Chapter 15
Harper
When the adrenaline finally seeps out of me, it takes everything with it. The fear, the focus, the fight. Combined with my weeks of poor sleep at night, all that’s left is a hollow, aching exhaustion. I’m so tired that even with the cold I can’t keep my eyes open.
I begin to doze.
When the door to the walk-in refrigerator opens again, I snap open my eyelids.
He stands just inside the doorway, with his arms at his sides. Stance relaxed. I would say he wasn’t affected by the earlier scene, except… He's here.
I went toe to toe with him in his own kitchen. The way I challenged him in front of his team, in his three-Michelin-starred restaurant… He could make sure I never work in this industry. And then it’s bye-bye to the dream of owning my own restaurant one day.
Bye-bye to the paycheck that meant I could give Briar and Freya the future they deserve.
All because…I couldn’t control my temper.
There’s no taking it back. But I’m not going to cower in front of a man who deserved every word I said.
Because none of it was a lie.
I take in the breadth of his shoulders. He’s so tall, the top of his head seems to brush the ceiling.
My boss is a handsome mofo, no question.
And he has the bad attitude to go with it.
He’s a Grade-A arse. A bloody crumblehead.
A Count Crankula. A pickled in self-importance meatball. Ha. I swallow down my chuckle.
No laughing, remember? At least, I’m able to see the lighter side of things.
He prowls toward me, gait as measured as a hunting jaguar.
I want to jump up and run before the confrontation begins. But I’m not a coward. I lost my temper with him. I must face the consequences.
I force myself to stay seated, spine rigid, even though my heart is racing like a saucepan left to boil over.
He pulls up another overturned crate next to me and sits on it.
For a few seconds the silence stretches.
I’m so aware of his big looming presence next to me. Of how the room seems to shrink around him. How he seems to take up all the oxygen in the space, so I have trouble breathing. Of my thoughts going places they shouldn’t. I clear my throat.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
A shiver belies my words.
It’s less than half an hour since I walked in here but it feels closer to two. My feet are so cold, I can barely feel them. I shove my hands under my armpits in an attempt to warm them. Hunch in my shoulders to contain my body heat. Despite my best efforts, another tremor overtakes my body.
He frowns. Then unbuttons his chef coat and shrugs it off his powerful shoulders. I did not look at how it caught on his massive biceps or how he had to peel it off. I did not notice how thick his fingers are or how broad his hands are.
"Here." He hands me his jacket.
"I d-don’t n-n-need th-that." Of course, my attempt at being firm is spoiled by my chattering teeth.
He merely drapes it around my shoulders, then tugs the front over my arms.
Instantly, it feels like I’m being enveloped in his body heat.
I fill my lungs with the heady scent. Then realize what I’ve done. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice it. Maybe it’s because I feel a little vulnerable after that outburst. That’s why I’m so aware of him.
"What was that about?" He nods in the direction of the kitchen.
Though I’m tempted to pretend that I don’t know what he means, I’m not going to.
"I totally didn’t mean to lose my temper.” I widen my gaze at him, making sure he realizes that I’m being sarcastic.
He watches me from under hooded eyelids, an assessing quality about his gaze. A small smile playing around his lips.
Satan smiled? Good God. What’s the world coming too?
He firms his lips again. Surveys me like he does the ingredients of a dish he’s going to put together. Measuring, planning, and tracing the different steps in the process. Imagining how the final result will look.
It’s clinical and focused, in that typical exacting James Hamilton fashion.
It’s what makes him such an exceptional chef, but right now, it also pisses me off.
For it means he’s not really speaking his mind.
And I want that from him. It feels important that he share what he’s feeling, not just analyze the situation and offer a calculated response as he often does.
"What?" I scowl.
"What got you so riled up?" he asks in a tone that sounds almost tender.
Nah, that must be my imagination. The man hates me. He bears no resemblance to the guy who took me to his favorite spots in the city all those years ago.
“None of your business.” I toss my head.
He inclines his head, not put off by my attitude. "You’re not in my kitchen doing your job. I’d say, it’s very much business.”
“Whatever.” I make a rude noise.
I wouldn’t have had the courage to confront him like this before, but now that I’ve crossed a line, I don’t care. I’m on a roll, and it feels so good.
“Life’s too short to not say what you’re thinking,” he says slowly.
Yeah, yeah. Fancy words that don’t convey what he’s really thinking. Ugh, I’m so tired of these stiff interactions with him.
“Is that your personal philosophy?” I bare my teeth at him.
“Is that why you’re always so exacting and rigorous and inflexible?
Why you never say what you’re really feeling?
Is that why you measure every damn thing in that kitchen, making sure it fits the precise dimensions you carry around in your head? Because life’s too short?”
His forehead creases. For the briefest second, something haunted flashes through his eyes.
A stab of guilt pricks my chest.
I basically called out the behaviors I associate with OCD. He’s never said anything about it. James Hamilton is a private man. I shouldn’t have done that.
What if I crossed a line?
I brace myself for him to tear into me.
Instead, his expression smooths out, the mask sliding back into place. When he doesn’t respond, some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
I make a note to myself not to bring it up again. Not unless he does first.
If I were in his place, I wouldn’t appreciate an employee pointing out something that personal either.
I shift my weight, trying to find a more comfortable position. Even my arse is cold. I tug his jacket closer, glad for its cover, no matter its owner has been rubbing me the wrong way for months.
He surveys me steadily. "I was a Marine. I had many near-death experiences. Each time, I took it as a sign that I’d been given a new lease on life and that I shouldn’t waste it."
"Makes sense." I’m surprised he’s sharing so much of himself. In the time I’ve worked here, he’s barely grunted at me.
Except for when he laid out the unwritten rules of his kitchen. The gist of which is:
The chef is always right.
The chef is always right.
The chef is always right.
Okay, not exactly. But close:
No excuses. Only results.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
The last because so many sous chefs before me had quit. Or been fired for brawling. Ha! I snort to myself.
None lasted more than a couple of months. And now, me.
"When I left the Marines, I had one goal in mind. To cook so well, I could not be ignored. I set my mind, not on becoming the best—"
"No?"
He shakes his head. "I wanted… Still want, to be the only one doing what I do. I knew I had to break the rules to create something new. To reinterpret the old classics. To redefine what fine dining meant."
"It’s why you never let a dish leave the kitchen unless it’s flawless," I state.
"I also know that what I’m making here is my legacy. This is the way I will pass something on. An identity. A philosophy. A mindset, perhaps."
I nod, entranced. All of this makes sense. The Michelin stars are like winning gold in Olympics, but in the culinary world. You must be beyond exceptional to have gained three like James has, and in such a short period of time.
"You live by discipline, hierarchy and precision. You must account for every detail in the kitchen. Orchestrate each dish like a symphony. So, each one is a masterpiece."
"You’re only as good as your last dish," he agrees.
It’s true.
"I don’t disagree, but—"
He leans back on his heels.
He hadn’t expected me to complete his thought, huh? Me neither. Shut up already. Don’t say it. But I can’t stop myself.
"When you’re so obsessed with control—"
He raises his eyebrows, probably because I used the word 'obsessed,' but I push on. "—when you’re so obsessed with control that any deviation feels like a failure, then it’s that very control that stifles your creativity."
There. I feel better speaking my mind. I’ve kept it bottled up these past three months. I’ve been mulling over how to tell him what I feel. And now, I finally have a chance to tell him.
He goes still. His shoulders seem to turn into boulders.
His massive chest stills. He stares, unblinking.
Those blue eyes of his turn into pools of glass.
Colorless and fathomless. If the last time our eyes met it felt like a breeze had blown in from the Tundra, now it feels like we’re on the moon without any protective gear.
That’s how stark and cold it feels. And it has nothing to do with the fact that we’re in a refrigerator.
My heart seems to stop beating. Did I go too far? Ice seems to bite the space between us.
A fresh wave of goosebumps dots my skin. Without conscious command, my legs seem to move of their own accord, and I rise to my feet.
I sidle toward the doorway, not daring to look over my shoulder. He hasn’t spoken a word, which is good… Right?
I reach the door and grab the handle when his voice stops me.
"Come here," he orders.
The command in his voice lashes through my nerves and settles deep in my chest. My toes curl.
It is not just attraction. It is the authority in his tone. The certainty. The quiet, unshakeable confidence with which he gives the order as if obedience is already a given.
As if he knows I will follow.
And he's right.