What. The. Fuck? His demand is unreasonable. And he knows it.
“How am I supposed to do that? We’re in the middle of service," I snap back.
As if to punctuate my point, there’s a crash from somewhere behind me. I recognize the swearing as coming from our line cook, Leo.
My boss’s gaze doesn’t flicker. It’s too much to hope he’ll let this pass. His next words confirm that he noticed the transgression.
"If you can’t keep the team under control then, perhaps, you shouldn’t be sous chef.”
His upper lip disappears entirely. His jaw could be carved from stone.
"Leave, and you won't be missed." His voice is almost bored. "There's a stack of CVs on my desk an inch thick. Cordon Bleu graduates. Chefs from two-stars across Europe." He pauses. "There's a sous chef from Copenhagen with impeccable credentials and twice your experience. He's emailed three times, begging for a trial shift."
His eyes meet mine. Hold.
"He thinks he's ready." The pause that follows is almost surgical. "The question is, are you?"
The blood drains from my face.
How dare he threaten to replace me?
I trained at one of the country’s top catering colleges. Worked my way up from being a kitchen porter in a middling restaurant, to joining a well-regarded French restaurant as a commis chef. By the time the place shut down I was chef de partie.
I’ve worked my arse off since the day I joined, so how dare he make me feel like I’m slacking?
This man has pushed me and prodded at me. He makes me feel like I’m the most stupid person in the world and… No more.
Maybe I’m lightheaded from the lack of sleep in the past month. Or maybe, I’m sick of this man’s superior attitude and the fact that he wears his condescension like it’s his birthright.
I’m also tired of being so aware of him.
I’m exhausted from the effort of putting up a front. And being civil. Because he’s, my boss. And I want to prove myself. But there’s a limit to how much I can be pushed.
I square my shoulders and thrust my forefinger into that massive chest of his which—gulp—doesn’t budge.
"Don’t you dare hold the threat of my job over me. I’ve earned my title here, and you know it. I’ve worked eighteen-hour days since I joined this restaurant. I’ve barely slept four hours each night. I’m the first in here and the last out. I’ve poured ten times the effort into this role compared to others."
His broad frame feels like it’s made of steel. Or granite. Or some material that crashed to Earth on a comet. That’s how unforgiving he feels. Almost as forbidding as his features. Mistake. Mistake. My senses blare. I ignore them.
James tightens his jaw. Tension rolls off him. The air between us is so thick, it feels like if I lit a match, the entire space would go up in flames.
Around me, I’m aware people have stopped what they’re doing and are watching.
I see the junior chef pull out a phone and aim it at us. It’s against the rules to have a phone in the kitchen.
But it’s not like I can talk about rules, considering I’ve broken the most cardinal of them all: Don’t talk back to the boss.
I’ve started now. Best to keep going.
“Three months. Three months of barely sleeping and feet so sore I could hardly walk home. I forfeited holidays.” I lift my chin. “Missed seeing my family. I’ve dedicated myself to perfecting every dish you’ve thrown at me. I’ve adapted to every last-minute change you’ve made to the menu.” I wave a hand in the air. “All your ridiculously over-the-top adjustments.”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot. His stance feels like that of a boxer’s. Where he’s settling in to absorb all the punches I throw at him.
A murmur runs through the kitchen. I ignore it.
“You ride me harder than anyone on this team. And maybe, that’s because you think I can take it. Or maybe, it’s because I’m the only woman in this kitchen?”
Silver sparks flash in his eyes.
