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“Oh, so sorry.” I press myself into a metal table next to a sink overflowing with dishes. “I’ve never been in a real chef’s kitchen before.”
“Obviously,” she groans, swiping a pastry off a passing tray.
Okay, we’re not off to a great start.
“I love your food.” The chef doesn’t look up at me as she inspects the sweet treat before nodding and waving the waiter away. “Are you new to the scene?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow on me like a predator. “New? I’m Analise Roche, and I do not have a spare moment of time to give to tipsy partygoers who want another truffle caprese bite.”
“This is nothing like that. I barely even drink! I simply want to hire you,” I explain.
Analise speeds away, and I follow her.
There’s no way I’m losing out on the opportunity to have her work the Winter Ball. I dodge the shouting chefs and cooks scattered around the kitchen. Knives flash through the air, and flames lick the pots and pans on the stovetops. I’m sweating through my dress as I try to keep the long, feathered sleeves tucked firmly at my side.
“No,” Analise snaps at me before pulling a spoon out of her coat pocket and tasting a sauce on one of the burners. “What have I told you, Druk? Unless you’re cooking for a herd of deer, ease up on the salt.”
“Yes, chef.” Druk wipes the sweat off his brow and starts pulling ingredients from a shelf.
I refuse to give up. “No? Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
“Do you not see that I’m slammed here? My schedule for the next two months is packed. Holiday parties here, Christmas this, New Year’s that. Then there are the birthdays and private events.” Analise turns to face me, her hands firmly on her hips.
I gulp. She’s terrifying.
“Dead plate!” Analise yells over me. A chef groans, pulling the plate off of the counter. “You grumble like that one more time, Petey, and I’m sending you back to the Le Cordon Bleu.”
Okay, maybe this was a bad idea. I still have the other caterer booked. But their food doesn’t compare to Analise’s. Not by a long shot. My mother made that clear when I put together a tasting menu for her, as promised.
“Where are the clean dishes?” She eyes the sink, which looks fuller than it did when I arrived.
A waiter rushes up to Analise. “This came back.”
“Flash it and get it back out there. Come on, people, we’ve already lost Van and Carmine tonight. Where are those replacements, Tessa?” Analise looks at the person manning the ship.
“They’re not coming,” Tessa yells.
I’m growing dizzy from the thick smoke and steam.
“What do you mean not coming? We don’t have dishwashers, and our industrial machine isn’t cleaning the plates fast enough.”
“I’m trying to solve this, Ana, but we don’t have someone right now.” Tessa shakes her head and goes back to reading out orders to the frantic kitchen.
This might be my chance.
“I can help,” I pipe up.Pfft. I’ve washed dishes before. Okay…I’ve helped Matthew with a few plates after the dinners he’s made. But it can’t be that hard. Sponge, soap, scrub, and rinse.
“What?” Analise faces me. Her thick brows stitch together.
“I can do it.”
“That shoe can probably barely make a fried egg,” Petey pipes up from behind me.
Shoe?“These are Valentino Garavani pumps, and you’re right, but I’m not offering to cook.” I shoot him a glare. “Dishes, however, I can do.”
Analise studies me as another batch of dishes gets tossed into the sink. If those don’t get cleaned soon, her night will be impossible. “Fine. Get her some rubber and wrap her up,” she shouts and stalks off.
Tessa throws me a pair of yellow rubber gloves from beneath her call podium. I catch them and put them on as I run over to the sink.
