Yes, Chef
Prologue Amuse-Bouche
Prologue
Amuse-Bouche
Poppy
For the record, I don’t mean for the shrimp to hit Jack Hartman in the face.
It’s just that Julia’s stupidly perfect Hamptons wedding has been dragging on for hours, my dress is sticking to my skin like
plastic wrap, and I’ve endured one too many conversations about what I’m doing with my life. The champagne I’ve been helping
myself to all afternoon is starting to go to my head, and fine, okay, it still hurts that I’m only Julia’s bridesmaid, not
maid of honor, because she wasn’t sure if I could handle it. Didn’t want to stress you out, Pop Tart!
I can’t say anything to my sister, or make my aunts understand what a brand deal is, so naturally, I’ve been hovering by the
outdoor kitchen, listening to Jack Hartman bark out orders to his underlings while stealing bites of uneaten canapés. His
voice is loud and grating. Whenever his gaze catches mine, he scowls like my presence personally offends him.
My parents love him. I’ve heard his name constantly in the two years since Dad outright stole him from one of the top restaurants
in California for a position within the Winfield Empire Group.
Mom just did a feature on him for Salt no one has wanted me in it in the first place. But
even I know that from-scratch demi-glace is liquid gold. Someone else might fish out the shrimp and serve it anyway. Not Jack
Hartman.
I smile sweetly. “It’s one tiny little shrimp. A cooked shrimp.”
“A shrimp you threw at my face.”
“What can I say? I have terrible aim.” I shrug, feigning innocence.
Somewhere behind us, the band stops playing. “Is this thing on?” Dad says, his voice amplified by a microphone. The crowd
around us laughs, encouraging him to speak.
I tug my wrist, still held tightly in Jack’s grip. “Has anyone ever told you that you have dead fish eyes? They’re terrifying,
really.”
“Winfield,” he drawls, which somehow stings more than Princess, “go back to the fucking party. They’re missing their disco ball.”
The insult hits me like a hammer, erasing whatever petty taunt I was about to fling at him next.
Jack Hartman is a lot of things.
Intense. Rude. Brilliant.
Brilliant in a way I’ll never be. Brilliant enough to draw Mom and Dad’s attention the way Julia does.
“Before the next course, put together, of course, by the talented sous chef of Pastiche, Jack Hartman, I would love to thank you all for coming, and say a few words about my wonderful, beautiful daughter, Julia,” Dad is saying.
Someone sighs happily. Over Jack’s shoulder, I see a woman hit her date’s shoulder. “See?” she says. “That’s why I don’t want
to elope.”
Of course Dad is going to wax poetic about his favorite daughter. He’ll probably mention the time she won the national mock
trial title as a sophomore in high school. Or how she graduated from Penn State in three years and immediately went to Harvard
Law. He loves that Julia is working with him at the Winfield Group as their internal counsel. He has plenty to say when it
comes to Julia’s accomplishments—marrying a world-renowned pastry chef included.
I grit my teeth, twisting myself out of Jack’s grip.
Just as he releases me.
The momentum sends me careening into a cocktail table—and the tray of champagne glasses perched on the edge. I hit the parquet
floor with a thud, wincing at the sound of breaking glass.
Dad stops talking. I stop breathing.
The tent is absolutely silent, and I know without looking that everyone’s eyes are on me.
“Fuck.” Jack sinks to his knees, grabbing my bare shoulders. His eyes, so vividly green they make me squirm, study me. “Are
you hurt?”
“No,” I grit out, “but you’re about to be.” I slap my palms against his chest, pushing with all my strength. He’s so ridiculously
muscular—I mean, heavy—that it’s as if I’m fighting a brick wall.
“Let me just—”
“That’s enough.”
We freeze simultaneously.
My father stands over us. He’s practically vibrating with intensity, his blue eyes colder than ice. My stomach sinks through
the floor.
“Poppy,” he snaps in a tone reserved for me and me alone, “what the hell did you do?”