My gaze moves to his, and when our eyes meet, there’s something intense and unexpected in the connection. The words that come out of my mouth are so vulnerable, it hurts.
“You are so fucking beautiful.”
His dark brows relax as a look I’ve never seen crosses his face.
“What?” I ask.
Julian looks bashful for the first time. I didn’t know he had a humble bone in his body. “I normally hate when people compliment me,” he says. “But I really love hearing that from you.”
“It’s true,” I say before leaning down and pressing my lips to his again.
“Thank you,” he whispers against my mouth.
Rule #21: Stop working for other people’s dreams.
Freya
“Move faster, Kapoor! Those canapés should be plated bynow.”
“Yes, Chef,” I mutter through gritted teeth. The kitchen is in chaos—nothing but movement, heat, and noise. Blades clattering against cutting boards. The metallic clang of pans hitting burners. The sizzle of oil spinning up in angry bursts. And yet it seems no matter how fast I move, I can’t please this head chef.
As I frantically dice scallions, sweat drips down my temples and the back of my neck, beneath the stiff collar of my jacket. I grind my teeth as the chef barks more frantic orders at the others in the kitchen. Inhaling through my nose and trying to calm myself, I slide the finely chopped greens into a metal bowl.
“Let’s go, Kapoor!” he shouts again.
I really should know better than to snap back. But the bite of my last name spit out like an insult has my fingers gripping the knife just a little too tight.
“What do you think I’m doing?” I argue, feeling the eyes of the other cooks in the room, glancing my way in surprise.
Suddenly a shadow looms over me from behind, then the sharp, condescending click of the chef’s tongue. “What did you just say to me?” he asks.
Heat surges up my throat, a mix of humiliation and fury burning in my chest. I have been at this for hours, exhausted and frustrated. And now I have to stand back and watch as he criticizes my hard work.
“Pathetic,” he sneers, plucking one of the delicate tartlets off the tray and holding it up like a disappointing school project. “This pastry is too thick. The garnish is sloppy. And this?” He flicks a microgreen like it’s personally offended him. “This is amateur work. Do you even know what ‘delicate’ means, or is your English as bad as your French?”
My body aches, my head throbs, and suddenly, for the life of me, I can’t understand why I’m standing here letting this ignorant prick talk to me like this. Nothing I do will ever be good enough for guys like him. Not here, not ever.
I glance around the kitchen, an unbearable hum of stress vibrating in my bones. And I make a promise to myself. My kitchen will not be like this.
“Fine,” I snap. “You think it’s amateur? Then do it yourself.”
With one swipe, I let the tray of canapés fly to the ground. A collective gasp fills the kitchen.
“I don’t need this shit anymore. I quit!” I shriek as I tear off my jacket.
“You can’t handle the heat? Then get out of the fucking kitchen!” the chef shouts back at me as I march away from him.
And maybe I’m overreacting, but it’s not just this guy. He isn’t special. He’s no different from a dozen others, back in California and here. Years of hearing backhanded comments about my skills in the kitchen.
Are you sure you can cook French cuisine, Freya?
We don’t want it to be too spicy, Freya.
They’re all the same. Asshole, racist chefs on some egotisticalpower trip, and they all treat me the same. They treat all women, especially women of color, the same. And I’m sick of it.
As I stomp through the kitchen toward the door, one of the female cooks at the back smirks at me and whispers, “Bravo.”
Grabbing my things from my locker, I shove them in my backpack with a huff and burst through the door and into the morning air. That kitchen will be just fine without me. There are enough talented cooks in there to make it work. And the event we’re catering for isn’t as high class as that chauvinistic chef wants to believe it is. I was practically killing myself all morning for nothing.
