Ignoring the tingle of instinctive fear at the word ladies, Colby shot him a warning glance. “Shouldn’t you be clearing down your station?”
Manning smirked. “It’s good enough. Since someone’s going to be coming along behind me to finish up the cleaning.”
It was the worst kind of dick move to leave your mess for the closer. Colby wished she could be surprised that Manning thought it was funny.
“The rest of us are heading out to Chapel to get our drink on,” Manning went on, slinging his knife roll over his shoulder. “I’d invite you to join us, but I guess you’ll be stuck here for a while.”
Felix Kerman hunched his big shoulders a little tighter. “I’m working as fast as I can,” he muttered.
“Don’t be more of an asshole than God made you,” John Qui said, coming up behind Manning. “They’re almost done here. We might as well wait for them. I’m not leaving until the last ticket is crossed off anyway.”
“I don’t want to wait,” Manning protested.
Gerard, who’d struggled a little on garde-manger but basically managed to send out decent cold apps and salads, walked over wiping his freshly washed hands on a clean side towel. “Then pitch in,” he suggested, taking the pot of crème anglaise from Felix and spooning it out over the rest of the empty plates. “Many hands make light work.”
Qui nodded approvingly and ran the first of the completed dessert orders up to the pass himself, leaving Manning to stand off to one side of the pastry station making disgruntled faces as the rest of the chef candidates worked together to help Felix finish plating.
With three pairs of hands, it went as fast and smooth as whipped cream. Before Colby knew it, she was sliding the last dish of homemade ice cream up to the pass, giving it a celebratory spin with a flick of her wrist. Qui checked it quickly before handing it off to the last, sleepy-looking server to deliver to her final, lingering table. As soon as it was gone, the chefs who were left sent up a rough cheer.
Colby swiped at her forehead with her uninjured arm and savored the glow of accomplishment. They’d made it through their first week, and she was pretty damn sure Chef Fevre couldn’t have been embarrassed by the food they put out.
“Come on,” Qui said, carrying through the quietly competent leadership he’d shown all evening. “Let’s saddle up and get to the bar. Chapel’s got live music tonight. I don’t want to miss the first set.”
“I don’t want to miss the first beer,” Manning said from beside the back door that led from the kitchen down a flight of stairs to the narrow hallway that housed the locker room. After changing, they would follow that same hallway out to the delivery entrance on Seventy-Seventh Street. “Hurry up!”
Colby sighed a little, swiping her side towel over the sticky drops of mint coulis and melting salted-caramel ice cream. A beer sounded extremely tempting. Even better, she’d like the chance to sit down with her competition and get a better read on each of them. She’d quit her job to be here, after all, on the hopes of this stunt leading to bigger and better things.
But she wasn’t going anywhere until this kitchen was spotless. She felt a little like Cinderella, left alone to toil while her evil family sashayed off to the ball. But at least this punishment had a bright side—avoiding the locker room, where the other chefs changed out of their checked pants and soiled white jackets and into their civvies.
Beside her, Felix was slowly packing the tools he’d used back into his bright pink polka-dot knife roll. He caught her staring at the garish canvas and flushed. “My sister got it for me as a joke,” Felix explained, shifting his hefty weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“Hey, no judgment.” Colby held up her hands, amused. “You’d better hurry if you want to go with those guys.”
“I was thinking,” he said slowly, zipping his bag closed. “Maybe I’ll stay behind and help you clean up tonight. Many hands, right?”
Colby experienced a strange warmth in her chest. “Thanks, Kerman. Really. But I’ve got my system down. Save me a seat at the bar, will you?”
He didn’t look totally satisfied with that arrangement, but he nodded anyway and started off toward the changing room. Colby waited until he was gone before allowing herself to wilt over the table. Everything hurt—her back, her shoulders, her hips, her legs, her feet. She was a veteran of thousands of dinner services, but she’d never gone into one as tense as she did here at Maison de Ville. Every night, it felt as if she spent five hours with every single muscle group tensed to the breaking point. The burns on her forearm and the top of her foot ached steadily, stinging with sweat and the friction of her clothes and kitchen clogs.
But she’d made it this far. She could make it through the cleanup, too.
Determination stiffened her spine, in spite of her exhaustion. She’d get this kitchen looking perfect. She’d show Dominic Fevre he couldn’t break her down with a little extra work.
For the first time in hours, she realized she had no idea where the man himself was. As if summoned by her thoughts, a sound behind her brought her head up in a startled jerk. She whipped around to see Chef Fevre standing at attention in the front corner of the kitchen. His ramrod straight body was partially hidden behind a tall rack of copper saucepans and stockpots.
He didn’t lean on anything or look relaxed, but something about the watchful gleam of his light gray eyes in the shadows made her think he’d been there for a while, watching all of them. Watching her.
Colby shuddered under the jolt of adrenaline, awareness spiking her bloodstream like a shot of espresso. When she finally crashed, it was going to be epic.
Any crashing was a ways off, however. As their eyes met across the expanse of stainless-steel worktables, Colby knew she couldn’t afford to let her guard down yet.
“Where’s Chef Antonio?” she asked, taking care to be respectful.
A muscle flexed at Fevre’s temple, but his voice was even when he replied, “It’s his wife’s birthday. I let him skip out a little early.”
Every cell of her body went on red alert. “That’s nice of you. I know where everything is, anyway. I’m good on my own.”
“Possibly.” He crossed his arms over that massive chest and regarded her impassively. “But tonight, I will be supervising you.”
* * *
From his shadowed post, Dominic contemplated the batch of chefs he’d been asked to evaluate. His sous chef’s initial assessments seemed accurate so far, although the “rising stars” of the culinary world appeared to have more staying power than he’d predicted. Antonio’s cynical forecast had been that at least one of the chef candidates would give up before the end of the first week.
Maybe he would have been right, if it hadn’t been for Colby St. James, who seemed to have perfected the art of always doing exactly the opposite of what Dominic expected. His heart pounded at the knowledge that soon, he’d be alone with Colby.
A week of keeping his distance and working on his defenses hadn’t managed to kill Dom’s inappropriate desire. Days of studying Colby’s interactions with the other chefs, the lithe, confident way he moved through the kitchen, the way he showed up, worked hard, and never complained—if anything, Dom was in deeper trouble now than he had been a week ago.
But he couldn’t hide from this forever, the way he’d hidden from his brother for the past few days. He was sick of hiding. Tomorrow, he would have breakfast with his brother and tell him he wasn’t going home to Paris and their family restaurant.
And tonight?
Dom would supervise this cleaning detail. He would be fair and professional, and nothing more.
Lights dimmed in the front of the house, and Dom pictured Henri supervising the last of his servers’ side work—refilling the pepper grinders, bagging napkins and tablecloths for the laundry service, topping up the water in the flower arrangements—before leavi
ng by the front door and locking it behind him.
The restaurant was empty. Only Colby and Dom remained.
His hungry gaze cataloged the young chef’s proud resolve, obvious in Colby’s up-tilted chin and clear, direct gaze. It hadn’t been so very many years since Dominic had sweated over his own station on the line. He generally spent at least one night a week cooking at Maison anyway, to keep his hand in and to experiment with new flavors and techniques for specials. He knew how tired Colby must be by this point in the night.
Which made it all the more impressive that Colby gave no sign of it. Squaring his shoulders, Colby set his jaw and said, “That’s really not necessary, Chef. I’ve been doing this for a week, now. I think I can handle scrubbing the floors without supervision.”
“Someone has to lock up when you’re done.”
Colby rubbed his hands on his black pants. “And there’s no one else who can do that? Isn’t it a little beneath your dignity to babysit me?”
I had to face you. Face myself. Aloud, Dom said, “This is my restaurant. No job here is beneath me. That’s what it means to run a kitchen. If you don’t get that...”
But Colby winced and shook his head, flicking golden strands, dark with sweat, off his high, clear forehead. “Sorry. I do. I just...sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain.”
Dom’s gaze dropped to Colby’s mouth as if the boy had flicked on a neon sign with a flashing arrow pointing at those red-bitten lips. No man should have such a lush, pouting mouth, Dom thought angrily as he stared at the kissable fullness of Colby’s bottom lip.
“So. I guess I’ll get started?” Colby blurted after an awkward silence.
Standing stiffly at the front of the kitchen, Dom ground his teeth together and swore silently while Colby moved to the closet beside the dry-goods pantry. Colby disappeared inside, gathering his cleaning supplies, and Dom took the time to apply a mental ice pack to his unruly cock.
Get it under control, he ordered himself silently. Lock it down. It’s been years since you thought about anything but work. Now is not the time to change that.
By the time Colby backed out of the closet hauling a wheeled mop bucket filled with industrial cleaners, degreasers and floor disinfectant, Dom had reasserted his iron control. He would stay back, maintain his cool, unruffled disinterest, and when the kitchen was clean, he would lock up and go home. Alone.
Probably it was best not to speculate on what he might do at that point, once he was all alone in the bland, featureless shoebox of an apartment he rarely saw. Driving ambition and a bone-deep need to prove to his father that he could make his own way in the world didn’t leave Dom a lot of down time.
He cleared his throat and deliberately averted his eyes from the too-tempting sight of Colby’s tight little bubble butt bent over the yellow plastic bucket.
The closing checklist was posted beside the stairs down to the locker rooms. Colby went to check it and Dom knew what he was seeing on the laminated page he’d memorized years ago. All the standard duties: remove all trash; clean and secure walk-ins and reach-ins; sweep, mop and sanitize the floor. The chefs de partie should have wrapped up and properly labeled and stored any leftover ingredients, but it was still on Colby’s list. Dom liked for the closer to double-check.
He frowned as his eyes fell on the saucier station, still cluttered with béarnaise-encrusted saucepans and garbage like the papery skins of shallots and dirty, white tops of leeks.
“Who was on this station tonight,” Dom demanded, pointing at the dirty worktable. “Bryce Manning, no?”
“That’s right.” Colby crossed his arms over his chest, mouth twisting to one side as if he were biting words back.
But why would he bother? Surely it was to Colby’s advantage to make sure Dom knew when his competitors messed up. To clarify, Dom said, “This is unacceptable. He should not have left this behind.”
Colby visibly struggled for a moment before his sharp features smoothed. “I told him I’d clean it for him. No sweat.”
Merde. Dominic stared, wishing with all his heart that Colby would do or say something to lower Dom’s opinion of him. Instead, every interaction seemed to simultaneously infuriate Dominic more and also increase his respect for the tall, young chef.
“It is commendable that you don’t throw your competitors to the wolves.” Dom clipped the words out briskly, his jaw tense. “Not only that, but you helped your fellow chef when he fell behind on desserts. Why?”
Colby shook out a garbage bag and started moving down the line, picking up trash as he went. “We had to get the desserts out for service to be over. The kitchen works together. If one of us falls down, we all fall.”
Exactly the sort of cooperative spirit Dom tried to instill in the chefs who worked under him. “I had you pegged for a fierce competitor. Most men in your position would take advantage of any weakness that might help them win.”
Tying off the garbage bag with a jerky motion of his wrist, Colby straightened up and flicked his hair out of his burning blue eyes. “I don’t want to win that way. I don’t want to beat someone because he’s having a bad day or even because he’s an asshole. I want you to pick me to present to Eva Jansen because I’m the best. That’s all.”
Dominic clamped his jaw shut and gave Colby a short nod, sending the boy back to work. Dom didn’t want to open his mouth—he wasn’t sure what would come out.
The boy refused to win through gamesmanship, preferring to rely on his talent and skill. He helped his competitors, putting the diners’ experience and by extension, Dominic’s reputation, first. And as he’d proved when several of the other chefs had jumped in to help with the pastry station, Colby had the makings of a true leader in the kitchen—someone who led by example and gained the respect of the men he worked with.
This was bad.
Dom swallowed hard. For the first time since he laid eyes on Colby a week ago, he seriously wondered if he’d be able to resist temptation.
Chapter Five
The silence from Chef Fevre’s corner of the kitchen prickled over Colby’s skin as though she’d stood too close to the superheated salamander grill.
Keeping her head down and her feet moving, she went through the familiar motions of kitchen close down, checking things off the list as she went. This was easy, mindless, repetitive work. She’d done all these tasks a million times over the course of her career, trying to prove to every boss she’d ever had that she didn’t want special treatment or favors. Even if she’d been the lone female employee in every kitchen she’d ever worked in, she was determined to be treated as an equal. She could pull her weight.
Even those bosses, the ones who’d secretly (or not so secretly) sneered at the idea of a woman holding her own in the testosterone-fuelled world of restaurant cooking—they hadn’t felt the need to loom over her while she cleaned their kitchens.
And that little interrogation earlier, about the way she’d conducted herself during service. Colby still had no idea what conclusions Dom had drawn from it. That jab about “most men” in her position had stopped Colby’s heart for a second.
He probably thought Colby was weak and soft for not going after her competitors. Injustice burned under Colby’s breastbone, the same fire she’d stoked for years to keep herself going. She’d worked hard, perfected her skills through backbreaking hours on her feet, sweating in the heat and pouring her heart into every dish. She wanted to be judged on those skills—not on her gender. Was that so much to ask?
Chafing under the weight of supervision, Colby finally snapped. “If you don’t trust me with the keys to the joint, that’s fine. Stick around to lock up after me, whatever. But you don’t have to stand right here in the kitchen, watching me work. Go relax in your office, I’ve got this.”
“There’s nothing more relaxing that watching someone else work.” Dark amus
ement threaded through his tone. “And my office means paperwork. Vendor issues. Produce orders. Nothing I want to deal with at this time of night.”
“Go have a drink then! I can text you when I’m done here.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Colby concentrated on scraping up the hardened bits of fat and meat left behind on the still-warm grill. She had to really put her back into it, which was certainly the reason her reply came out all breathless. “Maybe I’m just trying to get your phone number.”
Stop it, she ordered herself frantically. What are you doing, flirting with this guy? Not only is he the man who holds your future in his hands—he thinks you’re a man! You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t punch you in the mouth for coming on to him.
But when she peered over her shoulder at Chef Fevre, he didn’t look as if he was about to have a straight-guy freak-out over his supposedly challenged masculinity.
He looked...hungry.
The gleam of his hot silver-gray eyes went through Colby like a hot knife into butter. His savage stare made her suddenly, shockingly conscious of the way her body was bent over the grill, leg muscles tensed as she stood on tiptoe with her arms stretching to the back to clean the hard-to-reach corners. She was all but presented to him like an animal in heat.
That heat flooded her system in a rush, pooling between her legs and tightening her skin until even the whisper of air felt like a caress. Her heels hit the floor with a jarring thud as she pulled her body straight, embarrassment and pure sexual awareness jangling her nerves.
It can’t be. He can’t want me. I can’t want him...but God help me, I do.
Trying to control her breathing and cool herself down, Colby tossed aside the wire brush she’d been using on the grill and unbuttoned the top button of her chef jacket. What she wouldn’t give to be able to strip down to her undershirt, but the bulky coat hid what meager curves she had. She couldn’t risk it. The best she could do was to roll up her sleeves.
Under Her Clothes Page 4
