s a factor in why he’s pushing me, surely, he must be aware of how the optics would seem to someone from the outside.
“The only time you speak to me is to find fault. And except for one time, you never say ‘good job.’ And it’s not like you’re perfect, by the way.”
Now that the words have started coming, I can’t stop them.
It feels like I’ve pulled the pin on a grenade.
But I want to make sure he understands my credentials, that he sees my dedication and how seriously I take this role.
I want him to understand that this job means a lot to me, but that doesn’t mean I can be intimidated.
“I trained at one of the best catering colleges in the country. I worked my way up from kitchen porter to chef de partie before you hired me. I didn’t get here by accident. I earned my place in your kitchen.”
James’ expression empties. He seems almost bored. But his muscles are locked like they’re wound up from the inside.
It’s as if he’s come to the end of some thinking process and arrived at some decision.
Probably to fire me.
Whatever. I’m not stopping until I tell him everything in my mind.
“I've taken everything you've dished out because I thought it could hone my craft and help me be the best, but I can’t; not anymore.”
James’ muscle bunch. His shoulders coil. His biceps stretch the sleeves of his chef jacket.
He spends most of his life in a kitchen. How is he in such annoyingly good shape? He must work out at night.
Maybe, he’s like a vampire who never sleeps, but instead, sucks the spirit from his employees and thrives on them.
I begin to chuckle, then swallow it down.
I think I’ve gotten away with it. Only, of course, Mr. Human CCTV here catches the gleam of amusement in my eyes.
He tilts his head, a look of interest on his features.
That’s it? That’s all I get for my tirade?
I want to push him as much as he pushed me these past few months. I want to break through that tightly controlled facade he likes to keep in place and get more of a reaction from him. I want to see him lose his cool. The way he made me lose control.
It’s what makes me spit out, "You have a temper that clouds your judgment. And an ego that prevents you from admitting when you’re wrong. And your rule of not allowing anyone to talk back to you means the people around you are too afraid to tell you where you’re lacking."
Did I just say that? I said that.
His eyes narrow.
Yep, I’ve surprised this jerk. I should rejoice; except, with every moment, my spirit plummets. My adrenaline, which had spiked, now begins to recede. In place of that galloping sense of euphoria is a sinking hole… One that tells me how much I've screwed up.
He glances down to where I have my finger pushed into his chest. I’ve been deeply conscious of it and enjoying the feel of those brick-like planes shifting. Too much, perhaps. I lower my arm. Take a step back.
It’s a first sign of capitulation, which he instantly seizes upon.
"Are you done?" he asks in a low voice.
The atmosphere seems to grow electric. I swear, I can hear rolling thunder, and smell sulfur in the air.
I can almost imagine the horns on his head lighting up.
Those blue eyes are almost colorless, like the ashes left behind after a fire. A fire that has consumed me and burned me to a husk. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Oh, no.
No. No. No. I’m in so much trouble.
"I—" I look around the kitchen. Leo is staring at me with his mouth open. One of the other line chefs stands over an open pot with a dripping spoon. The grill chef looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which, admittedly, I think I have.
The junior chef continues to film us. When I scowl at him, he hastily lowers the phone and slips it into his pocket.
"I— Um— I’m—" Not going to apologize.
I didn’t say anything wrong. If anything, I’ve only outlined how full of himself he is. How horribly he’s treated me and the rest of his team.
I set my jaw. "I’m not sorry for what I said."
His eyes widen. A flash of something—very much like admiration—flashes in his eyes. Those tempting lips part slightly.
I do believe I've managed to surprise my boss again. I should celebrate… Except, it feels like this is my funeral.
I turn and walk.
One foot in front of the other. Chin up.
The kitchen blurs at the edges.
Faces turn toward me, curious, shocked. I feel their stares like heat lamps on my skin.
I don't look at any of them.
My vision swims. I blink hard. Once. Twice. Forcing the tears back where they belong.
I will not cry. Not in front of the brigade. Not in front of him.
I brush past Mark, who opens his mouth like he wants to say something. I don't stop. Can't stop. If I stop, I'll shatter.
Ollie looks at me, then away. The relief on his face tells me he’s glad it wasn’t him in my place.
The whispers start behind me. I block them out.
Keep walking. Keep moving. Find somewhere. Anywhere. My stomach drops to my feet. Best to get out while I still have some pride intact.
I walk up the short hallway that leads out of the kitchen, and grasp blindly for the first handle I can find. I yank it open and stumble through.
The cold hits me like a slap. But not the frigid London spring air.
I take in the shelves lined with mise en place, vacuum-sealed proteins, tubs of stock, breathe in the frigid air.
I am not in the alley by the dumpster. I’m in the cold storage.
The door shuts after me. The noise from the restaurant fades. The light from the kitchen cuts off. The motion sensor kicks in, and the overhead fluorescent lights turn on.
I just mouthed off to my boss, and then, in sight of everyone, made my dramatic exit into the cold storage. Brilliant, Harper. Way to go out on a high.
I should head out and find my way out of the restaurant, but it feels so much safer in here. Maybe, I’ll stay here and freeze to death? At least, I won't have to face Lucifer.
A chuckle wells up; I swallow it away.
I stagger to a far corner and sink down onto a sturdy delivery box.
I press my back against the nearest shelf, the cold from the metal seeps through my chef whites. My breath comes out in ragged puffs, visible in the freezing air.
My eyes burn. My throat aches. I tip my head back against the shelf and stare at the ceiling, watching my breath cloud and dissolve.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
The first tear slips down my cheek anyway.
Then another.
I let them fall.
In here, surrounded by vacuum-sealed lamb racks and tubs of demi-glace, no one can see me break.
I pull my knees up to my chest, cross my arms over them, and rest my head on my folded arms.
At least, I stood up to him. If only I hadn’t spoiled my grand exit by going through the wrong door. Argh.
A few more minutes pass. The overhead lights switch off, leaving me in complete darkness. I’m not scared though.
It’s comforting to be able to take the weight off my feet and sit here, surrounded by boxes of food and meat and vegetables, and that curious scent which is a mishmash of many things and smells like nothing.
My heartbeat slowly settles. The adrenaline fades. I yawn and close my eyes.