"Exactly, you and your assistant engaged in a war of words which seems to be more than that." He coughs again. "If you know what I mean."
Wanker is calling Harper my assistant when she’s a chef in her own right.
“Her name is Harper. And she’s my sous chef, not my assistant,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes, of course. Semantics, eh?”
Not.
I decide to pick my battles with this chap. I know what he means. It looks like Harper and I are having a lover’s quarrel.
He clears his throat again. "The ramifications from this will, no doubt, be far-reaching. There's bound to be blowback; our credibility is at stake here. You need to salvage the situation, or we’ll have to pull out our investments."
I stiffen. "Did you just threaten to pull out of my business?"
"Nothing that crude. I’m merely painting the picture, so you have time to plan."
I set my jaw. "Aren’t you being hasty?"
"It’s the digital age. Even we old fogeys must move with the times and react quickly. If you don’t come up with a way to salvage the situation, I’m afraid we don’t have a choice."
I stay ramrod stiff. My heartbeat rises marginally, but I keep the rest of my vitals under control. I feel myself retreating from the miasma of emotions threatening to rush forward. I manage to shove them back down. Take a detached, cool view of the proceedings.
I tap my fingers three times on my desk. Then fall back into the thinking on my feet mode; I often had to use when I was a sniper.
I need to save my restaurant.
I also need to keep Harper in my life. She talked back to me in front of the brigade. There will need to be consequences for that.
I’m not surprised she snapped. I’ve spent months pushing her, baiting her with impossible demands just to see if she’d fold. I expected her to quit, breaking under the weight of my expectations.
Instead, she surprised me by confronting me. She excelled at the test I set for her.
She showed me her fire. Showed she wasn’t afraid of going toe to toewith me. She showed she has the potential to be truly great. And now, I can put the pieces back together; rebuilding her into the perfect sous chef, shaped exactly to my design.
“You there, James?” Whittington asks.
“Thinking things through; give me a few seconds,” I say honestly.
The video. The viral fallout. The online vultures. Variables I didn’t account for.
But watching her on that screen, eyes blazing, face unguarded, and seeing myself respond in kind, stirred something dark and restless in me.
It also proved that she’s capable. That she might be the only person alive who might survive me.
Unfortunately, I still have to deal with the consequences. The board is terrified of scandal. But they love profit even more. If I can reframe the video in a way that benefits the restaurant, they’ll accept it.
A disaster is just an opportunity in a different light.
I calm my senses, focusing on the problem at hand. The Marine in me shifts the map.
What if I don’t fight the rumor?
If the world believes my sous chef and I are involved, curiosity alone will fill the dining room. People will come just to see the sparks.
And why would Harper agree?
Simple. I make her an offer.
