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“Good job, Verity,” Chef LeBlanc praises. “Not everyone knows to twist slightly so the noodles distribute evenly.” He nods his head toward Andrik on the left side of me as he unceremoniously dumps the noodles into his pot without an ounce of grace, causing him to have to use a spoon to push them into the liquid. The alpha in question glances up like he can feel our stares and winces.
“Next time, take note from your omega,” Bob says before moving on to coach another alpha down the line. “Today, we’re preparing spaghetti as part of your weekly group bonding. However, the dishes we’re making are being prepared with premade ingredients, which is simply not as good as making everything fresh. Apparently, starting from scratch was too time consuming for the show and they’ll be editing it to appear like we made everything beforehand.” By his tone, you can tell exactly what he thinks about that.
Kyle leans over from his station on my right, pausing his motions of expertly cutting an onion as he whispers, “You’re doing great, Peardrop. I’m impressed.”
“Ugh! You must salt your water.” Bob’s loud command interrupts me from responding. “Thoroughly,” he adds when the alpha gives him an incredulous stare, pausing with the dish of salt in his hand. “Salt enhances flavor, and it seems like you need as much of that as you can get.” He reaches around the alpha before dumping a generous pinch in the pot.
It takes everything in me not to snort. “Who doesn’t salt their pasta water?” I murmur to Kyle.
He chuckles under his breath. “Bob probably seems like a hardass, but it’s only because he’s a perfectionist when it comes to his food. But at the same time, I know he wants to see everyone succeed.”
“I can respect that.”
“Now that your pasta is boiling, we’re going to switch over to the sauce,” Chef LeBlanc continues. He eyes the perfectly chopped onion at Kyle’s station. “Seems like someone got ahead of themselves, Mr. Draper.” He doesn’t give Kyle a chance to respond before moving on. “Take out your cutting boards and knives. First, we’ll chop the onion and begin sautéing it. Once they’re soft, you’ll dump in your tomato sauce and spices.” His expression shows his displeasure at using another premade item, but he doesn’t comment on it aloud.
As I’m working on breaking my onion down, my eyes water from the compound they release when cut. There aren’t any scent dampeners in here either, which means I’m getting the full effect of nine people chopping into the tear-inducing suckers. The hood fan helps slightly, but it’s not enough. I wipe my eye with the back of my hand, but that’s a terrible idea because it only brings the scent closer. “God, these are rough,” I all but whine.
Kyle scooches me out of the way, pushing me toward Andrik. “I’ll finish it for you, Peardrop.”
“My hero,” I coo as I grab one of the fresh towels and use it to wipe my face. While I’m half blind, Andrik suddenly lets out a loud curse, and the sound of his knife clattering against the metal prep area has my heart leaping to my throat. I yank the towel down only to catch him sticking his finger in his mouth. Gross.
Even though the sanitary bit disturbs me from knowing how much bacteria is in one’s mouth, I drop the towel and rush over to his side. “Shit, are you okay?” I ask, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him toward me to examine the wound when he doesn’t produce it fast enough for my liking. Alphas are bred with a nurturing instinct toward omegas, but don’t underestimate an omega when her alpha is injured.
I blow out a relieved breath as I examine the “wound.” It doesn’t seem like he actually cut himself, only nicked the skin. There’s a smidge of blood pooling and that’s it. Thank goodness. The last thing I need is for him to lose one of those talented fingers, or especially, his trigger finger. “I’m okay, Precious. Thank you,” Andrik murmurs, using his free hand to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
Jedrik snorts from his position on the other side of his twin. “He’s totally not okay. The man can’t cook to save his life, but he’s doing his best for you, Trouble.”
That statement jogs my memory, and vaguely, I remember reading about that in the binder Karen gave me the day I met the alphas. It warms my heart to know Andrik is stepping outside of his comfort zone for me. And in turn, for the Heat Fiends watching the show. I absolutely know this will air.
Chef LeBlanc clears his throat. “There are bandaids in my office if you’d like to get one,” he explains to Andrik and an idea strikes me. This is my opportunity to spy on him a little and help my men narrow the suspect pool.
“I’ll go grab one for him,” I cut in and don’t wait for an answer. Spinning on my heel, I march toward Bob’s office and slide inside, pointedly ignoring the walk-in cooler that was fixed to house the bodies I pass on my way.
Logically, I know I have to hurry, but I also want to take my time. With my heart racing, I immediately head for his desk first. I mean, that’s the spot everyone always seems to go for in movies, right? If he’s hiding anything in this tiny office, it has to be here.
When I attempt to pull open the center drawer, I find it locked up tight and a whispered curse slips past my lips. So much for that. I try the drawers on the side and find them also locked. What does a chef need with locked drawers and an office, anyway?
Okay, what else?
The picture frame sitting on top catches my eye. The smiling faces of Chef LeBlanc, his wife Sheila, and his family standing outside their restaurant back home reflect back at me. Surely, this man isn’t a murderer. But stranger things have happened, I guess.
A small filing cabinet in the corner of the room catches my attention and I race to it, dropping onto my knees. I try the first handle, but it doesn’t budge. Great, another dead end.
Imagine my surprise when the second one clicks open. The force of me tugging with all my might—like that might’ve actually opened it, if it were locked—sends me sprawling backward, almost dragging the whole thing on top of me. As quietly as I can, I lower it back to the ground and breathe a sigh of relief when no one bursts in, catching me red handed snooping through things I shouldn’t be. I doubt whoever was in it last realized the lock didn’t latch.
I’m not sure what I was expecting to be inside these locked drawers, but a bunch of folders with all our names on them wasn’t it. The files are in alphabetical order, leaving Chad at the front with the last name Abbott. I’d bet my last dollar and my left tit his privileged alphabet-advantaged name isn’t the only thing he finishes first with either.
Well, not anymore.
I wince, but it’s hard to have too much sympathy for a man who tried to command me with his bark. If he’d do it here, in front of the crew, the other alphas, and the camera, I can only imagine what he would’ve done in private if given the chance.
Time to find out what’s in here, shall we?
A horrified gasp escapes me as I carefully pull out Chad’s file and flick it open, only to find a huge red X scribbled over his picture, and a list of ingredients scrawled all over the page. What the hell?
From what I can see around the writing, the details in the file aren’t terribly different from what Karen gave me in my binder, but still, why scribble him out like this? What are the ingredients for? And why is it in Chef LeBlanc’s office?
“Verity? Did you find the bandaids?” he yells from down the hall, startling me.
