Jonah looked up. The chef was leaning against the demonstration table, arms crossed, watching the room empty with that cynical expression that made Jonah suspect he’d sized up every one of them and knew who’d end up at a Michelin-star restaurant, and who’d be slinging hash in a diner.
“Yes, Chef.” He abandoned the text and got up.
Broussard waited until the last student cleared the door, then tilted his head toward a chair in the front. “Sit.”
As he did, Jonah’s mind cycled through all the possibilities. Had he done something wrong on last week’s practical? He didn’t think so, but Broussard had a talent for spotting flaws that were invisible to the naked eye and then describing them in language that made you want to transfer to the accounting program.
“You’re not in trouble,” Broussard said, reading him. The faintest smile tugged at one corner of his mustache. “Relax your shoulders. You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad.”
Jonah exhaled and forced his shoulders down. “Sorry, Chef.”
Broussard studied him for a moment, the way he examined a plate before sending it off the pass—evaluating, considering, measuring against a standard only he could see.
“I’ve been watching you, Lawson. You have instincts that can’t be taught. Your palate is sharp, your knife work is improving faster than most, and you don’t panic when things go sideways.” He paused. “You also have a baby at home and the look of a man who hasn’t slept through the night all summer long, but that’s a separate conversation.”
Jonah let out a short laugh. “It shows?”
“Everything shows in a kitchen. That’s the first thing I teach.” Broussard uncrossed his arms and reached into the breast pocket of his whites, pulling out a business card he handed to Jonah. “You know Isobel Vega?”
Jonah’s pulse spiked. “Chef Vega? At Driftwood?”
“That’s the one.”
Everyone in the Panhandle who cared about food knew Isobel Vega. She’d opened Driftwood three years ago in a converted boathouse on the harbor in Destin, and within eighteen months it had becometheplace. She’d scored some insane online reviews, and the buzz was good and loud.
Her cooking was Gulf Coast seafood stripped down to its essentials and rebuilt with precision—local catch, regional ingredients, zero shortcuts. She’d trained in Miami and Mexico City, worked under two James Beard winners, and had the kind of reputation that made young cooks either desperate to work for her or terrified to try.
Jonah was both.
“Isobel and I did a stint together in New Orleans,” Broussard continued. “She’s one of the best I’ve ever worked alongside, and she doesn’t impress easily.” He tapped the card. “She’s looking for a fall intern. Somebody she can train from the ground up. The position pays—though not much—and runsSeptember through December. You’d work three shifts, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, five to whenever she releases you, maybe close. And Saturday service as needed, but you will be needed, so count on it.”
Jonah’s mind was already doing math and, pay or no pay, the hours didn’t add up right.
“It’s not a ride-along,” Broussard continued. “You’d be on the line by week three. Prep,garde manger, working your way through stations as she sees fit. She runs a tight crew—six, sometimes seven—and she expects her interns to earn every minute. But the ones who survive?” He raised an eyebrow. “She hires them. Or she makes calls on their behalf to people who do.”
“Does it count for credit?” Jonah asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Full practicum credit. I’ve already arranged it with the department head. You could substitute the internship for your fall lab requirement, which frees up part of your daytime schedule for lectures.” Broussard leaned forward slightly. “I recommended you, Lawson. Specifically. Out of twenty-two students in this program, I gave her one name.”
Holy…wow.
“I don’t know what to say, Chef.” And he meant it. What an honor…and what a nightmare for a single father of a four-month-old.
“Say yes or say no. Those are the only two things worth saying in a kitchen, at least at your level.”
Jonah glanced down at the card.Isobel Vega, Executive Chef, Driftwood. The restaurant was ten minutes from the Summer House, so at least it was close and not a haul out to Rosemary Beach or Pensacola.
Still—three dinner shifts and likely Saturday service. On top of his lecture schedule and Atlas.
The hours were brutal. He’d need childcare during the day and most nights, and now on the weekends. No one in his family could do that.
Yes, they could, but he shouldn’t ask them. Atlas washisresponsibility.
But this was the kind of opportunity that didn’t come around twice for a man who’d spent most of his twenties living in a van and dodging his potential.
It would land him a great job after he graduated from this program—he had no doubt of that. It would set him up to give Atlas security, comfort, and a good life, even though he’d had the misfortune of losing his mother when he was three weeks old.
But it wasn’t future Atlas’s voice in his head he heard. Not his father or his late girlfriend or anyone but…Melissa Lawson.
