Two.
Three.
He adjusts its position on the pass with his long fingers. Three millimeters to the right.
I can see the muscles of his forearms ripple under his skin, bringing his tattoo to life.
It’s three separate thorny vines which start at his wrist and spiral upward toward his elbow.
I’m close enough to make out that the thorns are also grouped in clusters of three.
He definitely likes that number.
I flick my gaze to his face and find his eyes narrowed. His lips are in a straight line. A bead of sweat glistens on his brow.
He focuses on the dish with single-minded concentration.
His movements are precise. Yet fluid. The exactness with which he works is terrifying…and thrilling.
If he ever looked at me the way he looks at that plate, with that much attention, I'd come apart.
Heat blooms, low and slow, like butter melting in a warm pan. I shift my weight from foot to foot.
This is not the time to let my desire for him intrude.
Less than an hour in this kitchen, and I’m lit up from the inside. The rhythm. The precision. I’m learning just by watching him move.
I've been at this longer than he has. But what James has that I don’t is the vision, and the nerve, to back it.
He found investors, opened a restaurant, and earned three stars, in less than five years.
That's not luck, and it's not just money, even if the Hamiltons have plenty of it. He's doing something differently.
He's a master of his craft. And I want that.
A few months here could sharpen my talent. Enough to let me open my own place.
However long I last with James, it will be career defining.
Only…his surgical style of working is the opposite of mine.
I prefer to cook by instinct, rather than be as precise as him.
Being able to please him is going to be a challenge.
“Garnish. Take over,” he growls in his deep gruff voice.
I shiver, ignore how my nipples tighten, and bring my attention back to the dish.
This is the final touch. Where taste and the presentation are either elevated to art or ruined by a stray leaf.
I need to get this right.
If I don't, he won’t hesitate to throw it out and have me build the dish from scratch.
I compose myself. Scan my station again.
Three types of purée sit in squeeze bottles, and five varieties of micro-herbs float in chilled water.
