Alexander doesn’t shake her hand. He glances at his watch instead. “You’re late.”
Eden frowns. “I’m on time for my scheduled shift. You said on the phone to be here at three.”
He glares at the other kitchen staff. “What’s rule one, people?” he prompts.
“Fifteen minutes early is on time, on time is late, and if you’re late, don’t show up at all,” the chorus of chefs mumble in practiced unison. They sound like robots, his policy on tardiness so drilled into their brains that the response is automatic.
Again, Eden doesn’t seem fazed. She takes it in stride, even going so far as to give Alexander a polite—albeit incredibly tight—smile. “Duly noted. Won’t happen again, Chef.”
Chef.
The way she says it makes his ears ring. It’s gentle, but there’s a hint of snark buried somewhere deep down.
He decides he doesn’t like it.
Alexander gives her a disinterested once over. She’s a scrawny little thing. Short, no more than five feet to his six. She’s thin, too, any hint of her barely there curves hidden beneath her oversized chef’s jacket. He notes the splash of faded freckles across the tops of her cheeks and bridge of her nose.
The more he stares, the more he thinks Eden doesn’t look the part of a sous chef. If Alexander didn’t know any better, he’d mistake her for the kitchen porter, or maybe even the dishwasher. She doesn’t look like she belongs here.
It’s not that he doesn’t think women can cook. Far from it. Some of his greatest inspirations growing up were female chefs: Julia Child, Nigella Lawson, Christine Hà—his mother.
It’s just that Eden’s resumé boasted accolades and years of prior experience working in kitchens like this one. He has a hard time believing that the tiny woman standing before him is going to be his new sous. She’s so small and quiet and—well—ordinary. Nothing about her screams haute cuisine.
Most sous chefs he’s worked with have an air of authority about them. It’s not arrogance necessarily, though Alexander’s no stranger to hotshot sous with egos too big for their aprons. They’re the ones in charge of calling the shots when the head chef isn’t there. They’re the ones hungry and eager to move up the ladder, to learn all that they can and prove themselves in preparation for one day running kitchens of their own.
Eden is…notthat.
But the night is young, and Eden hasn’t even had the chance to prove she’s not completely useless. If she is, Alexander will have her replaced. It’s just that simple.
“Drenton,” he snaps. “Give her a tour. Keep her at your station for tonight.”
“And the steak?”
“I’ll make the damn thing myself.” Alexander turns to Eden, to the point and more than a little aware of all the chits printing out on the line. “Tomorrow, Monroe. Two hours early.”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly. He finds satisfaction in finally eliciting a normal response. He’s used to being on the receiving end of wide-eyed timidity.
“Two hours? I don’t know if I can make it.”
“Training starts bright and early. Unless you don’t think you can handle it. If that’s the case, you can just go. You’ll only be in the way.”
Eden licks her lips. His eyes accidentally flit down to follow the motion.
She crosses her arms. “Who says I can’t handle it?”
Alexander doesn’t bother responding. It’s an abnormally busy day, and even though the restaurant has only been open for an hour, orders are piling up. There’s still a million and one things to do, and answering rhetorical questions isn’t on his list.
Tickets to call.
Dishes to verify and plate.
Steaks to not screw up.
Dinner rush hits them like a tidal wave, but Alexander’s prepared. He always is. He’s been doing this long enough to know how to keep things moving. Lack of momentum is the fastest way to ruin a night. Food stops going out, orders keep coming in, chefs become overwhelmed with ten different dishes they’re trying to prepare at the exact same time. It’s a nightmare.
So he keeps things moving, calling out times and demanding accountability, and more often than not yelling at his chefs to get their heads out of their asses and focus on the tables that have been waiting the longest. It’s an extra headache not having a sous chef at the ready to help him with plating and putting out fires—one of them quite literal—but he manages somehow.
By the end of the night, his feet hurt. His arches ache and his back is sore from carrying his chefs through the worst of it. He doesn’t even take his break because, for him, there’s no such thing as sitting down on the job, not even for a breather.
