I took off my chef jacket and hat, realizing now it had been silly to wear them to start with, and got to work. I scrubbed. I cleaned. I organized. I dug into the coolers and made sense of them, throwing out a ridiculous amount of rotten food.
By the time I paused to grab a drink of water, I needed a shower and a glass of wine. And yet there was still more to do—but I’d decided to let the staff deal with it.
Whenever they decided to show up.
I wondered if I should find my brother and walk him through all that I had done. But there was something I wanted to do first before I talked logistics with him.
Picking up my hat and coat off a freshly shined counter, I walked to the back of the building, to the tiny office that would be mine.
In Ezra’s kitchens, all four of them, there were two offices. One office for him and one for the executive chef. He didn’t need an one in every building for himself, but it was a kindness for his head chefs, so he wouldn’t be in their way.
When I was in culinary school and Killian had been the head chef of Lilou, Ezra had kept his main office of operations there. After Killian left and out of managerial necessity, he’d moved to Bianca. But lately, I knew he was working from home more and more.
Because Molly also worked from home. For him.
He’d told me once it was more efficient for them to work together.
I’d countered by telling him that was because they were so close to a bed.
Hey, he’d still offered me the job!
Sister perks.
The space was quiet with the restaurant still empty. I flicked on the light and it buzzed to life overhead. There were no windows in this room and it was barely big enough for a desk, chair, tall bookshelf, and a filing cabinet.
A newer computer sat on the desk, the keyboard covered in loose papers and handwritten notes. It would take some time to go through everything and figure out my own system, but I finally felt the reality of the job settling over me.
This was my restaurant now. I was in charge. This would be the place I made or trashed my name.
Oh, how I wanted next year’s who’s who lists to include Dillon Baptiste as Durham’s up and coming wunderkind. The hunger to be known for culinary greatness burned through me, slow and smoldering, new dreams only now awakening.
Until this moment I had been happy to live in someone else’s shadow, supporting their hopes and dreams. But this office, this kitchen, had birthed a need to be something so much greater than support staff.
My happy-go-lucky-finepersonality started to slip. I didn’t want to be fine. I didn’t even want to be normal. I wanted greatness and notoriety and to be known for my ingenuity. I wanted to stand out. I wanted to be wholly dedicated and committed and eccentrically weird like only incredible people were.
But my old ways had a strong hold on my soul. The new feelings bumped into years and years of hiding. Into years and years and years of chameleon personalities that slipped into place whenever necessary. I breathed in and I was normal again. Safe again.
Afraid again.
I walked behind the desk and sat down. The leather chair creaked beneath my weight and rolled into the wall. I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the desk and centered myself. Those new feelings burst to life again, stronger this time, tougher.
Power vibrated through my fingertips and my mind spun with the heady feeling of decisions waiting to be made. Closing my eyes, I let my guard drop and the sensation of stepping into myself took deeper root.
I loosed a smile and whispered a prayer of hope. Yes, this was scary. No, I wasn’t ready or prepared. But dang, this was going to be a ride.
The outside door opened and from my vantage point, I could see two chefs walk into the newly cleaned space. They noticed the fresh, sanitary environment immediately. I could hear them commenting on how clean it looked because they hadn’t noticed me yet.
Wanting to make a good first impression, I ignored the pterodactyl-size butterflies flapping prehistoric wings in my belly, quickly threw on my jacket without buttoning it, and met them in the center of the kitchen.
When they turned at my footsteps, I smiled demurely and said, “Hi, I’m Dillon Baptiste, the new head chef.”
They turned to stare at me, sizing me up with shrewd, bullet-proof gazes. A man and a woman, they both looked older than me. Although the woman was older than the man by maybe ten years or more. And they both seemed to have more experience.
Okay, you couldn’t tell who had more experience just by looking at them. But they had a confident air about them. A surety I lacked. And a hardness in their eyes when they looked at me, like they were obviously so much better than me, like I was a toddler compared to their maturity.
But what did I know? The whole culinary adventure could be a mid-life crisis for each of them.
“Hi,” the woman said in return. She had fiery red hair and pretty freckles from one side of her face to the other. Her face was totally bare of makeup and a bandana was tied around her neck. She looked tough. It wasn’t just the fresh face and glint in her eyes. It was something her whole body wore like a flashing sign. She was thick and solid, the kind of woman I could easily imagine in a prison kitchen. “I’m Ashlynn Young,” she continued, as terse and straightforward as I expected. With a nod of her head in his direction, she added, “This is Blaze Ferrand. We’re the sous chefs.”
