Eden observes him, big hazel eyes staring up and awaiting instruction. Her brows are pulled together in a question.
What do you want us to do?
He stares back.
Fuck if I know.
Alexander finally turns and leaves through the back doors of the kitchen, stepping out into the cold back alley. He needs a break, a breath of fresh air. He doesn’t know what to do. Things have never fallen apart this badly before. He can already imagine the terrible reviews that are going to haunt La Rouge for years. People will no doubt complain about the slow service, receiving the wrong orders, or the god-awful wait times.
He doesn’t end up putting his fist through a wall, mainly because his hands are too important to mess up. How can he hope to hold a knife or do anything else useful if he’s accidentally broken a finger?
Outside, Alexander pulls out a small carton from the back pocket of his dark jeans and pulls out a cigarette. Leaning against the alleyway’s brick wall, he lights it and takes a long, deep drag of smoke. He feels better, but just barely.
He just needs a second. He just needs a second to gather his thoughts, formulate a plan, and then he can get right back to—
“Alright, team. We’ve got this.” Eden’s voice is muffled and distant, but perfectly recognizable through the crack in the restaurant’s back doors.
Curious, Alexander crushes his half-smoked cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe and goes back inside.
He’s greeted by a cacophony of sound. Chefs hustle back and forth, moving with double the speed and triple the motivation. They communicate with one another, picking up the slack for each other so that nobody is left behind. The broken plates have been swept up and the spilled whipped cream has been mopped. There isn’t a trace of a mess. Food is cooked, plates are arranged, orders are being sent out.
And above all the organized chaos, Eden’s compliments are loud and clear.
“Good job on the dressing, Laurie. Be careful not to add too much lemon. Excellent work, Rina. I’m sure they’ll love the tiramisu. That last dish was perfect, Peter. Try adding a bit more red wine to balance the flavor, though. That’s fantastic, Freddie. Can you bring the extra macarons out from the fridge when you have a second? Oh, that’s okay, Hector. Take five and put some ice on your wrist just in case.”
She’s at the front of the line, having assumed his position.
Alexander stands there, dumbfounded. He doesn’t understand how she’s doing his job so effortlessly. Things were a nightmare until a few minutes ago, so how the hell did she—little, quiet, unassuming Eden—manage to turn it all around while he wasn’t looking?
Eden waves Alexander over. He joins her at the front, silently nursing his neck from the whiplash.
“Kept your spot warm, Chef,” she says, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of her lips. It’s not arrogant, but it’s certainly teasing.
“How did you do it?”
Eden pats him gently on the shoulder. It’s a casual gesture, nothing to read into, and yet he suddenly feels hot under the collar.
“Come on,” she says. “Just a few more chits and we’ll be over the hill.”
Alexander examines the printer sitting just beneath the line. She’s right. The rate at which tickets are printing has slowed significantly. They’re just about over the crest of this god-awful service.
“We can do this,” she assures him. Soft, sweet.
He frowns, but nods once. How did Eden go from not knowing what she was doing to running the entire kitchen by herself? What had Alexander missed while out for a smoke?
And why is she still touching his shoulder? Were it anybody else, Alexander would have swatted her hand away by now like a gnat. He finds he can’t bring himself to do it.
Maybe his brain’s too fried to care anymore.
He clears his throat and takes a step away. The sudden lack of warmth from her fingers is noticeable, but he pretends not to care.
His new sous chef might be made of something special after all.
* * *
They get through it somehow. A miracle, all things considered. The party of asshat investment bankers at least had the decency to leave a generous tip atop their massive bill.
His staff is understandably exhausted, so they clean up for the night in silence. Everybody just wants to get out of here, so they close in record time. The majority of the chefs trickle out, hurriedly leaving to get to their cars. Alexander’s waiting for the last couple of people to leave so he can turn off the lights and lock the door.
