The insult hits me like a hammer, erasing whatever petty taunt I was about to fling at him next.
Jack Hartman is a lot of things.
Intense. Rude. Brilliant.
Brilliant in a way I’ll never be. Brilliant enough to draw Mom and Dad’s attention the way Julia does.
“Before the next course, put together, of course, by the talentedsous chef of Pastiche, Jack Hartman, I would love to thank you all for coming, and say a few words about my wonderful, beautiful daughter, Julia,” Dad is saying.
Someone sighs happily. Over Jack’s shoulder, I see a woman hit her date’s shoulder. “See?” she says. “That’s why I don’t want to elope.”
Of course Dad is going to wax poetic about his favorite daughter. He’ll probably mention the time she won the national mock trial title as a sophomore in high school. Or how she graduated from Penn State in three years and immediately went to Harvard Law. He loves that Julia is working with him at the Winfield Group as their internal counsel. He has plenty to say when it comes to Julia’s accomplishments—marrying a world-renowned pastry chef included.
I grit my teeth, twisting myself out of Jack’s grip.
Just as he releases me.
The momentum sends me careening into a cocktail table—and the tray of champagne glasses perched on the edge. I hit the parquet floor with a thud, wincing at the sound of breaking glass.
Dad stops talking. I stop breathing.
The tent is absolutely silent, and I know without looking that everyone’s eyes are on me.
“Fuck.” Jack sinks to his knees, grabbing my bare shoulders. His eyes, so vividly green they make me squirm, study me. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I grit out, “but you’re about to be.” I slap my palms against his chest, pushing with all my strength. He’s so ridiculously muscular—I mean, heavy—that it’s as if I’m fighting a brick wall.
“Let me just—”
“That’senough.”
We freeze simultaneously.
My father stands over us. He’s practically vibrating with intensity, his blue eyes colder than ice. My stomach sinks through the floor.
“Poppy,” he snaps in a tone reserved for me and me alone, “what the hell did you do?”
Chapter 1
Tarragon
Jack
One Year Later
Five hours until service, and the kitchen is quiet.
I take a swig of tap water from a quart-size prep container, the chef’s version of a water bottle. Eye the clock. I’m elbow-deep in herbs, my fingertips stained green. Tarragon—tricky to work with, because of its tendency to overpower any flavors you pair it with—fills my nose.
If I close my eyes, I can feel my pulse in my skull.
I love the rush of service. The crushing pressure that cuts through the chaos and forces me to focus. The rhythm, the beauty, the moment a dish comes together. Some people do drugs or street race or jump out of fucking airplanes to reach that level of serenity. I cook. It’s been that way since I was fifteen, watching the line cooks at the Sailfish crush service like an army drill.
Today, I need all the quiet I can get before the show gets underway. I went out last night with Jorge and Hazel and Martinez. We met up with other kitchen crews, drank our way through a few bars. Hazel tried to convince me to add another tattoo to the tapestry on my skin. Martinez flirted his way into an Uber with a woman from a bachelorette party. Jorge finally dropped me off at my apartment; told me to set at least five alarms to make sure I’d haul ass uptown on time.
I made it—not a given lately—with a monster hangover that hasn’t been eased by aspirin or the beer I chugged in the alleyway an hour ago, all while eyeing Jorge’s cigarette enviously. He ground it out underneath his sneaker before going back inside, patting my back with a pinched expression.
Despite the haze of nausea that feels at least forty percent tarragon-induced, in the gleaming silver kitchen of Pastiche, I can breathe.
