"What got you so riled up?" he asks in a tone that sounds almost tender.
Nah, that must be my imagination. The man hates me. He bears no resemblance to the guy who took me to his favorite spots in the city all those years ago.
“None of your business.” I toss my head.
He inclines his head, not put off by my attitude. "You’re not in my kitchen doing your job. I’d say, it’s very much business.”
“Whatever.” I make a rude noise.
I wouldn’t have had the courage to confront him like this before, but now that I’ve crossed a line, I don’t care. I’m on a roll, and it feels so good.
“Life’s too short to not say what you’re thinking,” he says slowly.
Yeah, yeah. Fancy words that don’t convey what he’s really thinking. Ugh, I’m so tired of these stiff interactions with him.
“Is that your personal philosophy?” I bare my teeth at him. “Is that why you’re always so exacting and rigorous and inflexible? Why you never say what you’re really feeling? Is that why you measure every damn thing in that kitchen, making sure it fits the precise dimensions you carry around in your head? Because life’s too short?”
His forehead creases. For the briefest second, something haunted flashes through his eyes.
A stab of guilt pricks my chest.
I basically called out the behaviors I associate with OCD. He’s never said anything about it. James Hamilton is a private man. I shouldn’t have done that.
What if I crossed a line?
I brace myself for him to tear into me.
Instead, his expression smooths out, the mask sliding back into place. When he doesn’t respond, some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
I make a note to myself not to bring it up again. Not unless he does first.
If I were in his place, I wouldn’t appreciate an employee pointing out something that personal either.
I shift my weight, trying to find a more comfortable position. Even my arse is cold. I tug his jacket closer, glad for its cover, no matter its owner has been rubbing me the wrong way for months.
He surveys me steadily. "I was a Marine. I had many near-death experiences. Each time, I took it as a sign that I’d been given a new lease on life and that I shouldn’t waste it."
"Makes sense." I’m surprised he’s sharing so much of himself. In the time I’ve worked here, he’s barely grunted at me.
Except for when he laid out the unwritten rules of his kitchen. The gist of which is:
The chef is always right.
The chef is always right.
The chef is always right.
Okay, not exactly. But close:
No excuses. Only results.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
The last because so many sous chefs before me had quit. Or been fired for brawling. Ha! I snort to myself.
None lasted more than a couple of months. And now, me.
"When I left the Marines, I had one goal in mind. To cook so well, I could not be ignored. I set my mind, not on becoming the best?—"
