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Cal glared at the dozens of keys resting in her palm. “Which one is it?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Row, there are, like, thirty keys here!” Her cheeks stained red. I hated being an asshole to her, but it had to be done. I couldn’t let her worm her way back into my heart. Not even my dick. She was danger, and anyway, I was best alone.
“Forty-four. Better get goin’.”
The maître d’, Katie, winced at her. “Chef is an acquired taste.”
“Uh-huh,” Cal muttered, scorching my face with a blazing scowl. “Tastes like ass to me.”
Katie gasped.
A muscle jumped in my jaw. “Do you want this job or not?”
Her tic returned in full force. Blink, blink, blink. She tried to control it by averting her gaze to the ceiling. “I’m starting to rethink it.”
“That’s a surprise.” I just couldn’t shut up apparently. “Thinking was never your strong suit.”
She took a deep breath, flattened her lips, and tipped her chin up. Finally, she walked off toward my office upstairs. I punched the double swing doors to the back of the house, heading into my lair.
“Chef!” Taylor looked up from his station, dipping a spoon into a simmering sauce and tasting it. “Good afternoon.”
“We’ll see about that.” I slipped into my chef shirt mid-walk. “How much Wagyu beef is in the house?” I parked my ass in front of the sink, scrubbing my hands and arms clean. My kitchen was neater than a hospital. All white uniforms and squeaky quartz tops. It had earned me a reputation as a frightening boss, but whoever survived under my reign for over a year was usually snatched by the competitors or went solo to see great success.
“About twenty pounds, Chef,” one of my commis chefs called out.
“About?” I snapped my head up, shooting him a death glare. “Did I ask you to fucking guess? You better take your inventory before I step into my kitchen.”
I fastened the buttons of my uniform shirt at rapid speed, scowling at everyone in my radius.
“Yes, Chef. What I meant is twenty-two pounds exactly, Chef,” choked out the rookie.
“That’s better.”
“Thank you, Ch—”
“Where’s my Wüsthof knife?”
My chef de partie muttered, “The last thing I’d give this man is a sharp object.”
“Run that mouth again, Chef, and you’ll be running to the unemployment center near you next.” But I wasn’t that much of a dweeb to fire someone for speaking the truth. Especially when that someone worked fourteen-hour shifts five times a week for me. This was a demanding, harsh business. Not for the faint of heart. And I fucking loved it.
Loved that it was stressful, full of tension, hard on the body and the soul. Loved that most people in my position were nursing a fucking cocaine habit to keep them functioning. Running a Michelin-starred kitchen was like waking up and going to war every day. I felt like Napoleon, high on that power. Food wasn’t just food. Food was community, it was passion, it was art. It was the stepping stones of the body, nutrition, and science. It was chemistry and facts, and at the same time creative abandon. Food was everything.
A knife was handed to me by a brave soul, and I began sifting through my four-hour braised point-cut brisket. I tuned out the world and started working.
I cut, slashed, and scythed expertly, minding the overlapping muscles. My hands flew over the meat. This was my zone. My talent. My thing.
Making food was like stitching up a fantasy. Food was an erotic experience.
Cal’s voice drifted into my mind.
“I’m starting to rethink it.”
Normally, I didn’t mind being a dick to people. But with her, I cared. She didn’t like men for whatever reason. She might not like me, but at least she wasn’t scared of me. Though that was about to change if I continued acting like a dickhead.
I slammed the knife against the tender meat, suppressing a grunt.
