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And it pisses me off that he is.
“Levidis.” My voice is in a normal tone. I am not yelling or raising it even slightly but the whole busy, noisy kitchen freezes in its tracks and raises their terrified gazes my way. I know I need help. I’ve been told my dear sperm and egg donors have left a few issues in my head because I just want to smile wickedly at the sheer terror on everyone’s faces.
All but one. All buthim. Fucking stone wall.
“Yes, Chef?” he asks without looking up, without stopping wiping the sides of the dish where the sauce has made some splatter while the tip of his tongue is trailing his upper lip like he knows I want it to trace me.
“What are you all looking at?” I ask in that calm tone again, and the rest of the staff quickly scurries off back to work but now with tension on their shoulders. They know I’m watching. I am a fair boss. At least, I think I am, and I pay well for good work, so none of them want to lose their spot.
“Chef, if you are not here to work, I’d ask you to leave,” my Sous-chef says, finally lifting his brown eyes up to me, adding, “Please.”
“Consider your request denied.” I sauntered over to his head table, examining the plate that was about to go out to the guest.
Without as much as a blink, I lift it up and smash it to the cold, polished concrete floor, sending every bit of porcelain and seafood all over it. My pristine black suit is getting covered in its wake as well. But I don’t care about it. No, not when Vassar’s nostrils flare out in silent rage as those dark pools try to kill me ten different ways from his stare down alone.
My lips almost twitch with a triumphant smile. Almost. Because the man once again says nothing offensive. What a shame.
“It was a great dish,” he says with a strain to his throaty voice.
“Maybe I should fire you after all.” I click my tongue. “The fish is laying twenty degrees off from where it’s supposed to, the sauce was two shades too dark, and the potatoes lacked enough roasting time. And don’t get me started on the lemon and thyme spheres at the top. Did you pop them into alginate with your ass, or did the syringe slip through your clumsy hands? Did you not sleep enough or something? You haven’t seen the uneven shapes? What are you, an imbecile?”
The kitchen is dead silent once again. Everyone’s eyes are set on us as they can see sparks flying out and about. Terrified they would land on them.
Vassar though? He’s just staring at me like I am the wicked witch of the West or maybe Ursula of the Seas since that’s what they like to call me behind my back when they think I’m not around.
I’m always around. I know everything.
“Now stop staring at me like you wish I’d be naked in front of you and get back to that plate. Or do I really need to show my tits around here for you to move?” My tone is calm and steady as if this whole thing is boring me to death. And yes, I’ll taunt him any way I can. Even with comments like that.
But Vassar never bites. No, he simply turns around and calls out, “I need new pêcher la Provence in five! And get me those spheres done right.”
And everyone gets busy.
I never leave, though. I stay exactly where I am, marveling at the dexterity and precision with which Vassar works. He won’t know this, but I admire the hell out of him, and I’d never fire him.
My dark mood from earlier is long gone, and I feel almost refreshed.
Got good dick, even if it was a slightly complicated one. Bossed around my staff and got a tiny nose flare from Vassar Levidis.
Perfect evening.
“Chef, is this to your liking?” he asks me as he wipes the last bits of the splatter from the plate, and this time it really is flawless and so I tell him that.
Vassar nods and gives away the order, already calling in for whatever it is he needs next.
I wasn’t simply being an asshole when I threw that plate to the ground. I just have my own teaching methods, and clearly, they work.
And yes, they calm me down as well.
Chapter two
Vassar
Song: Diplo, Morgan Wallen – Heartless
Count to one million, Vas. Think of Victoria. Hell, think of the plate in front of you. But don’t think about the ridiculous witch with flaming red hair and a painfully sexy body who lives to make your life a living hell but is also the one signing your checks, so you need to behave.
“Damn it, it’s not working,” I mutter to myself as I slam my hands on the stainless-steel table with ten different dishes on it that I am supposed to inspect, put together, and release into the dining room.
