Chapter 1
Carina
Crap.
It’s already ten thirty?
No, no, no, no.
It can’t be.
I chop the mushrooms a little faster. “Hey, Nora, are you done with the green peppers?”
The brunette looks over at me. “Sweet peppers, habanero peppers, pepperoncini, and onions are chopped. I’ve already grated the sharp provolone and aged asiago. And I tripled the number of hogie rolls I baked from yesterday. Melanie is working on the tornado potatoes. Other than the mushrooms, we’re ready.”
Being a newly hired chef at Riley Carrington’s rebranded Happy Belly Eatery is a lot of pressure. Nora Mitchell and Melanie Slaton aren’t chefs, but without them, I’d be lost. There’s another bunch of helpers who come in later to make sure the afternoon and early evening crowds are taken care of.
“Okay. We’re almost there,” I say in an attempt to convince myself I have everything under control.
“You got this, Carina. Other than Riley, you’re our local superstar.” She winks.
I flash her a nervous smile.
It was just a suggestion.
I never thought Miranda would submit it to Riley. And I sure as hell never thought my boss would go for it, but now my signature sandwiches are the stars at Riley’s eatery. For the first time in my life, I’m not living in someone else’s shadow. Out here, I don’t have to follow any generational rules from the old country. I’m free to be as creative as I want.
A little of this.
A little of that.
And I had re-created something I’ve been warned a million times not to mess with.
I didn’t expect it would catch on fire like it has.
Since introducing my Spitfire Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches with tornado potatoes on the side to the menu two weeks ago, it’s been pandemonium.
Every day, the word gets out of who is behind those sandwiches. It seems all of Summerville is flocking to Riley’s eatery to catch a glimpse of me and have a bite of my sandwiches.
In the past week, more and more people from neighboring zip codes are driving through town for a taste.
My stomach ties up in a knot.
It’s not only singers and live performers who suffer from performance anxiety. Chefs aren’t immune to those kinds of jitters.
The doors to the kitchen fly open, jolting me in the process.
Calm down.
Miranda Reddick heads towards me with a determined step. “Carina, it’s time for you to take a break before the lunch rush.”
I swing my eyes to our manager. “I’m still not done chopping.”
“Nora can take over.”
Gosh.“She’s already done so much, Miranda.”
“Just in case you haven’t noticed, this is a team sport,” the petite with reddish brown hair and amber eyes says. “We’re in this together. Soon, you’ll be lassoed to a hot oven grilling God knows how many sandwiches. I don’t want you to pass out from exhaustion. Riley would kill me if I did a piss poor job at managing the staff. Take your break.”
