“HEARD!” Another battle cry rings out.
Julian swipes his forehead with the back of his arm and passes off an order to one of the waiting servers, who disappears out of view in a hurry. The pass sits ready for action.
Knowing I only have minutes, I move down the line to Gordon on sauces. I taste the glaze for the chicken. Too sweet. I fix it with a touch of vinegar without hesitation. “Watch your heat on the sauté,” I warn, sliding in beside him and tilting the pan myself. “We’re not burning a single clove of garlic tonight.”
“Yes, Chef!” His response is immediate. Quick, but not bitter. I clasp him on the shoulder, squeezing firmly. The most praise anyone on my team gets from me. Gordon’s exhaled breath fills the space between us with the faint scent of spearmint. He’s new to his position, but his willingness to take correction without backlash is going to take him far in this industry.
“Hot line! Start plating!”
“HEARD!”
Every free hand rushes the pass for the final push to get beautiful, delicious creations in front of our guests. I feel the soft brush of a shoulder against my side as Terri slides in and passes off her work. It’s always impeccable, but I check out of habit anyway.
She’s gone as fast as she came.
The service continues, plates moving past me in choreographed chaos. Every flaw noted, every misstep corrected, every dish leaving the kitchen as close to perfection as humanly possible.
Julian calls the last ticket. “Final fire—two rib, one veg.”
Then the kitchen noise dips, tension twisting tighter rather than fading. Final plates matter most; every critic in town loves a late seating.
My team doesn’t miss a beat. These are some of the most exquisite executions I’ve ever seen from them, which makes my job easy. When the mains clear the pass, I check my watch.
“Savory’s done. Pastry, bring it home!”
With our part of the service finished, the scent of caramel and sugar replaces garlic and char throughout the kitchen.
For the next hour, I watch our pastry team put out intricate tarts adorned with meticulously placed edible flowers, perfectly torched crème brulés, and stacks of multi-colored macarons.
The lump that rises in my throat is sudden, but I turn away and start helping the rest of the cooks with clean-up. No time to dwell on what could have been.
Only once the chrome gleams spotless and everything is reset for tomorrow’s service do I venture to the front of the house, where Julian and one of our servers are lounging on the tall stools near the bar. My eyes, stinging from the smoke and seasonings in the air, have a hard time focusing in the dim light.
“There he is,” Julian says, slowly clapping. “The man, the myth, the legend! Not a single dish was returned all night. That’s a new record!”
“It really shouldn’t be,” I grumble, sliding my hands into the pockets of my slacks. Praise for doing the bare minimum? Pathetic. My job tonight was to produce perfection. And that’s exactly what I did.
Not fucking it up shouldn’t be impressive.
“I don’t know, Alex.” Charlene props her chin on her hand, turning my way. She bats her eyelashes as she takes a sip of wine that I assume Julian gifted her on the house. “The way you move back there is something else.”
Her tone is flirtatious and laced with suggestion. I recognize her intentions immediately for what they are.
I’ve never had a problem garnering female attention. I’m tall with a full head of thick brown hair and blue eyes that are often described as captivating. I spent the better part of six years with an expander and braces. I also come from a good family with a strong reputation.
I’m not naïve. I know the effect I have on women.
Too bad I don’t care in the slightest.
I lean my forearms against the bar, the cool, polished wood chilling my skin on contact. It feels so damn good. I’ve been on fire all night.
For a brief moment, I take her in. She’s pretty enough, I guess. Long dark hair, big doe eyes. Pouty lips. But she’s like every other pretty girl I’ve already met in this city. Nothing special.
Julian grins my way, inclining his head subtly in her direction like he’s encouraging me to lean into her attraction. I don’t take the bait.
“The bar is in Hell.” My tone is clipped as I take a seat, leaving an empty stool between us. Her eyes cast down at it, then back to my expression. Understanding has her face falling, but she’s dejected for only a moment before turning her attention to Julian.
Even though we’re cousins, we look like we could be brothers. The only difference between us is his dark eyes in contrast to my blues. If she’s attracted to me, she’s definitely also attracted to him. Which is perfect, because she’s exactly his type.
