* * *
Eden’s run a kitchen before, just never on this scale and for so long. She’s popped in here and there, taking charge whenever necessary, but she’s used to Alexander coming back at some point to take back the reins. Those were little sprints, perfectly manageable in short bursts.
This is a marathon.
Her mind swirls with different table numbers, cook times, special orders that require different ingredients because apparently all of table six suffers from a gluten allergy—what are the odds? But she digs deep and keeps the kitchen running. It’s not as smooth and meticulous as Alexander normally does it, but she’s holding her own and that’s really all that matters.
She’s proud of herself, and rightly so. She’s come a long way from her toy kitchen where she used to serve her father invisible food. Now she’s running one of the toughest, most prestigious kitchens in the world.
Mom and Dad would be proud.
It’s hard for Eden to resist checking in with Alexander as he personally prepares food for Palton. She hasn’t had the misfortune of meeting the man, but she can tell just by looking at his order that he’s a special kind of asshole. He’s pretty much ordered every single dish off the menu, demanding all manner of substitutions and additions to each meal. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear Palton was making things overly complicated for the sole purpose of messing Alexander up.
He doesn’t, though, because he’s a genius. Alexander sends plate after gorgeous plate out to be served, piping hot and delicious.
From where she is at the front of the line, Eden can just barely see through the circular window of the kitchen doors leading out into the dining room. The back section is mostly empty—at Palton’s request—so it’s easy for her to spot the food critic in question.
The man looks, as impossible as it may seem, even scarier than Sebastian. One quick glance at the man is enough to send a chill down Eden’s spine. He certainly appears the part of a food critic, dressed to the nines and sporting a cravat of all things. Eden wonders if she’ll turn to stone if she accidentally makes direct eye contact with the man. She doesn’t have too much time to worry about it, though, because another chit prints, and she has to return her focus to more important matters.
Alexander’s counting on me.
“Can someone grab me the extra cilantro from the walk-in?” he calls out, too focused on his salad arrangement to do it himself.
“I’ll get it,” Hector calls back.
Eden frowns.
She wouldn’t bat an eye if any of the other chefs volunteered, but Hector? She’s not naïve enough to believe he’s doing it because he’s a good sport.
Something’s up.
“Hey, Peter?” she calls.
“What’s up, chef?”
“Can you man the line for two seconds? I need to check on something.”
“Sure thing.”
Eden stalks to the walk-in and shuts the door behind her, effectively trapping Hector inside. She’s caught him standing in between two of the produce shelves, one hand holding onto the cilantro in question, while the other is about to dump an entire handful of salt on top of the garnish.
It’s an act of sabotage.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses. “The hell is the matter with you?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he snipes.
“You’re not getting away with this.”
Hector takes a step forward. He’s not that much bigger than Eden, but having someone suddenly in your face is still very alarming. Hector looks vitriolic, the vein at his temple pulsing with rage.
“What the fuck are you going to do about it, hm?” he growls. “You going to report me?”
“As a matter of fact, I will.”
Hector scoffs. “Figures you’d go running to him. There’s nothing Chen wouldn’t do for his little whore.”
Before she even has the chance to process what’s been said, her hand shoots up. A gut reaction. She swings, dead set on slapping Hector from here to the other coast. He snatches her wrist and digs his nails into her skin, not hard enough to break but certainly hard enough to bruise. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
