Chapter 2 #2
“Alexander,” the deep timbre of my father’s voice slices through the darkness. I’m equally relieved and put off by his presence. “How did the night go?”
I rub my eyes and groan. “Went off without a hitch, if you don’t count my firing Lawrence as a hitch.”
No reaction from Chet Harrington, per usual. He’s even more cavalier than I am.
“You’ll find a replacement, I’m sure. We have a queue of applicants a mile long.” He’s not wrong, but his nonchalance grates against my nerves.
“It was good being back on the line again. Maybe I’ll take the open position.” I say it jokingly, but once the words leave my lips, it doesn’t feel humorous at all. Being in the middle of it all silenced my mind in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
I was the eye of the storm, and it felt… Fuck, it felt good.
“Absolutely not,” my father quips, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting on one of the plush stools.
He reaches across the bar and grabs the crystal decanter of Crown Royal XR.
He pours a measure into one of the heavy tumblers, the amber liquid catching the overhead light as he swirls the glass in one hand.
Honey and spice drift toward me.
My mouth waters, but I don’t partake. Father doesn’t make casual visits to his restaurants, which means he came here specifically for me. I don’t want to think about how he knew I was still here when the rest of the staff is long gone.
Asshole probably has a tracker on me.
“I’m going to cut right to the chase because neither of us has ever appreciated small talk.” He takes a sip from his glass, then sucks his teeth as he sets the tumbler down.
Dread sinks in my gut, tight and heavy. Nothing good has ever come from a sentence like that. I roll my shoulders and crack my neck before leveling my gaze on his. “Go on.”
“We have decided—”
“Who is we?” I immediately interrupt.
His steely eyes flare at the intrusion.
“The board.” My father’s voice is laced with warning. “We are sending you to the States as an ambassador for The Harrington Group on an upcoming project. It’s not our usual scene, but we all agree that we need to extend our reach beyond Canada. We’ve made our mark here; it’s time to expand.”
Expand into the States? I haven’t heard anything of the sort until this moment. To be fair, I haven’t attended any of the “mandatory” meetings this quarter either, but there’s no way I completely missed that discussion.
When I don’t say anything, he continues. “This is a chance to showcase Harrington excellence to the U.S. market. Culinary prestige, media reach, potential partnerships. It’s the logical next step for the business.”
I press my lips together and force a smile that feels suspiciously like a grimace. “That’s still pretty vague.”
“FluxTV has a new series it’s cooked up that they’re pitching as the American reality TV version of The Great British Bake Off.”
The words land like a sucker punch. I choke on the air trying to enter my lungs. “You aren’t serious…”
“I never joke about opportunity, son.”
“Because nothing screams prestigious opportunity like a trashy reality series.” I don’t even try to keep my disdain at bay. There is no way I’m doing this.
“Alexander,” my father almost sounds reasonable. “We need a way into American households. As I’ve said, they are a massively untapped market for The Harrington Group. You leave for LA the first week of May.”
I can’t believe he wants me to do this. Reality TV is degrading. It’s embarrassing. It’s a waste of all my training and expertise.
“Right, so it’s already decided then? They have no idea who we are, and I have no choice but to spend all of my free time performing for people who don’t care if I’m there or not?”
Father’s expression doesn’t change. “Performing, yes. But also representing Harrington standards. Innovation, precision, refinement. Alexander, you’ve been training for this your entire life. Now it’s time to apply it beyond the kitchen. Make them care that you’re there.”
“The contract is already signed, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Father’s eyes sharpen. “And we’ve coordinated with the production team. Dates, logistics, wardrobe suggestions, camera coaching. You’ll be working with the best in the industry.”
“And what if I simply refuse to go?”
There’s a tick in my father’s jaw as he considers me.
“If you refuse to go,” he says, clearing his throat. “You can forget about any investment from the Harrington Group for you and Julian’s pet project.”
My gaze snaps to his, resentment and panic surging through my veins. “You wouldn’t pull funding from Northern Flame.”
My father cocks his eyebrow. “Care to try me?”
I press my fingertips together, measuring the room’s silence. Measuring myself against how much of me they actually want. I’m not loud or flamboyant or prone to tears at the smallest critique of my work.
People like me don’t make for good TV.
My father finishes his drink, knowing he has me backed into a corner, and stands, straightening his jacket. “You’ll do fine, Alexander. You always do.”
I wait until he’s gone before I reach for the decanter. I pour myself a measure of the whisky, letting the burn trail down my throat.
If I’m going to be paraded for the world’s entertainment, then I’ll make damn sure they remember my name.
I set the glass down, eyes on my reflection in the polished bar top.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s give them a show.”