I glance up from my phone and sigh.
He goes out of his way to test me. But every time he challenges me to go beyond my comfort zone, I deliver results that are better than I thought I could.
I find myself jumping to do as he commands. And I keep going back for more.
Every day I spend with him; I improve as a chef. Besides, I want to prove myself. My pride won’t let me give up so easily. My stubbornness relishes a challenge. Maybe even, secretly enjoys being tested by him.
Phe: I mean both of you want to make it to the top of your profession. You are both hardworking and stubborn and don’t give up easily.
She is right, I suppose.
"Harper, prep is starting." Mark pops his head around the back door. "You don't want to be late."
There’s no sense giving His Royal Grumpiness another chance to find fault with me. I straighten and head back into the restaurant.
Me: Gotta go.
Zoey: Hang in there, bish.
Phe: Big hug. I’ll come by the restaurant and check in on both of you.
8
Harper
It’s the start of my third week.
That little heart-to-heart with James did nothing to ease the tension between us. If anything, it made things worse. I’m hyperaware of him.
Hard not to be when the man works five feet away from me.
I always know when he’s watching me. And when I glance up, there he is, staring in that cool, disapproving way of his, like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve yet.
Then, there are the accidental touches. His fingers brushing mine when he hands me a spoon or a plate. Every time it happens, my entire body sparks like someone struck a match under my skin. It’s ridiculous.
And his scent. Even surrounded by garlic, butter, roasting meat, and a dozen other smells, I can always pick up the clean, dark note of him when he’s nearby.
I try not to look at him. Try to keep my focus on the food. But a few times, he’s caught me staring.
And when he does, his eyes gleam like he’s just uncovered some private joke.
Ugh.
It’s the lull between lunch and dinner service. I’m using the time to start early on my dinner prep. I want to make sure I’m ahead of the curve. I want to use the extra time to get my recipes just right.
Not that His Royal Grumpiness will notice.
Right now, he’s in his office working on something, which means I have some breathing space. Thank God.
I'm headed for the dry storage to get the ingredients needed for dinner prep.
"Bet she's good with a whisk." A voice carries over the hum of the exhaust fans. "All in the wrist action, yeah?"
Ugh. That’s one of the line cooks. He’s leaning against the stainless-steel counter near the pass with his buddy, both pretending to work, but really looking for a way to get cheap shots at me.
It’s nothing I haven’t faced in previous restaurant kitchens.
Sexist pigs who think a woman existing in a commercial kitchen is asking for jokes at her expense.
