Regina didn’t want to hear excuses. One brow arched and her lips pursed, as she studied her as if she were a puzzle with a missing piece. Then someone signaled to her from across the room, and she pivoted away, heels clicking.
Relief washed over her, and she let out a long, shaky breath.
But then, Regina paused. “I nearly forgot. One of my prep chefs quit. I need you to fill in on Saturday. Be there at 8 a.m. sharp. You’ll be working with Benny under strict supervision. Don’t screw it up.”
Had she heard that right? After years of grinding, of being overlooked, of watching others get their shot while she poured coffee and cleared plates—Regina had just casually handed her one.
She forced herself to reply. “I won’t, ma’am. Thank you.”
Regina barely paused. “Talk to Benny. He’ll get you my book.” Then she hurried away, already absorbed in something else.
Emily stood frozen, the words, “my book,” repeating in her head. She’d worked at Gold Coast for over a year and had never laid eyes on the infamous menu binder. It was rumored to detail every dish—scaled quantities, prep instructions, plating diagrams, even cost breakdowns. It was the holy grail of Regina’s kitchen. And now she was being trusted with it.
Her feet finally moved, carrying her toward the kitchen as if she were walking through a dream. Benny was there, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, plating mini quiches.
Emily cleared her throat, trying to sound normal. “Regina said I’m filling in on Saturday. She said you’d give me her book.”
Benny glanced up and stopped when he saw her. “She mentioned a fill-in but didn’t give me a name. You’re a chef?”
“In-training,” she clarified. “I graduate from the Institute in December.”
He snorted. “Didn’t peg you for one. You’re too quiet.”
“I’m efficient.”
He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his apron then dug a thick binder out of a plastic milk crate. “Regina’s bible,” he said, handing it over. “Don’t mark it, don’t breathe too hard on it, and for fuck’s sake, don’t lose it.”
Emily took it carefully, like it might combust in her hands. “Got it.”
Benny leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You know how to break down a whole fish?”
“Yes.”
“Make abeurre blancwithout curdling it?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” she quipped boldly.
“Truss a roast in under ninety seconds?”
“I’ve done it in eighty-five.”
He raised a brow, grudgingly impressed. “See you Saturday.”
Emily walked away, clutching the binder to her chest. She was beside herself with excitement. But it was one more thing to juggle, and she already had several flaming, spinning, tipping plates in the air.
***
When she stepped out of the service entrance, the parking lot was nearly empty, shadows stretching long across the pavement. Every sound seemed amplified—the overhead lights buzzing, the distant hum of traffic, the sharp crunch of gravel kicking up beneath her feet.
Emily hurried toward her car, Regina’s bible under one arm, her other hand fumbling for her keys.
Footsteps thudded quietly behind her.
Her heart leapt to her throat, hand flying to the panic button tucked into her waistband. Hoping for Rhys, she braced for the worst as she turned.
A figure stepped out of the darkness—tall, broad shouldered, familiar.
Relief slammed into her so fast, her knees nearly buckled.
