Eden’s knees tremble as a wet heat pools between her legs.God, what is even happening right now? “What?” she rasps.
“You’re too soft.”
“What’s wrong with being soft?”
Alexander’s lips whisper across hers. It’s not quite a kiss, but it’s pretty damn close. She can feel his breath against her cheeks as he speaks, the tips of their noses bumping lightly against each other.
“You’re my sous chef,” he grumbles, almost like it’s a reminder to himself. “Start acting like one.”
He pulls away.
Disappointment floods her veins, a cold chill racing straight through her body.
Oh, shit.
“Tell Amanda she can work her shift, but after that, we’re letting her go.” Alexander’s voice is tight and thin. “The best I can do for her is write up a letter of recommendation, but she can’t stay here.”
Eden nods stiffly, her fists clenched up tight. She turns and leaves, thanking her gelatinous legs for not giving out then and there. There’s no time to decompress, to truly reflect on what just happened. Maybe she’s overthinking things? It’s a small office space, after all, and Alexander’s a big man. It wasn’t like he wasactuallykissing her. They were simply having a serious, face-to-face conversation.
Literally.
She pushes the whole thing to the back of her mind. She’ll deal with it later—or maybe not at all. Right now, she has to find Amanda. She can’t allow herself to think about the throbbing between her legs and the thunderous roar of blood rushing past her ears.
Eden hates being the bearer of bad news.
She finds the boulangier outside, seated on an overturned milk crate with her head in her hands. Eden doesn’t even get a word out before she asks, “I’m fired, aren’t I?”
“I’m sorry. I really did try to fight for you.”
“I believe you.” Amanda offers a sad smile.
“Sha—I mean, Alexander said you can work your shift, but then after that…”
She nods solemnly. “I understand. Thank you for sticking up for me.”
The queasiness in the pit of Eden’s stomach still hasn’t gone away.
Hector.
Alexander.
The lies that got her here to La Rouge.
Eden decides she’s going to have to be a hell of a lot more careful, otherwise she can kiss her job—and the money she’s so desperately trying to save—goodbye.
The kitchen is slammed. One of the hood fans isn’t working, it’s torturously hot, dirty dishes are piling up in the pit and not getting washed right away, which means his staff don’t have new, clean plates to use for their own prep or plating. The restaurant itself isn’t even that busy. They have no waitlist, nor any huge reservations taking up their time. In Alexander’s experience, this can only mean one thing.
Someone isn’t pulling their weight.
His kitchen is a well-oiled machine. All of his staff may be in charge of their own stations, but they have to move as one. If appetizers aren’t sent out fast enough, that means entrées are held back, which means dessert production is paused even longer. It’s like a traffic jam. If some asshole decides to slam on the brakes, everyone behind them has to slam on the brakes as well. As head chef, he’s the traffic controller and police officer all in one.
It doesn’t take him very long to figure out who the hell is dropping the ball.
“Hector!” he seethes. “Where are you going?”
“Bathroom break,” the chef de partie says casually, like they aren’t in the middle of service and it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Again? That’s the fifth time you’ve left your station.”
