Chapter 34
James
This is the evening of our wedding, and we’re at The Edge, propping up the dinner service.
I hadn’t foreseen the level of uproar the kitchen would be in when we turned up.
Henrik called to say he had to rush to the hospital because his kid had taken ill. I told him to drop everything and go. Family always comes first. And kids, especially so.
If anyone noticed that I was dressed in black tie and Harper in a dress that looked suspiciously like a wedding dress, they didn’t comment.
We both pocketed our wedding rings before we donned our chef whites. She exchanged her stilettos for shoes. Her fascinator for a hat.
Then I found out that our saucier, who handles the meats, sauces and reductions, was a no-show.
Also, the delivery of our vegetables and meats was mixed up with that of another restaurant. Which led to a fight breaking out between the delivery guy and the line chef who took delivery. It resulted in him decking the delivery guy, who threatened to press charges, which is when we walked in.
I had to turn on my charm to convince the delivery guy to leave without taking action.
And that required a promise that he could bring his family to the restaurant for a meal.
Small price to pay to stave off that additional headache.
By the time I returned to the kitchen with the line chef, the service was already running ten minutes late. Fuck.
One absence is never just one thing. It distorts timing, which leads to additional pressure on the rest of the kitchen staff. It means everyone needs to fulfill their own role well and also fill in the gaps left by the missing person.
“Right.” I nod in Harper’s direction. “You’re on saucier.”
Now, that’s a lot for anyone to handle. But I’d have asked my sous chef, whether or not it was Harper, to take on the saucier’s role in addition to their own.
I want to signal to the team that marrying her doesn’t mean she gets preferential treatment. This way they’ll continue to respect her.
She nods and goes back to her vegetables.
I can't look away.
The fluidity of her movements. The way her knife finds the board without hesitation. How she turns, reaches, plates, all of it seamless. Effortless.
A dance.
That's what it is. She's dancing through her workspace, and every step is perfect.
I've spent my career around talented chefs. I know competence when I see it. This isn't just competence.
This is artistry.
And watching my wife create it does something to my chest I'm not prepared to examine.
My wife.
The rightness of those words settles in the marrow of my bones. In the deepest recesses of my heart. In places no emotion has infiltrated for a long, long time.
I feel a quiet shift in me. I acknowledge it. Then set it aside and return my attention to the kitchen.
For a few seconds, there’s only the shuffle of feet, the tinny noise of ladles against dishes, the hiss of the steamer at the end of the kitchen, the low hum of the burners, the buzz of the exhaust fans.
The scent of sautéed vegetables, mixed with the buzz of adrenaline and the thrum of nerves stretched in anticipation of the oncoming dinner rush, is almost overpowering.
It’s mise en place time. The kitchen is all about focused methodical work now. The garde-manger who manages the cold station is busy washing and spinning salad greens, making vinaigrettes, portioning terrines, and plating cold appetizers in advance, where possible.
The line chef managing the fish station is scoring skin on fish portions, preparing fish fumet aka stock for sauces, and blanching vegetables for garnish.
Harper has started portioning steaks to exact weights. She’s making good time.
Every station chef is busy, focused.
I walk the line. Stopping first at the fish station, then the cold station, the hot appetizer station, and the pastry section, tasting every sauce, testing every portion size with a scale, smelling everything, checking temperatures.
I finally arrive at her station, stopping close enough for my arm to brush hers. Did I do it on purpose? Maybe. As for the frisson of awareness which runs up my spine, that’s completely unplanned. When she shivers, I know she feels the jolt of electricity too.
I step away, reach for the red wine reduction and taste it. The flavors bounce off my tongue. Complex, umami and tangy. Almost perfect. Almost. "The acidity is too high. You reduced it too fast."
Her jaw tightens. "I followed the recipe exactly—"
“Precision applies to discipline and technique, not rigidity of flavor.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Yes, Chef.”
"Add a knob of butter. Whisk it in off the heat. It'll round out the acidity and give it body."
She reaches for the butter. I'm already there, knife in hand.
I cut a precise portion and drop it into her pan. My knuckles brush the edge of her wrist as I pull back.
The contact sends heat skimming beneath my skin. Every muscle tightens, my body instantly alert to the warmth of her hand, the faint brush of her fingers against mine. I lock my jaw, forcing myself not to react.
I need to control my lust.
I watch her whisk the butter in. The sauce transforms. Glossy. Smooth. Exactly as it should be.
I reach for a clean spoon. Dip it. Then hold it to her mouth.
"Open."
Her eyes fly to mine. Startled.
Around us, the kitchen moves in controlled chaos. No one's watching. They're too focused on their own stations, their own timing, keeping the line moving.
She hesitates.
I step closer into her space. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to hold my gaze.
"I said open, Ember."
Her lips part.
I bring the spoon to her mouth. Watch her tongue dart out to taste.
Fuck.
The sight of that pink tongue against silver sends heat straight through me. The crotch of my pants feels too tight.
I need to step back. Put distance between us before I do something spectacularly inappropriate in the middle of service.
I don't move.
"Better?" My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Her eyes lock on mine. Something flashes there. Heat. Challenge. Defiance.
"Yes, sir." She peeks up from under her eyelashes.
Fuck. The playful way she calls me ‘Sir’ makes me realize she knows exactly what kind of effect that has on me.
The little minx!
Her eyes gleam. "Thank you, Chef."
The formal address wrapped in that half submission, half fuck you tone makes me clench my jaw.
She's baiting me.
In my kitchen. During service.
I shouldn’t be looking at her mouth.
And yet, my gaze keeps drifting back to it. That soft curve of her lower lip, the faint pout she gets when she’s concentrating. It pulls at my attention in a way that feels dangerously close to distraction.
I drag my focus away.
Too much.
I want to close the distance to her. I want to dig my teeth into that soft lower lip of hers and suck on it.
I want to… I need to shut this down and focus on the upcoming service. It’s my Michelin stars at stake.
I clear my throat.
“Next time you try to top from the bottom, I’m going to haul you into my office and spank your arse until you can’t sit down for days.”
Her jaw drops. She seems at a loss for words. Seeing the heart-shaped opening of her mouth threatens to disrupt my thoughts again.
Woman is more dangerous than a minefield.
There’s a clattering noise. Orders spew out of the printer at the pass. It clears the sexual haze in my head and brings me back to the present.
I spin around and head toward my station.
“Fire two beef, one venison,” I call. “Table eight. Walking in three.”
"Last order! Table twenty-three. Two venison medium-rare, one duck, one vegetarian tasting."
"Yes, Chef." The response from the team carries an unmistakable note of exhaustion.
I watch her plate the final dishes. Her movements are slower now, less precise. But still acceptable. Still my standard.
Within minutes, the venison goes up. I check it. Perfect gradient of rose to mahogany. Rare in the center, charred crust outside. The jus has the right consistency. Coats the back of the spoon with a glossy sheen.
I could find something wrong. There's always something that could be improved.
But it's been a long night.
"Service!" I call.
The kitchen erupts in a collective exhale.
The tension that’s held us rigid like wired puppets all through the evening dissolves.
With an audible sigh of relief, the team begins to clean up the kitchen.
The scent of seared meat and reduced wine gives way to that of the acidic bite of bleach.
The clinking of spoons against vessels is replaced by the sizzle of hot water on still warm grills and the scrubbing of brushes against counters.
I organize the night’s tickets to review later, note any delays, any mistakes that need addressing tomorrow. My attention, though, keeps drifting to the meat station.
She’s scraping down the flattop. The metal spatula makes harsh sounds against carbonized residue. Her shoulders are slumped with exhaustion. She's been on her feet for six hours straight. Handled two stations. Didn't falter once.
Her skull cap is askew. There's a grease stain on her whites. She’s never seemed more beautiful.
When I see the burn across her forearm, something inside me tightens. It’s par for the course in our line of business. We chefs wear our scars like a badge of honor. But this isn’t just another normal member of my team. She’s my wife.
My pulse speeds up.
My wife.
Somewhere between sliding a ring on her finger this morning, and wrapping up the service, the knowledge has sunk in. I’m still not completely used to it, but it feels more real, more visceral; I’m married to her.
I’ll be taking her to my home for the first time. We arranged for her things to be moved this morning. Briar helped pack her things.
I can’t wait to have her under my roof.
Also, it’s time to tell the team.
I straighten and clap my hands.
When I have the attention of everyone, I turn to Harper. "Will you join me, please?"