Get it together, Aspen.
I dry off my face and button the whites before tying my hair up. I can do this. I’ve been cooking since I was three years old, standing on the stepstool next to my granddaddy.
“Are you coming out before the staff arrives for dinner service?” Chef Stevens calls out to me. Damn, he’s not a patient man. Duly noted.
I square my shoulders, taking one last look in the mirror before heading for the door. At least I look the part. Fake it until you make it, right? I walk to the door, making sure to show nothing but confidence when I open it, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I’m ready, sir.” I put a swing in my hips as I stride past him without looking back. I think I made my point when I hear him mutter under his breath.
“Fucking hell.” I do my best to ignore it and focus on the task at hand. I’ve just made it ten times harder on myself. I need to blow his mind, and suddenly, I regret my choice of dish.
“Do I have permission to add a side to the meal I’m about to make for you?”
“Such a good girl, asking permission.” He runs his hand through that gorgeous, dark blond hair of his, looking freshly fucked. “You don’t need it. The kitchen is yours. What you choose to make is on you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” I pick up my pace through the dining room to the kitchen I’ve seen a thousand times before, yet never from this vantage point.
The ingredients are laid out on the counter, everything perfectly placed. He’s nothing if not meticulous. “Treat my kitchen with the respect it deserves.”
“Always.”
“Then get to work.” He takes a seat on a barstool he must have brought in here while I was getting changed. How long was I in there?
I take a deep, steadying breath, centering myself. This is where I was born to be—in a kitchen. Maybe not one as grand as Dulip’s, but I’ll never get another opportunity like this.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Walk me through your process. What you’re using? Why you’re using it?”
I start by finding the necessary ingredients for the side dish I’m going to prepare for him. It needs time to sit, so I want it done before I prepare the lasagna.
“I set out everything you bought. What are you working on?”
“I’m going to make some rosemary and rock salt focaccia. It’s my granddaddy’s recipe.”
“Seriously?” I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad ‘seriously.’ “Most people bake cookies with their grandparents. What age were you when you started making this?” He watches as I collect everything I need and start mixing them and kneading the dough.
“Three. And I would eat half of it once it was ready. Apparently, I decided early on that Italian food was my jam.”
“Have you ever been to Italy?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Maybe I’ll take you.”What?He senses my unease. “I was contemplating taking my team to train for a few weeks. If you impress me today, you might be part of that.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. I don’t always explain myself properly. I get caught up in the excitement of cooking, and only half of what I’m thinking seems to make it out of my mouth. It’s a problem.” He shifts on the barstool.
“It’s cute.”It’s cute?! Stop talking, Aspen.“I mean, it means you’re human. I was beginning to wonder.”
“I’ll take it.”
I am going to wire my jaw shut the next time I’m around this man. My chest is alight with fireflies fighting to get free, and my mouth is suffering the consequences. His grin is wickedly delicious, and that face.
I focus on what I’m doing. I need this to be perfect, and being distracted by how hot my boss is, is definitely not the way to do it.
Once I’ve wrapped the dough, I take it to the pantry to let it sit while I prepare the lasagna.
When I finally get my head in the game, I feel at home in a way I never have before. The kitchen is incredible, and when I walked in here today, I was so intimidated by its grandeur. Now, I feel a sense of belonging that surprises me. I don’t have imposter syndrome, even though I’m cooking for a world-class chef. If anything, I am empowered by his eyes on me as I cook.
