Epilogue #6
He’s surveying me like he does the ingredients of a dish he’s going to put together. Measuring, planning, tracing the different steps in the process. Imagining how the final result will look.
It’s clinical and focused. Like he’s seeing through the walls I’ve put up between me and the world.
"What?" I scowl, forgetting I resolved not to challenge this man again. Though it doesn’t matter, considering he’s probably not going to be my boss anymore.
"What got you so riled up that you snapped?"
My jaw drops. I cough. "You don’t hold back do you?
"Life’s too short to not say what you’re thinking."
"Is that your personal philosophy? Is that why you’re always so unfiltered?" At least, I got to ask him one of the questions I’ve always had about him.
The light shifts in his eyes. He stares at me steadily. 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.
"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 months I’ve known him, he’s barely grunted at me. Except for the time he hired me, when he laid out the unwritten rules of his kitchen, which were basically:
The chef is always right.
The chef is always right.
The chef is always right.
Okay, not exactly. But close:
Speak less.
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.
None lasted more than three months. I'm positively a unicorn at six months on the job. You’d think he’d want to find a way to keep me as a result?
But apparently, not. Despite his reputation as a nightmare taskmaster—or perhaps, because of it—there's a queue of people lining up to work with him.
I'll be replaced in hours, if not minutes.
And neither he nor the kitchen—not even the friends I made here—will miss 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 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 which makes sense. The Michelin stars are like winning gold in Olympics—in the culinary world. You have to be beyond exceptional to have gained three like James has.
"You live by discipline, hierarchy and precision. You have to account for every detail in the kitchen. Orchestrate each dish like a symphony. So each one is a masterpiece."
"You’re as good as your last dish," he agrees.
It’s true. "I don’t disagree, but—"
His gaze widens. He hadn’t expected me to interject that, huh?
Well, surprise. "When you’re so obsessed with control—"
His eyebrows rise, 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."
He goes still. His shoulders seem to turn into boulders.
His massive chest stills. He stares, unblinking.
Those gray 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 freezer.
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 to 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.
I freeze. The command in his voice snaps at my nerve endings and vibrates to my core.
I’m suddenly so turned on. Liquid heat pools between my legs.
My nipples tighten. No, no, no. I cannot admit to being so attracted to this man that I’ll do anything he asks of me.
Though, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed on in my job.
It’s why I put up with his bossiness. Because it secretly turns me on.
And that’s so very unprofessional. Because I’m a sous chef with five years of experience.
My last job was with a very well-known restaurant in London.
I know what I’m doing. But he treats me like I’m a novice.
Still, the absolute authority in his voice, and the fact that he’s my boss, stops me.
I pivot, then make my way to him. Coming to a stop in front of him, it feels like I’ve been called to the principal’s office.
Or for an audience with the devil himself.
"I came in to show you something."
"You did?" Had not been expecting him to say that.
He pulls out his phone, swipes it, then turns it around and shows it to me. For a few seconds, I don’t understand what I’m seeing, then my jaw drops. "Is that… Is that—" I’m unable to complete my sentence.
"It is."
"But how—?" I look on in horror as our earlier interaction in the kitchen plays out on his phone. "Who uploaded it to social media?" Then I remember the person filming us. "Was it Tilda, the junior chef?"
"Whoever did it is gone."
Right. Okay. I can’t take my gaze off the video clip which has amassed… "A million views?" I gasp.
"And counting." He navigates out of the screen, sliding the phone back into the pocket of his pants.
"That’s… That’s terrible." I swallow.
"Or an opportunity."
"I look like I’m having a meltdown, and the comments… I haven’t seen them yet, but I can guess what they’re saying."
"They haven’t been complimentary…completely," he admits.
"I bet none of them criticize you," I say bitterly. Typically, it’s the woman who gets the short end of the shrift in these cases.
"There might have been a few which marveled that the normally bad-mouthed chef seemed to be stunned into silence."
"That doesn’t seem like a compliment to me, somehow."
"They seemed to think it was a lovers' quarrel."
"What?" My jaw drops. In fact, my knees give way, and I sit back down on my upturned carton heavily. "That’s it, I’m definitely not leaving this…
this…walk-in fridge." I look around the blue-light lit space.
"I guess there’s enough here to eat for me to survive.
Not the fresh meat, but I could eat the tomatoes and the edible fruits and vegetables.
And I can manage with this set of clothes and—"
"Stop," he commands.
I firm my lips, feeling the words bubble up my throat, but not giving voice to them. Instead, I content myself with scowling at him. "Easy for you to say. I bet you’re not the one being painted the villain of the piece.”
"On the contrary. My phone has been ringing off the hook. The investors of my restaurant are very upset."
Oh no. "That doesn’t sound good."
"It isn’t." His voice grows hard.
A prickling of discomfort crawls up my spine. I shove it aside. "Bet you can convince them otherwise."
"I did."
"Okay?" That prickle of discomfort turns into a volley of agitation. I squirm around on my carton, trying to find a better position. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything." He drums his fingers on his thigh. "I assume you want to keep your job?"
I straighten. No way. He’s going to let me keep my job? After what I said? And after having insulted him in front of the staff? Not to mention, the negative PR from that little viral video clip? "You’re kidding, right?" I snort.
He stays unmoved. His expression turns to stone.
"Guess not." I hunch my shoulders. This entire conversation is getting very weird. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something behind these questions he’s asking me.
"I convinced my investors there was a reason behind that clip. A very good reason, which convinced them not to pull their investments, and also to put more money into a PR campaign in the same vein."
I’m relieved. "If the investors don’t pull out, then the restaurant can keep running. Which means, I have a job?"
"You do."
Some of the tension fades from my shoulders.
"And to be clear, I do want the job. Definitely. And I promise never to challenge you again. Well, not unless it’s something you say which is so obnoxious that I don’t have a choice.
" I cringe hearing my own words, but it’s best to be upfront.
Best to be truthful. I wouldn’t be truthful if I said I’d stay silent no matter what, right?
His eyes flash. A nerve throbs at his temple. "Obnoxious?"
Yeah, not the best adjective to have used. "You’re the one who said it’s best to say what you’re thinking right?"
He nods slowly.
"You have to admit, some of the things you say are not conducive to the workplace."
He curls his fingers into a fist. The veins on his arm stand out in relief.
The cords of his throat are so pronounced, I’m sure he’s going to have a coronary.
He draws in a deep breath. Another. Seems to get himself under control.
Then nods. "You may have a point." He bites out the words through gritted teeth.
That’s unexpected. I look at him with suspicion. It’s not like him to agree to what I've said. Unless—a bulb seems to go off in my head. "There are conditions attached to your investors not pulling the money."