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“Sit down, Austin.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. The pen holder I’d almost chucked at the clock sits prominently in the middle of his desk, as though it’s glaring at me in accusation.
“How was your trip?” I settle into the chair and clench my jaw as the damn clock ticks.
“Good. I was happy for the break. Tell me about what happened Thursday night.” Marquis twirls the ends of his handlebar mustache. While tough, he’s a good boss, but I’ve never understood why he insists on looking like a pompous prick.
Taking a breath, I force myself to relax rather than tense up and prepare for a fight. “We were a little behind, but the team was solid.”
“Except for Lance,” he hedges.
I nod. “Took a break during the rush.”
“He called me to let me know you yelled at him.”
“I didn’t.” I shake my head. “I gave him all the chances to admit he’d messed up, and he refused to accept responsibility.”
“And do you take responsibility for the kitchen being behind?” Marquis arches his eyebrows and studies me.
“Yes.” I grip the arm of the chair, refusing to acknowledge everything that distracted me that night. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“I know you won’t.” Marquis leans forward and grabs a pen from the glass holder. “This is a formal write-up. One more and you’re fired.”
That’s bullshit. It was one night. But this restaurant didn’t earn its prestige by allowing fuckups. To be perfect, I have to stay focused. I have to stay in control.
He signs the paper and lifts his gaze to meet mine. “You’re my favorite sous, Austin, but I can’t show you mercy.”
“I understand, Marquis.” Even though I hate it, I know he’s right.
He hands me the paper, and I hold it like it’s about to burst into flames, discontent settling heavy in my chest. My first write-up. I nod at Marquis and pretend that I’m not pissed. I shove all of my emotions down and head home, more than ready to relax and move on from this slipup.
Relief, it seems, is nowhere to be found.
Shouts hit me as soon as I step inside the luxury condo. The last thing I need this afternoon is to listen to Brady and Dylan fighting. Again. I resist the urge to slam the door and gently shut it, dropping my keys onto the console table with wrought-iron legs and taking a steadying breath.
I catch the tail end of Brady berating Dylan as I enter the open-concept living space. The kitchen is barren—of course they haven’t started thinking about dinner—but there are tumblers of whiskey on the coffee table between my brothers.
“—screwing up your entire life.”
“Really?” Dylan snaps from the oversized leather chair. “It was one test, Brady.”
Brady leans forward, sitting on the matching couch, and presses his finger onto the coffee table. “You need to focus.”
A laptop sits between them, the camera feeds of our parents’ mansion running, but they aren’t paying any attention to it.
“Hey,” I say.
Neither of them acknowledges me. They’re too intent on ripping each other apart. Brady is set on what Dylan needs to do to have a secure future, and Dylan is determined to break out of the cage being erected around him. I sympathize. When I started culinary school, I heard more than my fair share of shit, but when Marquis handpicked me to join the staff at The Crystal Chandelier, Brady and my dads finally backed off.
Leaving them to their fight, I head to the fridge and grab the chicken. I toss it on the counter and grab everything I need to make lemon chicken and rice. It’s not a Michelin star worthy dish, but it was one of Mom’s favorites.
Brady and Dylan’s argument is a soundtrack I know by heart but hate with every fiber of my being.
I turn on a relaxing playlist and set to work, butterflying the chicken breast and scowling at my brothers as their voices get louder and louder. They’re both so obnoxiously stubborn. After a day like today, it would have been nice to come home to complete silence. I love living with them—I do—but sometimes I can’t take it. They’re both so outgoing and vocal, whereas I’m introverted and more likely to watch the chaos in silence.
The sink gurgles, and a strange rattling that doesn’t belong to the song playing fills the air.
“Alexa, stop the music.”
Even the stupid machine can’t hear me over how loud the guys are being. The water spits, and the flow fluctuates from softto hard. Leaning forward and tipping my head to the side, I try to figure out what might be wrong, but I’m no plumber.
