“It won’t happen again,” she says, but Alexander’s already turning away.
“Drenton showed you where the walk-in fridge is, right?”
“Yes, he did.”
Alexander nods once, not bothering to look directly at her.Smug bastard. “Good. Go make me something,” he says.
Eden frowns. “What?”
“Consider it your interview.”
“But you’ve already hired me.”
“Talk is cheap. All I give a shit about is if you can cook.”
Eden supposes that makes a lot of sense. She did think it was weird how quickly she landed the job. It was a brief phone call, a few simple questions about availability, andbam!Hired. It smells kind of desperate to be honest, but Eden isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
If he wants her to whip up a meal for him to judge, fine. She’s going to blow him away.
“Do you have a specific request?” she asks, shrugging off her winter coat to reveal a plain white tank top underneath. She wastes no time pulling her second-hand chef jacket out of her backpack and slipping it on.
His eyes shift from her collarbone to her exposed neck before looking away entirely. The glance makes her heart skip a beat. She tries not to think anything of it.
“Make whatever you want, just don’t bore me. You have an hour.”
“And I have free reign of ingredients?”
He glances at his watch again. “You have fifty-nine minutes,” he corrects before taking another sip of his coffee.
Eden fights the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she gets to work.
She’s only mildly perturbed that Alexander remains where he is, watching her every move like a hawk. It’s intense, his eyes. She can feel the heat of his stare on her skin, observing her. Is he waiting for her to make a mistake? Eden remembers how focused Shang used to be in class, but this is on a whole other level.
Her nerves—thankfully—don’t win out.
Every measurement is precise. Every cut is clean. Every choice of herbs and spice is complimentary.
She tastes as she goes. Her palate is one of her greatest strengths. Eden knows exactly how much salt and pepper to add after half a bite. She knows how much chicken stock to add based off the texture on her tongue.
Alexander watches as she brings another spoon to her mouth. His gaze lingers on her lips. Eden, for a moment, fights the urge to squirm. Do the other chefs here not work the same way? It’s imperative for a chef to taste their work. Sometimes that’s the only way to know if a dish will turn out right. This is as much a science as it is an art-form, and minor verification tests along the way are perfectly acceptable.
So why the hell is he staring at me like that?
She wonders if she’s made a mistake somewhere, if she’s screwed up somehow and Alexander is the kind of asshole who won’t point out the problem untilafterjust so he can rub it in her face.
He definitely gives off that kind of vibe. This man is waiting for her to fail.
“What?” Eden asks, preparing to plate. She grabs a lovely ornate dish off the shelves below the cooking station, gilded filigree wrapping around the circumference.
“Licorice powder?” he replies flatly. “For a saffron risotto?”
“I was going to use white truffle shavings, but I know how expensive truffles are.”
“Licorice powder,” he says again, almost accusatory, in disbelief.
Eden hands him the plate and a clean spoon. “Don’t knock it before you try it.”
Alexander eyes the food. Eden knows she did everything right. This is exactly how her mother used to make it. At least, she thinks so. Her memories of her mother are fuzzy at best.
