Control. That’s what he likes the most about running his own kitchen.
Everything has its place. Everyone has their roles to fulfill. Everything is measured and timed and seasoned.
Perfection.
He expects nothing less.
He likes his knives dangerously sharp—it’s more dangerous to work with a dull blade—and he likes his waiters to pick up orders the second the plates hit the line. He’s never bothered with a chef’s hat because they’re quite frankly pompous as fuck and it’s hot enough in here as it is. He keeps his apron clean and the sleeves of his black chef jacket rolled up to just below his elbows.
Trained at the prestigious Gagnon-Allard School of Culinary Arts with three Michelin stars under his belt, he’s the pristine image of the world-class chef everyone believes him to be. He’s the great and mighty Head Chef of La Rouge, Alexander Chen.
But right now?
Right now, he’s stressed as fuck, andboy howdydoes his kitchen staff know it.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice booming over the roar of hood fans and sizzling skillets. While the noises of the kitchen don’t stop, the talking does. None of the other chefs dare make a peep.
“A steak,” Peter answers evenly, though the hard set of his jaw betrays his cool tone.
Alexander stiffens, staring down his nose at the rotisseur. He lowers his voice, quieter than before and somehow more frightening than when he was yelling. “I don’t want to make a parody of myself, Drenton. But if this steak were any rarer, it’d still be alive on the damn pasture. The table wants it cooked well-done.”
Peter looks like he wants to cry. Embarrassing for a man in his mid-thirties, but alas—Alexander has that effect on people.
“But these are prime triple A! Just look at the marbling! Cooking them well-done would be—”
“An absolute travesty and crime against God? I know. But it’s what the customer wants. Do it again. I need another one on the fly.”
Peter gestures to the stove beside him with a huff. “My station’s swamped already. I’ve been trying to—”
“I don’t need your excuses. I need a cook who can do their damn job.”
Freddie, the pâtissier, hesitantly clears his throat. “Um, chef?”
Alexander turns in one swift motion, the movement both effortlessly aggressive and smooth. He’s an owl making a pinpoint turn midair to lay its sights on new prey. Freddie is only a few inches shorter than Alexander, and just as broad. Nevertheless, he tries—and fails—to hide a grimace.
“The new hire is here. For the sous chef position.”
Alexander’s nostrils flare. “What sous chef?”
It’s at this exact moment Alexander spots movement from out of his periphery. All he catches is a glimpse, but it’s more than enough. A wisp of light brown hair. Tanned skin. The worn-down fabric of a white chef’s coat that’s seen better days.
Then he remembers. Alexander’s last sous chef, Mitchell, left almost a week ago. He hadn’t even bothered to tell Alexander that he quit in person. The sniveling weasel had stuffed his resignation letter into the pocket of one of Alexander’s spare aprons, and that was that. Couldn’t handle the demands of the job, apparently. Very few can.
Alexander can’t say that it was a surprise. It was more of an inconvenience, if anything, trying to find a replacement. Despite his confidence as a chef, he knows handling an entire kitchen like this one without a second-in-command would be next to impossible. There are too many moving parts, too many chefs to keep in line. This kind of work requires a divide and conquer approach.
Hence the new, last-minute hire.
The new hire that’s now staring up at him expectantly. There’s something oddly familiar about her, but Alexander can’t quite figure out why.
“You’re not what I was expecting,” Alexander states.
He half expects her to blanch or flush or quiver like a mouse beneath his intense scrutiny. Alexander’s more than aware of the kind of effect he has on people. The kitchen is his kingdom, and as head chef, he’s the rightful king.
He’s intimidating. He’s powerful. He’s in his element.
The woman lifts her chin and holds his gaze instead, defiance in her eyes. “I get that a lot,” she replies calmly, the lovely lilt of an accent gracing her words. It sounds southern, but it isn’t distinct enough for Alexander to pinpoint.
She sticks her hand out and says, “I’m Eden. Eden Monroe. It’s nice to meet you.”
