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I snatched my phone again and called Aiden, already dreading the conversation.
“Hey, beautiful! All set for tonight?” His voice was warm and brimmed with anticipation.
My heart squeezed. “Aiden, I can’t believe this is happening, but I’m going to have to cancel tonight. A health inspector showed up out of nowhere at Orchid, and Luis is freaking out. I need to take over.”
A pause, then a sigh. “Oh, shit. That’s… that’s horrible timing.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I was looking forward to tonight.” My words rushed out, and not just because I could feel the clock ticking.
“Can I do anything to help?”
I marched down the hall, already mentally preparing. “No, no, it’s my kitchen. I need to deal with this.”
“Well, if you need me, I’m here, okay? Even if it’s just to talk after.”
“I know you are. Thank you.” I clutched the phone tighter, hating that I had to do this to us.
“Seriously, Stella. Let me help,” Aiden pressed.
But my mind was already a whirlwind of checklists and procedures. “We’ll talk later, okay?” Without waiting for his response, I hung up, guilt gnashing at me as much as urgency did.
I dashed out the door, leaving behind the promise of a romantic evening. The night air was balmy, but I hardly felt it, my thoughts on the ticking time bomb that was Orchid’s kitchen. I rushed down the hill, and before I knew it, I was barging through the back entrance of the kitchen.
Luis stood there, wringing his hands. “Stella! Thank God you’re here. The inspector is in the dining room.”
I nodded, steeling myself. “Okay, everyone, listen up!” My voice cut through the clamor like a knife through butter. Kitchen staff paused, their expressions fraught with anxiety. “Just do your job like any other day. We do things right, and we’re going to prove it.”
My team rallied, nodding and murmuring affirmations. I started barking orders, assigning tasks with military precision while simultaneously reviewing every inch of the kitchen. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, but I checked them anyway, looking for anything amiss. “Check the storage temperatures, rotate the stock, and make sure labels are up to date! Health codes are no joke, folks. Cleanliness, food safety, cross-contamination, we know this. Let’s show them how it’s done,” I called out, moving from the fridges to the prep areas, eyes darting over every detail.
“Sorry about your evening,” Luis said with a miserable smile. “Nice dress.”
“Thanks. Where is the inspector?”
He pointed through the double doors into the dining area. “She went to the pass right before you got here.”
Just then, the doors opened again, and my heart sank as the inspector walked through. I recognized her immediately.
Oh, shit. Shit!
The woman examined this side of the pass, her pen scratching against her clipboard as the bright lights reflected off her short brown hair. The sound seemed to echo off the stainless-steel surfaces. Her face was impassive, but I knew her sharp, critical eye firsthand.
“Marjorie,” I greeted, a knot forming in my stomach as I recognized the stickler from my culinary school days. She had struggled as a chef and had taken a dislike to me. Instead, she’d gone to work for the health department, though I hadn’t realized Calypso Key was part of her territory.
“Stella,” she acknowledged, her voice flat as she raised a hand to adjust her black framed glasses. She looked me up and down, a slight gleam of triumph in her eyes. “I hope you didn’t get dressed up on my account. I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”
“Not at all. I was just finishing.” I kept my face professional and bland, though I was already itching to throttle her.
Her gaze panned to take in the large kitchen. “I see you’ve moved up in the world.”
“I’m back where I belong,” I replied, forcing a smile while wondering if there was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Marjorie had been known for her meticulous attention to detail, and I could tell by the way her gaze lingered on the corner of the counter and the undersides of shelves that she was searching for any reason to mark us down.
“Let’s hope your cleaning standards have risen along with your ambitions,” she said dryly, making a note that felt like a foreshadowing of doom. “I’ve already found one expired food worker’s permit.”
My stomach lurched. That was a stupid mistake, but one that was easily correctable. If that was the only infraction she found, I could live with it. We headed to the dishwashing station, where Marjorie got out her thermometer. After letting the hot water faucet warm up, she held the probe under the stream of water. When she read the result, a smug smile rose on her face. “This is below the acceptable range for hot water.”
I assured her we’d remedy that immediately, but when she ran a pale finger over the stainless-steel dish sorting counter and came away with a sticky coating on it, the knot of tension in my gut turned to raw acid.
Marjorie slowly turned her head to me and raised a brow. “What kind of kitchen are you running here, Stella?”
