Seconds tick by. Each one feels like an hour.
He finally drawls, "Adequate."
It breaks this trance I’ve fallen into. The sounds of the kitchen slap me across the face. Just like that, the sexual tension fades and is replaced by disbelief.
I draw in a breath. Cough. Regain my composure.
"I made a flawless beurre blanc in under six minutes and you're calling it adequate?"
Anger bubbles up my throat. I bite my tongue and try to hold onto my temper.
"I'm calling it what it is." He pulls back. Claps his hands. “Let's move, people. We're thirty covers behind."
He walks away without another glance.
I catch the chef across the aisle staring at me, wide-eyed. He has pleasant features and is not as tall as The Ice Commander. So, I don’t have to get a crick in my neck from talking to him.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing. It's just…" He shakes his head. "That's the closest I've ever seen him come to giving a compliment."
"That was a compliment?"
He grins. "From him? That's practically a standing ovation."
He says him like he’s talking about the one above. Of course, in this kitchen James is God.
"I’m Mark. The chef tournant.” He’s the swing chef, who rotates between stations as needed. He’s also below sous chef in terms of seniority.
"Harper." I have enough presence of mind to introduce myself.
He turns back to his workspace.
I look over at James, who's now berating someone at the grill station.
Adequate.
I don’t know whether to laugh or scream.
That’s when he turns and walks back to his station. My gaze can’t help but slide down to his behind. It’s covered by his chef jacket, but the way the fabric stretches over his backside confirms to me he’s in very good shape.
He glances over, catching me staring.
A flush steals over my cheeks.
He arches an eyebrow, a glint in his eyes. "Richie, I’m not paying you to gawk."
"Richie,did you do the three-step reset?" He comes up behind me, and he’s so tall that it feels like he’s looming over me.
The heat radiating off his body is different from the heat in the kitchen. There’s a particular masculinity to it that makes my pulse skitter.
"The what?" I say without turning around.
I feel like I’ve spent the day trying to keep up with him, and failed miserably. My feet hurt, my shoulder muscles ache. It’s almost nine p.m. I’ve been working flat out for almost twelve hours.
My head spins. His nearness is making me a little dizzy. No, that must be because I’m tired. That’s all. I clutch at the counter to steady myself.
"After tasting the sauce, you need to reset your palate,” Mr. Frost King drawls.
