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Dick.
“No, Chef, I haven’t.”
“Figures. Let me tell you how this works. This kitchen is like a pirate ship.”
“A pirate ship?” I lifted my eyebrow.
He nodded. “There’s a reason it’s called a kitchen crew or a kitchen brigade. There’s a hierarchy here. I’m the captain, and you are part of my crew. You do what I say, when I say it. No arguments. No questions. No hesitation. And if you do any of those things, I’ll eat your ass.”
Eat my ass? My body tightened at the thought. The man wasn’t being sexy in the slightest, and yet I must have been a closet-case masochist. I was quickly turned on by him and hated myself for it.
I’d heard the terms before. The kitchen brigade, or brigade de cuisine if someone wanted to be fancy, was the code that dictated jobs in the kitchen. But I’d never thought about it like a pirate ship. I don’t know if anyone other than Chef Harrison looked at it that way.
Still, the moment he said it, things started clicking into place. The gruff demeanor, the sexy swagger, and the absolute dominance over me, his new crew member. He was totally a pirate captain. The Dreaded Pirate Chef Harrison.
I could work with that. “Aye aye, captain.”
“Very good,” he said. His expression didn’t change, but I could have sworn I saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
He grabbed a binder off a shelf and thrust it at me. “Today, you’ll work the lunch shift. Here’s the recipes for the menu. I expect you to learn it. All of it.” He glanced at a clock on the wall. “You’ve got about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes? Was he out of his fucking mind?
What had I gotten myself into?
***
My hands shook as I stepped up to my station just before the lunch rush. Chef Harrison had me cooking sides and appetizers. It was a lot of responsibility for my first day, considering I’d barely had time to skim the recipes. But I wasn’t about to complain.
I had a feeling Chef Harrison was testing me, seeing how I would handle the pressure. It would be a challenge, no doubt, but I’d worked too damn hard to get to this point. I wasn’t about to fold before I even started.
The first orders came in and the rush was on. First up, I had to sauté some scallops. It was something I’d done a hundred times, so why the hell was I so damn nervous? Why did this feel like the most important plate of scallops I’d ever made? My hands were shaking.
I reached out for the oil bottle and caught my wrist on the edge of a hot pan. I yanked my arm away and held it to my stomach. It hurt like a bitch, but I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t want Chef Harrison to see it. My face remained calm, but inside, I was screaming.
I took a deep breath to calm my frazzled nerves. I could do this. I just had to get my head straight. Pain throbbed through my wrist. I shut my eyes and focused on that, blocking everything else out. When I opened my eyes, I was ready.
Things were a blur after that. Orders came in as fast as I could cook. Most of the time I was juggling several dishes at once, making sure to time them so that they were all ready at the same time. It was hard, but I did it.
There was no time to worry, no time to think. My hands moved almost automatically, stirring here and flipping there. Cook. Plate. Garnish. Serve. Again and again, until all of a sudden, I had no more orders coming in. Lunch was over. I was done.
I felt like a million bucks. Tired, but good. Chef Harrison had examined every single one of my dishes before going out, and he hadn’t asked me to redo a single one. I counted that as a win.
I cleaned up my station, making sure it was as spotless as it had been before lunch. I couldn’t help but glance up from time to time, hoping that he would come by and give me some little bit of praise. It was silly, but a man with his reputation in the kitchen thinking highly of me was something I wanted; something I needed even.
When I was done, it was time to go home. I thought about just leaving without saying anything to anyone, to end the day on a high note. But it felt wrong to leave without at least saying goodbye to Chef Harrison.
I found him in his office, sitting behind a hulking, mahogany desk. He shuffled through papers with a stern expression on his handsome face.
“Excuse me, Chef,” I said from the doorway. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I go?”
He shook his head without looking up. “Just be sure to take the recipe binder with you. Learn it. Memorize it. Ingrain it your thoughts. Live and breathe that shit until it’s all you can think about.”
“Okay. Will do.” I paused. “I think things went well today. I felt really at home in the kitchen.”
He looked up at me then. “Tell me, does it hurt your back?”
“What? When I cook for a long time?”
