Chicken stock for saltiness. White wine for acidity. Butter for creaminess. Parmigiano-Reggiano for nuttiness. A pinch of saffron for earthiness and color. And the licorice powder? That’s to add an unexpected hint of sweetness.
Perfectly balanced.
He takes a bite. She holds her breath.
His face is frigid and unreadable. Eden can’t tell if he likes it or hates it. Somehownotknowing is the worst possible outcome. All she can do as he studies her dish is study him right back.
She remembers thinking that Shang was cute, but Alexander ishandsome. If he smiled, she might even classify him as breathtaking—although she’s pretty sure the effort of doing so might kill him.
His black hair is cropped short at the sides, but slightly longer up top, borderline militant in its neatness. He’s got a strong jaw with trimmed stubble, also very neat and orderly. It’s his eyes that makes Eden’s stomach feel strange. They’re not just dark and deep, but serious and cold.
As he takes another contemplative bite, there’s a glint in his eyes. Whether it’s a good or bad sign, she can’t tell. She worries he sees right through her, knows her secret, remembers her from their time long since gone by.
She’s about to ask for his opinion about the dish she’s prepared when a group of chefs enter the restaurant through the back doors. She recognizes two of them, Freddie and Peter, having met them the day before. They’re mid-conversation, sharing a hearty laugh. There’s also a young Asian woman with cute, cropped bangs walking in front of them. Eden immediately smiles as they approach, even chancing a small wave.
Peter claps Eden on the shoulder and chuckles. “Looks like Hector owes me twenty bucks.”
“Why?” she asks.
“We like to make bets on how long the newbies are going to last. Hector—that’s the angry redhead over there—said you’d quit by morning.”
The Asian woman grins. “I’m Rina, by the way, since dickhead over here hasn’t bothered to introduce us. I’m one of the other pâtissiers. I had yesterday off, so it’s nice to meet you.”
“She works at my station,” Freddie states proudly.
Rina scoffs. “You meanmystation. I’ve been here longer.”
“By, like, a day.”
Eden laughs. “Oh, I think she’s got you beat, then. Seniority is still seniority.”
Rina smirks and nudges Eden in the arm with the tip of her elbow. “I knew I was going to like you.”
“So,” Peter says, “how did things go this morning? Did Chef give you the speech?”
Eden raises a brow, amused. “The speech?”
“You know. Thethis-is-my-kitchen-so-you-need-to-follow-my-rulesspeech.”
“It’s a right of passage,” Rina adds.
“He likes to make you cry before you start here,” Freddie notes. “To assert dominance.”
“I nearly wet myself,” Peter confesses, a hand over his heart. Eden can’t tell if he’s joking.
“That’s terrible,” she replies. “But, no. He didn’t give me the speech. He just asked me to—”
Eden looks to where Alexander is standing.Wasstanding. He’s disappeared without a trace, likely having slipped away while the others struck up conversation. Eden can see that the door to the kitchen office in the far corner has been shut and the lights are on, so she assumes that Alexander’s retreated for the time being.
It looks like her role as sous chef is safe.
For now.
“Come on,” Freddie says. “Everybody else should be arriving shortly. I’ll introduce you.”
Rina looks at Peter while gesturing at Freddie. “See? That’s hownotto be a dickhead.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Peter says dismissively.
