Briar and I exchange a look.
She’s told me before that the local school isn’t challenging enough. Freya is lightyears ahead in Math and English, and her sketchbook is basically her diary. This is exactly why I’m willing to endure James’s kitchen.
My niece needs to be around kids who’re also gifted, and of a similar artistic temperament, so she doesn’t feel like she stands out.
Briar sighs, but a smile curves her lips. "Okay. Fine."
"Yes!" Freya nearly tackles her, the dark and moody preteen persona disappearing in a chaotic hug. "Thanks, Mum."
She spins toward me, her black plastic jewelry clattering. "So, when do we go?”
I glance at the sunlight streaming in through the window. It’s not raining, for once. I can’t waste this lovely weather moping around here, worrying about my asshole boss.
Freya bounces in place, impatient as ever. “Can we go now? Like, right now?”
I laugh and grab my comfiest pair of shoes from the wardrobe. “Let’s do it.”
I push the restaurant, the orders, and The Ice Commander out of my mind, and step fully into my day off.
For today, the kitchen doesn’t exist. Only the busy streets of London, the sun, and Freya.
10
James
"What’s special about tonight?” I look around the restaurant and at the assembled faces of my brigade. “Anyone?"
Silence answers me back.
Good. They should be afraid of getting this wrong.
Wrong answers in my pre-dinner briefing, when we discuss the upcoming service will cost you.
Not just your job, imminently, but they cost you something harder to recover. Credibility. My attention. The kind of respect that takes months…years sometimes, to build and seconds to lose.
Mark ventures. "Full house, Chef. Two hundred and?—"
"Full house." I don't look up from my tablet. "We're always full. Try again."
More silence.
I let it sit. Let it pressure them. This is the point of the question. It’s not about the answer. The question is a filter. It separates the chefs who show up and the chefs who prepare. The ones who clock in and the ones who care.
I'm about to move on when?—
"The Michelin inspector."
Harper.
I look up.
She's standing at the end of the front-of-house line, spine straight, chin lifted, meeting my gaze with that brand of steadiness that I have not managed to rattle…yet.
"There's a booking under the name Fletcher." Her voice doesn't waver. "Table eleven. Lone diner. No special requests. Reservation made this morning."
The dining room is still. Forty-three people holding their collective breath.
I study her face. Looking for the tell. The slight uncertainty around the eyes, the micro-hesitation before the next word, the giveaway that she's guessing and hoping for…
