The ridiculous thing is…a tiny, traitorous part of me doesn’t hate the idea. I shove the thought away before it can take root.
“Nope. Trust me. When he’s hovering over my station, finding fault with every move I make… Foreplay, it is not. And besides, we barely talk.”
“Eh?”
“He expects me to obey his orders, no questions asked.”
“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “He is your boss.”
“True. It’s just—” I drag my fingers through my hair. “He’s so exacting. So detailed. He constantly challenges me. And he has this annoying habit of doing everything three times."
"What does that mean?"
"When he cleans his counter, he does it three times. When he checks the temperature of a reduction, he dips the probe three times in three different spots. Even when he's adjusting the garnish on a plate, he’ll set it with the tweezers, look away, then move it a fraction of a millimeter. Then, he’ll do it again. And again. With him, it’s not just cooking; it’s a mathematical obsession. He doesn’t trust a job done well. He only trusts the repetition."
She looks fascinated. “Sounds like he might have a touch of OCD.”
I blink. I suspected something like that but hearing her say it out loud makes something click.
That would explain a lot.
The way he hyperfocuses. The way he latches onto a detail and won’t let it go until it’s exactly right. When he’s working, the rest of the world disappears. It’s just him and the plate in front of him.
And that constant need for things to be done just so. Not almost right. Not good enough. Perfect.
Three taps on the counter. Three checks of a plate before it leaves the pass. Three adjustments to a garnish that already looks flawless.
It suddenly makes more sense.
Instead of irritating me, it makes me curious. I want to understand what drives him like that. What makes him push so hard for perfection.
And strangely, knowing this makes me respect him even more.
"You know what? You might be right. It wasn’t noticeable when I met him. But that wasn’t in a work situation. Being a chef is all about detail and compulsive attention to small things, and he thrives on it. I would have better results with my dishes if I were more precise and less instinctive in my approach, as I tend to be.”
"So, there are upsides to surviving Chef Grump?”
“When I don’t feel like strangling him? Sure.” I roll my eyes.
She chuckles.
I can’t stop myself from smiling. I’m so happy that I can make her laugh. She and my niece deserve every happiness in the world. Especially after Freya’s father left her when Freya was six.
"Are you two doing some gross sister-bonding thing?" Freya wanders into the room, her jaw working as she chomps on her gum.
At ten, she’s already all gangly limbs and sharp elbows, a sketch of a person not quite filled in.
Today, she’s in full goth ensemble: ripped black stockings under frayed denim shorts, and a purple off-the-shoulder top that looks like she attacked it with fabric shears herself.
Around her neck sits a velvet choker with a silver bat, and her fingernails are chipped battlefields of black polish.
She looks like a miniature Victorian ghost who’s just discovered punk rock.
Briar shakes her head. “Freya, you’re too young to be dressed…like…like…”
“Wednesday?” I offer.
“Exactly. Is that my choker you’re wearing?” She looks at the jewelry closely.
