She makes a frustrated noise. “Okay, maybe it’s both. So what? He’s way more polite than most men. And I know you might find me repugnant, but you have to realize you’re the weird one here.”
“Not weird. Just not a pushover for pretty blue eyes.”
She pounces on my misstep. “So my eyes are pretty?”
I scowl. “I didn’t say that.”
“I think you did.” She gives me a self-satisfied smile. “I can’t wait to write it in my diary later. Dog-ear the page so I know to go back to it.”
“We’re wasting time.” I check my watch again, rubbing the knotof stress in my chest. Maybe it’s heartburn. I wonder if there’s a bottle of Tums in the office; I haven’t brought myself to look through it too closely yet. “Twenty-two minutes, to be precise. If we had service later today, we’d be fucked already.”
“What are we starting with? Decor plans? Menu brainstorming?” Her eyes look bright again. She leans over the stainless-steel pass, braid falling over her shoulder. “Ooh, can you show me how to work with a knife?”
“We already started.” I walk to the storage closet and unlock it, rummaging around for the cleaning supplies I’ve been working with. “Timing is everything in cooking.”
“I know, I won’t be late again. I’ll set a dozen more alarms.”
I set a bucket on top of the pass, then a box of gloves. I hide a smirk when I slap down the hairnets, too. “It’s more than that. Timing is the difference between perfect food and inedible shit. It’s easy to learn how to make one thing, but something else entirely to bring elements together, at the right time, to create a dish.” I hand her a hairnet.
She tucks her braid in without a fuss. “Are you going to wear one?”
“No.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Too bad.” I shrug. “Next time, when I tell you to do something, you reply with ‘heard.’”
“Heard?”
“It lets me know you understand the command and are going to do as I say.” I lean over, tucking an errant lock of golden hair underneath the net. “Try it.”
Her skin feels warm against my fingertips. She blinks up at me, lips slightly parted. I tear my hand away.
Millions of people have unremarkable blue eyes. Just like her.
“Heard,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re missing something.”
She swallows. “Heard, Chef.” She eyes the bucket. “Are you going to call me chef too?”
“If you earn it.” Which will be never. The culinary world doesn’t have room for someone like Poppy in it, and sooner or later, she’lltire of this experiment. Maybe she’s right, it’s unfair of me, but I’m going to hit the ground running. She’ll keep up or cut and run. I’m betting on the latter.
She straightens, throwing back her shoulders. “I will.”
“I doubt it.”
“You’re being an ass.”
I just stare.
“Oh, right.” She crosses her arms, matching my posture. “You’re being an ass,Chef. Just tell me what we’re doing today.”
“Another lesson: You can’t cook in filth.” I gesture around the disgusting excuse of a kitchen. “We’re cleaning.”
Horror passes over her face. She gulps. “Cleaning?”
“Yes, Princess.” I relish my grin. I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but I can’t help myself. She’s the one who begged me for a job, after all. I’m not holding her hostage. If the fact I’m bossing around Douglas Winfield’s daughter feels a little good, that’s not the end of the world. “I’m sure you’ve heard about it, even if you’ve never experienced it. You can start with the ovens. Inside, not just outside. Enjoy the rat droppings.”
