Nothing. She's certain.
"Are you sure?"
She doesn’t blink. "Based on my research, Fletcher is one of three names the Michelin Guide often uses for anonymous visits."
She pauses for dramatic effect.
"It's him."
Oh? She’s confident.
The silence in the room changes quality. Becomes something heavier. Charged.
I survey her features. Harper.
She’s lasted two months in my kitchen, which is longer than many of the chefs who've passed through here. Longer than any woman has lasted in this testosterone-filled atmosphere.
She's proven herself competent.
But I can't stop myself from testing her further. It’s because I want to find how far I can push before she snaps. That's when I can build her up in the image of the perfect chef; stripped of bad habits, rebuilt from the ground up, remade according to my exacting standards.
Or so, I tell myself.
The truth is messier. More inconvenient. And becoming harder to ignore with every service she survives, every dish she perfects, every time she holds my gaze when a lesser chef would look away.
I don't actually want to break her.
I want to see what she becomes if she doesn't break.
And I have absolutely no business wanting that.
I can’t stop watching her obsessively. The way she hums, low, almost inaudible, when a sauce hits the exact note she was aiming for. Not satisfaction, exactly. More like, recognition. Like she's greeting an old friend.
The way she closes her eyes when she tastes something she's been working on. Just for a second. Like she needs to shut out everything else to hear what the food is telling her.
The way she murmurs to whatever she's cooking. Encouragements, mostly. 'Come on then.' 'Nearly there.' 'Don't you dare split on me.' Like the food is a living thing that responds to coaxing.
The way her entire face changes when she tastes something that isn't right. Not with disgust. But with disappointment. Like the dish let her down rather than the other way around.
I shouldn’t notice all this about her. But God help me, I have.
"Good try but—" I tear my gaze away from her face. "You’re mistaken."
Don't look back at her gorgeous features or you’ll lose your train of thought.
“The Guide doesn't operate on names, Richie. It operates on anonymity." I address the room now, not just her. "The moment a name or a face starts circulating in kitchens, the moment it becomes the kind of thing a two-month sous chef hears about, it's already useless."
I hold her gaze.
"Which means, if you've heard of Fletcher, it isn’t him who’s the Michelin Guide inspector."
I feel rather than see the stillness that moves through her.
"Which means, table eleven is either a genuine reservation"—I stop at the front of the room, turn—"or whoever is sitting there tonight is someone else entirely, and you've just sent forty-three people into a state of controlled panic over nothing."
I hold her gaze.
"Do your research, Richie. All of it. Not just the parts that make you look clever."
