He’s tired and getting agitated, his fingers itching for a smoke. Even when there’s a backup in the dish pit and one of the idiot waiters drops an entire tray of food out front, Alexander sucks it up, leans into the throbbing pain in his feet, and helps send out the last of the dessert that Freddie has diligently prepared. Alexander has to give credit where credit is due. Freddie’s handmade éclairs are to die for. It’s just a shame he takes forever to make them.
Alexander’s about to ring the bell to call for a pick-up when something distracts him. A woman’s laugh.
Eden’s laugh.
It’s light, and the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.
He risks a glance over his shoulder as he stabs the last chit onto the check spindle. Eden and Peter are at the meat station, already cleaning up the area and preparing for closing. They speak in hushed tones, almost conspiratorial, looking at ease with one another. They look like this is perfectly natural, two old friends who’ve done this countless times before. It doesn’t take long before Freddie wanders over and joins the conversation. Alexander briefly wonders what they’re talking about. It’s not like anyone willingly talks to him about non-work things.
Then he shakes his head. He doesn’t care. He rings the bell and sends out the last order of the day.
Eden laughs again, bright and bubbly.
Alexander does his best to ignore her wide smile and concentrates on overseeing cleanup. He sincerely hopes she isn’t this much of a chatterbox once she’s fully trained. He doesn’t like personal conversations during work hours. There’s too much going on in a kitchen, lots of sharp objects and hot metal and scalding water. Unnecessary small talk will only get in his way of giving out clear, concise orders.
His dark brown eyes lock with her light hazel ones. Eden looks away quickly, and he suddenly realizes that he’s been glaring this whole time. He turns to head toward the kitchen doors to check on the maître d’. The sooner the last customers eat, pay, and leave, the sooner they can all clock out and call it a night.
The sound of Eden’s laugh echoes quietly in the back of his skull.
Somewhere deep down, Alexander knows that tomorrow’s training will prove incredibly…interesting.
Eden has a confession to make. She may or may not have embellished a few things on her resumé to get this job.
Alright, fine. Who’s she kidding?
She definitely embellisheda lotof things on her resumé to get this job.
She really did attend the Gagnon-Allard School of Culinary Arts ten years ago. For all of two weeks. Had it not been for Parsons—the rat bastard—Eden would have been able to stay.
She should have known she could never be that lucky. She was admittedly worried when she got the call about the sous chef position, concerned that Shang would recognize her and realize how full of shit she was.
Except he didn’t. There hadn’t seemed to be an inkling of recognition in those cold, hard eyes.
He apparently goes by Alexander now, which she thinks is super weird, but Eden will always know him as Shang.
Shang, the mildly dorky, adorably sweet apprentice chef who shared a handful of classes with her—however brief her stint at Gagnon-Allard truly was. Even though Eden was forced to leave the school of her dreams, she’ll always remember the way Shang helped point her in the right direction on her first day of class. Or the fact that he always seemed to smell like roasted hazelnuts and vanilla. Or the fact that his smile used to light up a room.
The contrast of who he was and who he is now is jarring.
A part of her wants to ask what the hell happened, but it will only expose her truth. Eden can already see how the conversation will pan out.
She’ll ask why he turned into such a prick. He’ll ask how they know each other. She’ll say they met at school. And then he’ll undoubtedly look into her credentials and realize exactly to what extent she’s a fraud.
Half of her references are fake. She handed in a list of made-up names and dummy phone numbers that all linked back to her so she could pretend to be her own references. There are no shortage of websites online that generate fake, usable numbers and provide voice modifying programs. It’s simply a matter of knowing where to look. It’s probably illegal and definitely immoral, but…
But Eden needs this job.
So, as curious as she is, she keeps her mouth shut.
Getting to La Rouge two hours earlier than she’d planned is a giant pain in the ass. It’s located in Seattle’s downtown core, so she has to grab three different bus transfers followed by a quick sprint from the station to the restaurant’s back doors to make it on time. The cold winter air burns her lungs and rips at her throat. By the time she arrives, Eden is out of breath and starting to sweat. Her hair—which she’s thrown up into a bun to keep out of her eyes—is a windswept mess, flyaway strands everywhere.
She bursts through the doors to find Alexander leaning against the silver preparation table, looking at his watch while casually sipping a coffee in his other hand.
“You’re a minute late, Monroe.”
Eden isn’t a violent person, but she really wants to kick him in the shin. She refrains because—yeah, no—kicking her new boss will probably be frowned upon.
Probably.
