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Mia cringes when I appear at her side. “Everything is on track.”
“Thank you, Mia. You did a good job.”
She frowns but nods and heads to her position.
I swear, if Marquis ripped into her, I’ll be pissed. He knows that Mia isn’t going to fuck shit up. She’s one of the most loyal and knowledgeable employees we have.
Minutes tick by. My pulse thunders as we work through ticket after ticket. And then the same waitress from before appears at my side, this time with the dessert I had Candy prepare.
“Again?”
She shrugs. “He says it tastes like soap again.”
I eye Mia, but she’s doing everything right. The dessert tastes disgusting when I sample it. What the fuck? It’s like someone put soap on it. I spit the bite onto the plate and scowl at it.
“Mia.”
She’s there in an instant. “Yes, Chef?”
“Taste this.”
She grabs a new fork and tastes the other corner that was untouched and makes a face. “Soap?”
I nod. “Have you been rinsing everything and making sure the dishwasher has gone through the rinse cycle before unloading?”
“Of course,” she says, the lines on her forehead deepening. “This doesn’t make any sense. That soap is perfumy, and we don’t use perfumed soap,” she explains.
“How did it get on the plate?” I ask.
We share a look, both of us hesitant to believe the worst of a customer, but it is Mr. Mosley. Would he be petty enough to pull a stunt like this? Abso-fucking-lutely.
“Austin, what the fuck is happening in my kitchen?” Marquis demands, his shout echoing through the room.
I turn and step in front of Mia. “We have a difficult customer.”
“What we have is an incompetent dishwasher,” he snarls.
“It wasn’t her fault,” I say.
“No?” He stops in front of me, seething and glaring at the line. “If it’s not her fault, it’s yours,” he snaps.
“No,” Mia says, jumping to my defense, because she’s loyal. “The dessert tasted like soap, but it’s not our soap, Chef.”
Marquis shoots her an annoyed look. “You’re accusing a customer of bringing their own soap to put on our food?”
She glances at me for guidance, and I grimace. It sounds bad.
“It wasn’t Mia’s fault, Chef,” I repeat.
His nostrils flare and he shakes his head. “Two fuckups in one night, Mia. Get your shit and go home. Find a new job.”
“Chef,” I try to reason, “she’s been with us for eleven years. She knows how to do her job.”
“And I know how to fucking do mine,” he retorts. “For talking back, you can join your dishwasher and get the fuck out of my kitchen.”
I want to challenge him more, tell him that it’s more my kitchen than his, seeing as I’m here every day we’re open, working beside his employees. I’m here, keeping things organized, while he frolics around the world. He might’ve earned the right to travel, but this kitchen is barely his.
“Do I have to repeat myself?” he demands. “You’re. Both. Fired.”
