No. No. No. I’m in so much trouble.
"I—" I look around the kitchen. Leo is staring at me with his mouth open. One of the other line chefs stands over an open pot with a dripping spoon. The grill chef looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which, admittedly, I think I have.
The junior chef continues to film us. When I scowl at him, he hastily lowers the phone and slips it into his pocket.
"I— Um— I’m—" Not going to apologize.
I didn’t say anything wrong. If anything, I’ve only outlined how full of himself he is. How horribly he’s treated me and the rest of his team.
I set my jaw. "I’m not sorry for what I said."
His eyes widen. A flash of something—very much like admiration—flashes in his eyes. Those tempting lips part slightly.
I do believe I've managed to surprise my boss again. I should celebrate… Except, it feels like this is my funeral.
I turn and walk.
One foot in front of the other. Chin up.
The kitchen blurs at the edges.
Faces turn toward me, curious, shocked. I feel their stares like heat lamps on my skin.
I don't look at any of them.
My vision swims. I blink hard. Once. Twice. Forcing the tears back where they belong.
I will not cry. Not in front of the brigade. Not in front of him.
I brush past Mark, who opens his mouth like he wants to say something. I don't stop. Can't stop. If I stop, I'll shatter.
Ollie looks at me, then away. The relief on his face tells me he’s glad it wasn’t him in my place.
The whispers start behind me. I block them out.
Keep walking. Keep moving. Find somewhere. Anywhere. My stomach drops to my feet. Best to get out while I still have some pride intact.
I walk up the short hallway that leads out of the kitchen, and grasp blindly for the first handle I can find. I yank it open and stumble through.
The cold hits me like a slap. But not the frigid London spring air.
I take in the shelves lined with mise en place, vacuum-sealed proteins, tubs of stock, breathe in the frigid air.
I am not in the alley by the dumpster. I’m in the cold storage.
The door shuts after me. The noise from the restaurant fades. The light from the kitchen cuts off. The motion sensor kicks in, and the overhead fluorescent lights turn on.
I just mouthed off to my boss, and then, in sight of everyone, made my dramatic exit into the cold storage. Brilliant, Harper. Way to go out on a high.
I should head out and find my way out of the restaurant, but it feels so much safer in here. Maybe, I’ll stay here and freeze to death? At least, I won't have to face Lucifer.
A chuckle wells up; I swallow it away.
I stagger to a far corner and sink down onto a sturdy delivery box.
I press my back against the nearest shelf, the cold from the metal seeps through my chef whites. My breath comes out in ragged puffs, visible in the freezing air.
My eyes burn. My throat aches. I tip my head back against the shelf and stare at the ceiling, watching my breath cloud and dissolve.
