“Good.” Finn folds his arms. “Now’s your chance.”
Chapter 1
Maeve
“Thees isunacceptable!” Chef Henri Moreau’s thick French accent does nothing to soften his enraged roar. “I cannot work like thees!”
Here we go.
Venturing into the Cypress’s kitchen always puts me on edge. This long, windowless room of titanium cookware, stoves, and table tops all glinting in fluorescent light reminds me of an alien spaceship. Beautiful in a sterile sort of way and state-of-the-art, but an unpleasant place to spend more than a few minutes.
And the small, sweating Frenchman—currently yelling in my face rather than cooking—is this hell’s lord.
Maybe I should start calling him Hades. The charcoal grill smells enough like brimstone to merit the comparison.
Henri, a thin man with angelic blond curls and a cherubic, soft-cheeked face to match, stands several inches shorter than me. But most people forget his Rubenesque qualities due to the mottled rage he spews daily.
The man throws weekly toddler tantrums. Sometimes a bad review sets him off or a scratched pot that simplymustbereplaced immediately. If it’s not the cookware driving him into a tailspin, then the “subpar” staff triggers his conniption fits.
Today, the quality of this morning’s food delivery serves as the catalyst.
With every outburst, he issues the same threat: he’ll take his five-star cuisine somewhere else. Even though I’ve learned to take his dramatic outbursts with a grain of salt, I can’t help the tiny knot of fear that twists my stomach each time.
One of these days, hemightbe serious. And that will really screw me.
Don’t get me wrong. I love running the Cypress. I’ve put my heart and soul into creating my dream hotel, and every morning when I step into the lobby, I’m struck with the same sense of awe and pride. Losing our gourmet chef would push me much closer to one of my biggest fears—losing this hotel. Because, despite his occasionally unbearable personality, Henri’s truly one of the best chefs this side of the country.
I poached him from an exclusive Vegas restaurant and have zero regrets. Though thinking about the inflated salary I promised him in my efforts to steal him away still sickens me.
I inhale a steadying breath through my nose. “There’s no need to panic, Henri. I understand the problem, and we will handle this.”
My catchphrase, regardless of whether I think I can actually handle “the problem” or not.
What else can I say?
A high-profile company plans to gather here for an event set to start in five hours, and the alleged food quality issue has kept my chef from cooking.
At this point, whether the delivery was bad or not doesn’t matter.
My temperamental chef won’t work with any ingredients he deems unworthy. True crisis or imagined, creating a solution falls to me.
Henri slams a hand on the titanium counter. The violence might intimidate me more if I couldn’t scoop his tiny frame up and carry him like a tote bag. “And how will you do that?”
Lenora Cox, my faithful assistant, hovers in the corner.
She’ll be our salvation.
Henri irritates her, and she hates capitulating to his whiny fits, but she’ll do whatever’s necessary.
I obviously owe my assistant another raise.
I wave at her, ignoring the guilt pinching my chest for tasking her with yet another chef-related errand. “Lenora will go get replacements.”
Lenora’s cherry lips flash in a smile as she slides a lock of honey blond hair behind her ear. “Leave it to me,boss.” She tosses me a wink on that last word.
I address the sous chef lurking behind Henri, who fixes me with an apologetic grimace. “Aiden, will you get me a complete list of what we need?”
“Yes, Ms. Gallagher.” Aiden disappears toward the kitchen office.
