There’s a bit of a crowd around her. The other chefs are all amazed at Eden’s new tools. Alexander didn’t expect it to be such a massive distraction. It makes sense, though. They’re a work of art in her hands. She was already able to create delicious meals with her old blades holding her back. Now there’s nothing in her way to stop her from truly creating.
Alexander spots Hector lurking in his periphery. He seems to be the only one disinterested. In fact, he seems peeved for some reason.
Alexander clears his throat. “This isn’t a museum,” he snaps, though there’s half the usual heat in his words. “Hang out on your own time. I don’t pay you all to stand around.”
“Yes, Chef,” comes the chorus.
People scurry away to their stations just as the first chit of the night prints. It’s a small order. Alexander calls for two medium-rare steaks with a side of potatoes au gratin, one escargot appetizer, one bowl of French onion soup, and a side Caesar salad with no bacon or croutons. It’s a nice, simple start to the night.
In the meantime, he gets to work, occasionally distracted at the thought of how nice Eden looks working alongside him at the front of the line. She smells really nice. He really likes the way she pulls her hair up into a bun, exposing the nape of her neck. He mentally scolds himself when he thinks about giving her skin a good lick.
Service wraps up smoothly that day, and they’re all out the door fifteen minutes after close. It’s a new record. Save for the one asshole who returned their dish only after they’d eaten half—Alexander almost went out front to yell at the sorry bastard—tonight was mostly uneventful.
Freddie, Peter, and Rina leave with Eden ahead of him as always. Alexander locks the door behind him, fully prepared to head straight for his car. For the first time in forever, he’s actually starting to think up possible recipes to try. He’s sure his sudden burst of motivation has something to do with the fact that he’ll now have Eden to hold him accountable. He’s a little… excited. Eager to try.
He can’t very well have nothing prepared for her tomorrow, now can he?
“Hey there, tiger.”
Alexander hates being caught off-guard like this. He spins around, confused as fuck.
“Bea?”
The woman saunters over, the sharp click of her stiletto heels echoing against the cement. She’s dressed up for the evening, hair pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail. She boasts a full face of makeup, complete with smoky eyes and dark black lipstick. Bea clearly wasn’t at work today, nor does she look like she’s on her way back home. She moves in like she wants a kiss, but Alexander takes a huge step out of the way.
Public displays of affection? No.
In front of his employees? Hell no.
In front of Eden?
Absolutely not.
“What are you doing here?” he asks curtly, more than aware of everybody’s eyes on him and—to them—this mystery woman. Alexander’s made a point of never even mentioning his private life. It’s just his luck that his private life would show up at his front door.
Bea, unfazed, simply shrugs. “Me and a few of my girlfriends want to check out the new club that opened downtown. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by to invite you.”
“Not interested. Goodnight.”
She puts a hand on his shoulder, getting much too familiar for his liking. This wasn’t a part of their arrangement. No dates. No hanging out as friends. This was supposed to be a no-strings-attached situation.
“Um, hi?”
Alexander sees Eden take a step forward, smiling sweetly. Somewhere deep down, there’s a part of him that kind of wants to shrivel up into an angry little sesame seed ball.
Bea, cool and collected, grins. “Hello. Who might you be? Alexander never talks about his colleagues.”
“Employees,” he corrects coldly.
“I’m Eden. It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Bea,” she says with a wink. “Lovely to meet you.”
“What’s this about a new club?” Peter chimes in.
Scratch that. Alexander just wants to shrivel up and plain olddie. The last thing he wants is for his personal life to clash with his work life. “Nothing,” he snaps. “She was just leaving.”
Bea clicks her tongue. “Someone’s cranky. If you want to be a party pooper, fine. I’ll text you later, okay?”
