“Then you’ll definitely want to try the hot stone massage,” I said. “And if you’re interested in the local area, the concierge can arrange tours. And?—”
The man stepped closer, his hand brushing my forearm. “You’re very helpful, my dear. What’s your name?”
I kept my smile in place even as I took a subtle step back. “Zoe. I’m an intern here.”
His fingers lingered a beat too long on my skin before he let go. “Well, I hope we see more of you during our stay. Such a warm welcome.”
Had he emphasized the word ‘warm’? If so, ew. But I’d dealt with this before—male customers who got a little too familiar, who stood a little too close. It always made my skin crawl, but I stayed professional. I felt bad for his wife, though. She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she was just used to it.
“Thank you, Zoe,” she said with a genuine smile. “We’ll definitely check out the spa.”
I excused myself and headed downstairs to the restaurant, my stomach tightening with each step.
It was still early for lunch, but I could hear the sounds of the kitchen—the clatter of pots, the sizzle of something on a burner, voices calling out orders. I pushed through the door tentatively and scanned the room.
And there he was.
Asher stood at the center of the controlled chaos, his chef’s whites pristine despite the activity surrounding him. He was in his element, barking instructions to the staff, his movements precise and efficient.
He saw me and his expression darkened, but he didn’t stop working.
I looked around, taking in the scene. I recognizedsome of the roles—the sous chefs prepping vegetables, someone reducing a sauce, another checking the temperature of something in the oven. I’d taken a restaurant management class a couple of years ago, and bits of it were coming back to me. The brigade system. The hierarchy. The choreography of a professional kitchen.
I approached a woman who was plating something that smelled of garlic and some other spice. “Excuse me. Can you tell me where the head chef is?”
She paused and pointed toward Asher.
I stared. “Him?”
“Yes. Do you need to talk to him?”
“I... yes. Please.”
She nodded and walked over to Asher, saying something I couldn’t hear. He looked over at me, clearly annoyed, then wiped his hands on a towel and strode toward me.
“You’re the head chef?” I asked, even though I’d just been told that. I still couldn’t believe it.
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“But you’re only here for three weeks, like me. How can you be the head chef?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m the head chef for the holidays. It gives the year-round executive chef time to visit his family in France. And I’m more than capable of running this kitchen. I got my internship through talent and skill.” His eyes narrowed. “Not by being bossy.”
I bristled at that. “I’m here about the New Year’s Eve menu. Is it finalized?”
“Not yet.”
“When will it be?”
“When it’s ready.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“Neither is you standing in my kitchen asking me questions I’ve already answered.”
We glared at each other. God, he was infuriating.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll let Mrs. Greer know.”
