Eden doesn’t know why she feels so exposed. “Nothing. I had to hurry and catch the bus to get here early, so I didn’t—”
Alexander walks away before she’s finished speaking. At first, Eden’s miffed. Didn’t his parents ever teach him it’s rude to leave in the middle of a conversation? But then Alexander returns not one minute later from the walk-in fridge with a few ingredients. He sets everything down and gets to work, first by placing a non-stick skillet on the stove to heat.
“What are you doing?” Eden asks.
“You a pasta fan?”
“Who’snota pasta fan?”
“Hm. Good. Sit here and wait.”
Eden doesn’t argue. She’s curious to see him at work. She’s admittedly been so busy learning the ropes as his sous chef that she’s never taken the opportunity to see him in action. Alexander’s always at the front of the line, delegating and organizing. She sits on the stool he once occupied, hands on her lap as she watches him move expertly about the space.
He boils a pot of salted water and cooks fresh spaghetti under a rolling boil. He slices garlic cloves into precise, paper-thin pieces. Next is a generous glug of olive oil, coating the bottom of the skillet until it starts to pop and hiss. In goes the garlic to fry, turning a beautiful golden brown as the air fills with its aromatic scent. Alexander tosses a pinch of red pepper in as well, the sizzling sound filling Eden’s ears.
Once the sauce is done, he turns off the heat, drains the cooked pasta—al dente—and adds the spaghetti to the skillet. He tosses it all around with a pair of tongs, making sure to coat every noodle with the light sauce. He plates without too much showmanship—Eden isn’t exactly a customer—but Alexander takes great care in drizzling freshly squeezed lemon juice over it all, as well as garnishing with finely chopped parsley.
Eden is completely still, in awe. His timing is perfect. It has to be, in order to juggle twenty different steps at once. Practiced and calculated and totally in control. Alexander could cook in his sleep if he wanted to, and the meal would still come out as amazing as ever.
She wants to watch him all day.
He sets the meal down in front of Eden and hands her a clean fork from a nearby utensil bin. It’s precision on a plate.
“Eat,” he says.
“Aren’t you going to have some?”
“I’m not the one who didn’t have lunch.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Make sure to eat before you come into work next time,” he says sternly. “I don’t need you passing out on me.”
Eden smiles, more than a little aware of the warm giddiness bubbling in her chest. She can’t remember the last time someone cooked her a meal, and completely from scratch, no less.
“Thank you,” she says again, softer.
“When you’re done, start prep for the filet mignon special tonight.”
“Yes, chef.”
She watches as Alexander leaves, disappearing to the kitchen office. She can’t stop smiling. Eden takes one bite and is lost to her senses.
This is the most delicious thing she’s ever eaten in her entire life.
Eden arrives the next day to some sort of commotion.
“Did you really think that was going to fly?” Hector says with a snarl. He’s yelling at a young woman, probably no older than twenty, who’s doing her best to hide her tears behind her hands. Eden recognizes her as the part-time boulangier, Amanda.
“Please, Hector,” she whimpers. “All I’m asking for is a chance. Can’t I talk to the head chef?”
“You’d only be wasting his time.” Hector waves a sheet paper around in one hand, pinched between his thumb and forefinger like it’s a piece of trash. “Did you seriously think we wouldn’t check your references?”
There’s a sticky lump lodged in the back of Eden’s throat. She swallows, but it won’t go away. She steps into the kitchen, doing her best to hide how shaky she feels.
“What’s going on?” she demands.
Hector glares at her and snorts. “We brought her on almost a month ago to prepare our bread in-house. Turns out, she’s been faking her references and lied about where she went to culinary school.”
