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“Speak the fuck up,” Xavier ordered. “My patience already walked out the door, along with your next reference. What does it say?”
“It sayssoupe l’oignon gratinée avecmiso,” repeated the chef through his teeth.
“And is that what you made?” Xavier demanded.
“Oui, I made the soup. But it tastes like food for the pigs.”
As quick as a lunging snake, Xavier’s hand darted out to take a handful of the chef’s white collar and yanked him close. Given the difference in their heights, this required the man to step onto his tiptoes as his nose quivered next to Xavier’s.
“Whose restaurant is this, Le Fray?”
Xavier’s voice was low. Dangerous.
I took a step back. I knew that tone, though I hadn’t heard it in a while. Not since the day Xavier had seen Sofia for the first time. We’d walked to the river, where he’d yelled at first upon discovering he had a little girl and I hadn’t told him. But it was the end of the conversation that had scared me the most. The one where his temper had burned hot into embers and turned into threats of legal action that had haunted me for months.
That was the sound of Xavier’s real fuse being lit. Right before the explosions were detonated.
“Get your hands off me!” snapped the chef, who then proceeded to rattle off what I would have wagered were some choice insults in French. “You are lucky I come back at all,espèce de brute! This restaurant will fail without me. IamChez Miso.”
“A beast, am I?” Xavier snapped.
I frowned. Xavi spoke French?
“Well, you’re not wrong, you stubborn, insubordinate piece of shit,” he continued, using Le Fray’s collar to march him over to a stove, where a large stock pot full of something that smelled absolutely delicious was bubbling.
Several other cooks skittered out of their way, causing multiple empty pots and pans to clang as they fell to the floor.
Xavier dragged Le Fray’s face down to the pot and spoke in a low growl close to his ear. “I am a beast. But I’m also the owner of this restaurant and your boss—a fact you seem to forget every time you throw these fucking tantrums. You make the recipes we design. You prepare the menu as it’s written. You cook like I want you to cook, or you don’t cook for me or anyone else in London at all.” Xavier grabbed a ladle, then yanked Le Fray up to standing and held it out to him. “Is that clear?”
“Is that clear?” Le Fray mimicked over his shoulder, clearly refusing to pick up the ladle. Then he mumbled something else in French.
Whatever it was, it must have been bad.
Xavier flipped him around to face him, grabbed him fully by the fabric of his chef’s jacket, and lifted him completely off the floor. “Say that again to my face, monsieur! I dare you. You’ll find out what happened to the others before you. They were unrecognizable after they left the fucking hospital!”
Shit. I had a feeling dinner wasn’t happening. Nor anything else pleasant that Xavier might have planned. My man was angry—maybe more than I’d ever seen him—and wild in a way I knew very well. Several of my family members had this exact kind of temper—a long fuse that, when it went off, blew a fire so hot nothing could put it out. It simply had to burn. Nothing was safe from this particular brand of rage. Maybe not even me.
Xavier dropped Le Fray into a crumpled heap on the floor, looking over him with his hands balled at his hips.
“Get out,” he told him.
The chef scrambled up, eyes bugged, but no longer muttering. Fear had replaced contempt. I wasn’t sure it would be better for him.
Xavier took a step forward and, this time bellowed his order. “Get. The fuck. OUT! AND DON’T COME BACK!”
The few pots and pans hanging from the ceiling shook, as if even they were terrified. Everyone else in the kitchen looked like they wanted to sink into the walls and disappear.
At that, Le Fray swiped the chef’s hat off his head, hurled it to the floor, and bounded out of the kitchen, shoving into me as he did. I backed away, intending to make my escape behind him as silently as I’d entered.
And promptly sent a rack of pans clattering to the floor like a cascade of cymbals.
Everyone in the room jumped and turned. Xavier looked up, still holding the ladle as his chest rose and fell like he’d run a marathon. And when he caught sight of me, the fire in his eyes turned a deep, dangerous blue. Frozen and blistering all at once. A flame that could burn through anyone and anything in a moment.
“Ces?”
“I…” I flapped a hand weakly. “Surprise?”
He shoved the ladle at another cook standing next to him and shoved him toward the simmering pot.
