“You could be.”
“Could. Could. That means I’ll have an allotted amount of time to train and learn, not only the aspects of Felix’s role, but yours,”I rushed out. The weight of that responsibility was getting ready to drop on my shoulders the second I agreed.
“Years, Chef Howell,” she said, her voice sweet but firm. “If you accept, you would have years. I wouldn’t dare dump so much on you at once. It’s careless and not to mention cruel.” She leaned back, settling into her chair. “I’m comfortable here. Yes, I’ve been in the office more because Felix had the kitchen handled. His title was sous chef, but we all knew what he was. What I needed him to be so I could handle the rest.”
Head chef.
I pushed my fingers through my hair, exhaling. “I understand Felix wanted me to take his place, and he gave me his reasons. But I would like to hear yours.”
She chewed on her cheek for a moment, studying me. “You requested that as if you’re nothing more than a list of qualifications to be checked off.”
“Well, yes, I understand this position—both of them—require a multitude of qualifications. And I—”
“Not the job, dear. You.” She paused. “You don’t think you’re good enough?”
The challenge in her question had my spine straightening and the woman I used to be coming forward. The confident girl who dreamed of having her own restaurant, her own kitchen where she could pour out her creative ideas, explore new flavors, and create a life for herself. The girl who wasn’t afraid of life. “I never even finished culinary school, Marg.”
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “Take six months and go finish. Your place will be here when you get back.”
“But—”
“Your pay will stay the same, and I’ll write you a glowing recommendation.”
“You can’t pay me if I’m not here,” I said in disbelief.
Marg tilted her head to the side. “If you graduate from culinary school and have the title, would you feel better about my offer?”
“Of course I would.”
“Then I have no problem keeping you on the payroll while you’re gone. Especially when you agree to be my eventual successor.”
I opened my mouth, but there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Marg called and I turned to see who it was. No one else should be here.
Scott stepped halfway inside, his mouth snapping shut when his eyes landed on me. My eyes dropped to his neck.
Oh my god.
“Good heavens, Scott, what happened to your neck?” Marg asked as I heard her chair rolling back. A second later, she was in my view, lightly touching his bruised skin.
He gave me a glance before focusing on her, a fake, half-cocked smile on his face. “Got into a bar fight a few nights ago. You know how it is.”
“No,” she muttered, giving him a look. “What are you doing here? Do you need a ride to the hospital?”
“Nah, Marg. I’m fine.” He waved her off, rolling his shoulders.
Marg gestured to me. “We’re almost done if you’d like to wait just a few minutes.”
He wouldn’t look at me, clearing his throat as he looked back into the kitchen. “I’m good, Marg. I just had a question about the schedule next week,” he said, stepping out.
Marg caught the door. “Well, I haven’t made it yet.”
A sharp, extremely uncomfortable laugh echoed through the air. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. I’ll, uh, see you later. Just let me know when we open again.”
As Marg took her seat again, she chewed on her thumb nail. An unusual habit for someone her age, the movement making her look younger than she was. Her brows came together. “Have youever known Scott to be a drinker?” she asked, finally looking up at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t really know him.”
