"Six minutes. The lunch service doesn't wait for you. Neither do I."
"Then stop talking and let me work.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Someone inhales sharply. I realize, belatedly, that I just told James Hamilton, my new boss, to shut up.
His gazeshutters.
This is it. I'm fired before I even started.
But instead of rage, I see something else in his eyes. Something that looks almost like…respect…and a glimmer of something else which confuses me. It can’t be desire. Can it?
"Six minutes," he repeats softly. "Clock's running."
He turns back to inspecting another dish.
I exhale and grab a fresh pan.
Shallots. Wine. Reduce. Butter.
My hands move on instinct—dice, sauté, deglaze. The wine hits the hot pan with a hiss, and I swirl it, watching it reduce to almost nothing. Only then do I reach for the cold butter.
"Four minutes." His voice cuts across the kitchen. He's not even looking at me. How does he know?
"I'm aware," I say through gritted teeth.
"Doesn't look like it."
"Maybe if someone stopped interrupting me?—"
"Three minutes fifty." Why can’t he focus on his own station instead of breathing down my neck?
I set my jaw and whisk faster. Don’t rise to his bait. Because clearly, he is baiting me.
Cube by cube. Constant motion. Keep the heat low. Don't let it break.
The kitchen roars around me. Orders fly. Pans clatter. Someone curses in French. The ticket printer screams again.
I block it out. There's only me. The sauce. The emulsion. The slow alchemy of fat and acid becoming something silken… And him.
And how he’s watching me closely. The silver flecks in his eyes flash. The pulse at his temple is beating so fast, I can see it flutter under his skin.
Now, I know how it feels to have his complete focus on me. Following my every move.
My skin hums. My scalp tingles. It’s as if he’s touching me with his eyes. I need to focus on my cooking technique. I need to get this right.
I need to shut him out.
Easier said than done when he drawls almost cheerfully, "Two minutes."
"I heard you.”
"Then move faster."
"Then stop—" I catch myself. Take a breath.
He’s testing me. That’s all it is. I can’t let him get to me. I can’t get this wrong. The thought of having to accept defeat pulls all of my attention into a concentrated focus. I manage to push him to the fringes of my subconscious mind.
Whisk. Swirl. Taste.
