by Rye Hart
“What?” I asked dumbly.
He got in my face, towering over me, making me feel small.
“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my parking lot?”
“I-I’m Amber Foster,” I stammered. Holy shit, he was beautiful up close. Yep, I was going to struggle with this job. Maybe his asshole persona would help diminish just how incredibly fine he was. My nipples budded and every nerve ending in my body pulsed like I was on the edge of some great pleasure. Warmth raced up my chest and cheeks as I tried to simply breathe.
He looked me up and down and shrugged. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I’m your new chef.”
I thought the explanation would diffuse the situation, but somehow it made things worse.
His angry expression shifted to a look of contempt. “Ahh, yes. The culinary school rock star.”
It wasn’t at all a compliment. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I did win a few awards during—”
“You’re in the real world now. Awards mean jack shit.”
I swiped a shaky hand across my forehead, which was suddenly slick with sweat. “Of course, Chef. It’s just that it was a very competitive field of—”
“I don’t care, and neither do the customers. Send out one of those awards on a plate and see how much they give a damn. From here on out, only one thing matters; the food. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Chef. And can I just say that I’m really excited to be working for you.”
His emerald green eyes bore into mine, like he was staring right into my soul. I quivered under his gaze, and I hoped he couldn’t see it. I’d already started off on the wrong foot, though I had no clue how. I was early. I was polite. I was me. Either way, I didn’t want to piss him off any more than I already had.
“Oh,” he said. “Are you done kissing my ass?”
Heat burned my cheeks again. How dare he speak to me like that? What the fuck was the matter with him? Hell, what was the matter with me? Standing there taking it like a whipping girl.
I bit back a scathing reply, partly because I still wanted the job, and partly because every time I spoke, things just got worse.
He nodded. “Okay, good. Time to see the kitchen. Try to keep up.”
Chef Harrison turned back to the open door of the restaurant. His long-legged stride forced me to jog to keep pace. As much as I didn’t like him already, I couldn’t help but let my eyes move down his back to the curve of his ass. The man was a masterpiece –a prick but a masterpiece nevertheless. How anyone could put up with him outside of the bedroom was a mystery.
The thought calmed me just a little. Was he dominating and demanding between the sheets? Fuck, I wanted to know so bad it hurt. I’d never been with a man who actually acted like a man. Most of them were glorified girls. The pussification of America was real, and I was living proof that it wasn’t working.
“Hurry up and get out of your head.” He glanced back, his eyes piercing into me.
My mind reeled. I felt like my feet couldn’t find solid ground. The man had flustered me from the first word, and I hadn’t been able to regain my balance.
I wasn’t used to feeling that way. No one had ever treated me the way Chef Harrison had. I wouldn’t let them. It was a hard world out there and you had to be tough to survive. Growing up without my parents around molded me to be a force to be reckoned with and I’d never backed down from a fight.
Losing my parents at a young age meant I had to survive through some pretty tough times growing up and make it out strong. My past was what attracted me to the culinary world. Being in a busy kitchen was both chaotic, while at the same time, the closest to feeling right at home. What I remembered most about my mother was her love of cooking, and she was remarkable at it. No schooling – just a natural raw innate skill. It was breathtaking to experience. She taught me the basics and so much more at a young age. As a kid, I was able to do more than most adults could in the kitchen. My mother’s memory was my strength and motivation. So, needless to say, I could be one tough bitch when it came to anyone questioning my culinary skills, or intimidating me in general. I’d never taken shit from anyone, and I sure as hell never let anyone mistreat me.
Despite all that, Chef Harrison steamrolled right over me. He just had a presence about him that was impossible to ignore.
He led into the kitchen, and my mouth dropped open at the sight of it. Every inch of the place was spotless. I’d been in a few kitchens before, but none of them had been that clean. It made sense. He had such high standards. Of course, that would extend to cleanliness as well.
“Here we are,” he said, looking around at the stoves and ovens. “You’re new home. For as long as you can last, anyway. Have you ever worked in a professional kitchen before?”
I thought about lying to him, but he’d seen my resume. I was sure he already knew the answer to his question.
Dick.
“No, Chef, I haven’t.”
“Figures. Let me tell you how this works. This kitchen is like a pirate ship.”
“A pirate ship?” I lifted my eyebrow.
He nodded. “There’s a reason it’s called a kitchen crew or a kitchen brigade. There’s a hierarchy here. I’m the captain, and you are part of my crew. You do what I say, when I say it. No arguments. No questions. No hesitation. And if you do any of those things, I’ll eat your ass.”
Eat my ass? My body tightened at the thought. The man wasn’t being sexy in the slightest, and yet I must have been a closet-case masochist. I was quickly turned on by him and hated myself for it.
I’d heard the terms before. The kitchen brigade, or brigade de cuisine if someone wanted to be fancy, was the code that dictated jobs in the kitchen. But I’d never thought about it like a pirate ship. I don’t know if anyone other than Chef Harrison looked at it that way.
Still, the moment he said it, things started clicking into place. The gruff demeanor, the sexy swagger, and the absolute dominance over me, his new crew member. He was totally a pirate captain. The Dreaded Pirate Chef Harrison.
I could work with that. “Aye aye, captain.”
“Very good,” he said. His expression didn’t change, but I could have sworn I saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
He grabbed a binder off a shelf and thrust it at me. “Today, you’ll work the lunch shift. Here’s the recipes for the menu. I expect you to learn it. All of it.” He glanced at a clock on the wall. “You’ve got about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes? Was he out of his fucking mind?
What had I gotten myself into?
***
My hands shook as I stepped up to my station just before the lunch rush. Chef Harrison had me cooking sides and appetizers. It was a lot of responsibility for my first day, considering I’d barely had time to skim the recipes. But I wasn’t about to complain.
I had a feeling Chef Harrison was testing me, seeing how I would handle the pressure. It would be a challenge, no doubt, but I’d worked too damn hard to get to this point. I wasn’t about to fold before I even started.
The first orders came in and the rush was on. First up, I had to sauté some scallops. It was something I’d done a hundred times, so why the hell was I so damn nervous? Why did this feel like the most important plate of scallops I’d ever made? My hands were shaking.
I reached out for the oil bottle and caught my wrist on the edge of a hot pan. I yanked my arm away and held it to my stomach. It hurt like a bitch, but I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t want Chef Harrison to see it. My face remained calm, but inside, I was screaming.
I took a deep breath to calm my frazzled nerves. I could do this. I just had to get my head straight. Pain throbbed through my wrist. I shut my eyes and focused on that, blocking everything else out. When I opened my eyes, I was ready.
Things were a blur after that. Orders came in as fast as I could cook. Most of the time I was juggling several dishes at once, making sure to time them so that they were all
ready at the same time. It was hard, but I did it.
There was no time to worry, no time to think. My hands moved almost automatically, stirring here and flipping there. Cook. Plate. Garnish. Serve. Again and again, until all of a sudden, I had no more orders coming in. Lunch was over. I was done.
I felt like a million bucks. Tired, but good. Chef Harrison had examined every single one of my dishes before going out, and he hadn’t asked me to redo a single one. I counted that as a win.
I cleaned up my station, making sure it was as spotless as it had been before lunch. I couldn’t help but glance up from time to time, hoping that he would come by and give me some little bit of praise. It was silly, but a man with his reputation in the kitchen thinking highly of me was something I wanted; something I needed even.
When I was done, it was time to go home. I thought about just leaving without saying anything to anyone, to end the day on a high note. But it felt wrong to leave without at least saying goodbye to Chef Harrison.
I found him in his office, sitting behind a hulking, mahogany desk. He shuffled through papers with a stern expression on his handsome face.
“Excuse me, Chef,” I said from the doorway. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I go?”
He shook his head without looking up. “Just be sure to take the recipe binder with you. Learn it. Memorize it. Ingrain it your thoughts. Live and breathe that shit until it’s all you can think about.”
“Okay. Will do.” I paused. “I think things went well today. I felt really at home in the kitchen.”
He looked up at me then. “Tell me, does it hurt your back?”
“What? When I cook for a long time?”
“No, when you suck your own dick that way.”
My jaw dropped open. I sputtered with rage. “What the hell is your problem?”
He rose from his chair and stalked over to me. “My problem is that you come in here looking for an ‘atta girl’ and a pat on the back. And when you don’t get it, you have the nerve to compliment yourself on my behalf.”
My chest burned with embarrassment. What an asshole. “But I thought my food was fine. I didn’t have to redo any of it.”
He waved away my statement. “Yes, you met the bare minimum standards of this restaurant. And for that, you expect me to congratulate you? You want me to hand you some kind of award for that? Is that what you learned in culinary school? Cook something and get a trophy? This is the real world, little girl. You don’t win a prize for showing up. You win for being the best, which, you are not.”
My whole body shook from a mixture of anger and humiliation. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
It was like he didn’t even hear me. “And on top of that, you move far too slow. If you decide to come back tomorrow, I expect you to pick up the pace. That will be all, Miss Foster.”
Before I could say anything else, he shut the door in my face.
I made it back to my car before tears stung my eyes. That bastard. What right did he have to make me feel like this? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d cried, and he had me sobbing like a child.
And for what? Because I tried to see my value in his eyes? Then he suggests that I might not even come back tomorrow. Like I can’t handle myself in the kitchen. Like I wasn’t good enough to be here.
A whirlwind of emotions whipped my insides. I needed to get it all out before it tore me up. I slammed my fists against the steering wheel and screamed.
I slumped back in my seat, feeling empty and deflated. The scream had helped, surprisingly, but it hadn’t solved my problems.
I had no idea how I was going to get through this, but I knew one thing.
I would be back tomorrow.
You’ll eat my ass alright asshole.
CHAPTER THREE - LUKE
Amber had been with us a week, and today was her first day off. The kitchen was so swamped without her, that I was prepping dishes beside Danny. Even with my help, we were in danger of being overwhelmed.
The girl could cook, and every single day she was there, she got better.
Of course, I’d never tell her that. She kept improving because I didn’t kiss her ass.
I’d been hard on her, especially that first day, but it wasn’t because I enjoyed being cruel. Amber was good, but she had rough edges that would keep her from being great. I needed to strip away those dull edges, like sharpening a knife on a whetstone. I could hone her talent to a razor’s edge.
The only question was whether she could handle the transformation.
I suspected she could. She’d proven to me she was strong just by showing up the second day. I’d been a real jackass that first day. I thought she was going to hit me when I made that dick sucking comment.
She was definitely tougher than she looked. Tough, and beyond beautiful. I’d be a fucking idiot if I hadn’t noticed how good she looked in her uniform. She was a little curvier than some of the other girls in the kitchen, but her shape had my body aching for a night with her pressed to my cold sheets.
Long black hair that was pulled up in a tight braid, blue eyes that screamed of a fierceness I’d only seen in a handful of chefs, and tanned creamy skin that stretched around her luscious curves. I wanted to strip her bare and lay her across the prep table, licking and sucking at any part of her that she’d give me access to, but it was a fantasy. Nothing more.
Nothing would ever happen between us. She was one of my chefs, and that’s all she would ever be. My cock needed to chill the fuck out. The bastard rose like a flag on a pole when she walked into the room, and seeing her in action… fuck me. It put me on the edge of orgasm every time. She was dangerous, but I held myself in full control.
I might be losing my shit on the inside over wanting her for a night, but no one would ever guess it. Not ever.
I was tempted to call her in to help with the rush, but she’d earned her days off. Danny seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“I sure wish Amber was here,” he said beside me.
“Yeah? You like her?” I smirked and glanced his way.
He laughed as he arranged some asparagus spears on a plate. “Are you kidding? We’re in the weeds here without her.”
I didn’t respond, even though I agreed with him. Danny didn’t need to know what I was thinking. Neither did Amber.
Danny shot me a look. “Or were you asking if I like-like her?”
“What is this? Fucking junior high?”
“I’m just saying, boss. She’s a real fine piece of—”
“Do you not have enough work to do?” I interrupted. “I’m here trying to help you get food out and you want to gossip like a little girl.”
“Sorry, Chef. I appreciate you jumping in and helping me.”
“Then fucking act like it and get to work.”
I wasn’t sure why I’d gotten so pissed off. Yeah, I was. I wanted her. Everyone in the damn kitchen seemed to brighten up when she was around, especially the guys. But she worked with pure professionalism, never even seeming to notice any of the swinging cocks as they walked her way.
I like it. I liked her. A lot.
But that shit was irrelevant. I wasn’t going to take my likes any farther than my own fucked up skull.
My life, and Emery’s life, needed stability, not chaos. I had to remember that.
***
I got home later that night to find Marla waiting for me in the living room.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“I mean, it’s not the end of the world, but Emery refused to take her bath tonight.” She gave me a sweet smile.
I shook my head. “Crazy kid. Can you even remember what it was like to not want to be clean? I sure can’t.”
Marla laughed. “Me neither. She’ll come around eventually.”
“Sooner, rather than later, I hope. Anyway, sorry she gave you trouble. I’ll go talk to her.” I made my way upstairs to Emery’s room.
She was sitting in a tiny chair at a tiny ta
ble, moving around plastic food-shaped toys.
“Hey, I thought I was the chef in the family.” I walked into the room.
Her eyes lit up when she saw me. “Daddy!”
She ran over to me and I swept her up in a hug. As much as I wanted her to grow out of this defiant phase, it meant she’d be one step closer to leaving simplicity and innocence behind. There’d come a time when she wasn’t thrilled to see me; a time when she stopped calling me “Daddy.”
All I could do was try to appreciate these moments while they lasted.
“So, my little munchkin, I heard you gave Marla some trouble tonight.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh no? Somebody was supposed to take a bath tonight. Do you know who that is?”
“Not me.”
“Yes, you,” I said and touched the tip of her nose with my finger.
She shook her head, swinging her blonde curls around her face. “Nuh uh. I was making food.”
“I can see that. It’s all the more reason to take a bath. Cooking is dirty work.” I crinkled my nose.
“I know, Daddy. You stink.” She waved her hand in front of her nose. “Pee-yew.”
I laughed loudly, loving her so much. “I stink? What about you, little missy?”
“I don’t smell!”
“Oh, yeah?” I buried my nose in her hair and sniffed around, making little snorting noises. “I smell something. Pee-yew! It’s you.”
Emery giggled and squirmed. “Stop!”
I let her go. “So, what do you say? Are you ready to take a bath?”
Her face scrunched up. “I don’t want to.”
I nodded. “I see.”
I could have tried yelling at her, but she was stubborn just like her old man. It would only make her dig her heels in more. I was strict when I needed to be, but I knew I could get through to her tonight without that kind of discipline.
“Well,” I said. “If you’re not taking a bath, then I’m not either.”
She grinned. “Good.”
“I’m just gonna sit here stinking up your room then.”
“I don’t care.”
