by Allie Burton
He needed to plead Isabel’s case, except if he displayed weakness to his manager the man would take advantage. “There’s this woman.”
“Women have never been a problem for you.” Was that jealousy in Cal’s tone? “Unless word gets out about your less-scrupulous actions.”
Michael stabbed the knife into the cutting board. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I know, I know.” Cal chuckled. “The lawsuit is being settled quietly.”
Michael gripped the knife tighter and yanked it out of the board. The fact his manager wanted to settle, and had rushed him into signing this contract thinking he was helping Parker, wasn’t in Michael’s best interests. “The current sous chef expected to be promoted to head chef.”
A woman who was strictly off-limits because she worked for him.
“Her loss.”
“The sous chef was practically promised the job by the retired head chef and the lodge owner.” He strangled the knife, his knuckles going white with the force. Didn’t Cal care about anyone’s feelings but his own?
His own feelings and his own wallet.
“No Michael Marstrand, then no reality show. Parker Williamson knew that when he signed the deal.”
“Parker didn’t understand the scope and intent of the program.” Michael risked Parker and Isabel’s livelihood. “The sous chef is upset. I don’t think we’ll be able to work together.”
“More drama for Kitchen Catastrophe.” His manager’s laughter curdled the contents of Michael’s stomach. “I saw her photo. Smoking! Tap that and ratings will skyrocket. We’d hit bonus and make major dollars.”
Every muscle in Michael’s body clenched. He wanted to rip his manager’s throat out. “What do you mean you saw her photo?”
“The producers did their research. Photos and background checks on every staff member in the kitchen.”
His business manager hadn’t assumed the sous chef was female. He’d known.
His jaw clenched and he ground his teeth together. “You saw everything? Knew everything?”
“Of course I did. I’m thorough in my job.”
He stabbed the knife into the cutting board, again wishing it was his manager’s body. If the man had been thorough he should’ve warned him against signing this contract without knowing the details. Yet Cal, his manager, knew everything, and didn’t tell him.
“You knew Isabel expected the head chef job?” It wasn’t really a question, more of a slight hope his manager had only screwed him. Not her.
“Of course I did.” He spoke as if Michael was an idiot.
And maybe he had been. Not anymore.
“And you knew the reality show’s name was Kitchen Catastrophe.”
“Yes.”
The single word burned and branded, similar to a hot poker scoring a steak. The signs had been present for the last several months. He’d wanted to be loyal. Cal had taken him a long way in his career. Not any longer. “You’re fired.”
“What?” Cal’s screech represented his panic even across the telephone line.
Michael’s muscles relaxed and the load on his shoulders lightened. He breathed easier. Finding a new business manager would be difficult, especially while stuck in Castle Ridge, yet it was worth it. “You’ll get your cut on this current cruddy contract, but we are done.”
“You can’t fire me. What if the lawsuit leaks out? It will ruin your reputation.” The veiled threat against him only made his decision more final.
“I wanted to fight the lawsuit. You told me to settle.” Another mark against the man. Just to make himself feel better, he said it again. “You’re fired.”
Chapter Five
The kitchen staff gathered in the luxurious, remodeled kitchen. Isabel perched on the edge of a stool, observing the gathering of half a dozen people. They oohed and aahed about the new equipment. No one had been allowed into Chef’s domain while the remodel was completed. This was their first glimpse.
She didn’t understand the need for secrecy. Which was why she’d come in the day before.
The new floors shined. The black carpet runners were clean, and aligned at right angles. The stainless glimmered. The steel pots and pans sat neatly in their places, split between stations. The kitchen didn’t smell like a kitchen. No spicy or sweet scents.
“Thank you for coming.” Michael, or Chef, as she should be calling him, said. He wore a black chef’s coat with his name embroidered on the chest and black-and-white houndstooth pants he filled out nicely. “I want to say I’m really happy to be here.” His gaze strayed to her with a bleak expression and moved away.
His expression was a wet towel dampening her flame. He wanted to say he was happy, but he didn’t. He sounded angry and uptight, forcing enthusiasm into his voice.
Because of her? Or because of their bet?
The other staff members listened attentively, tracking his movements, trying to read body signals. Their glances would shift to her and away again. Were they watching her reaction, because everyone knew she’d expected the job?
Shame swamped her body, and she teetered on the stool. Before vacation, she’d talked as if she were the head chef. She’d created menus and set schedules. She’d not exactly lorded it over the staff, but she’d let them know who was boss. Except she wasn’t. She crossed her arms and glared at the new head chef.
Earl, the second sous chef shook his leg, the constantly moving checked pattern on his pants making her dizzy. He was excited to work with the great Chef Michael Marstrand. Tony and Maria stood next to each other, leaning against a counter, occasionally catching each other’s glances, communicating silently. Maria’s gaze also darted toward Isabel several times. Alfred, a newly-hired Rôtisseur, slouched against an oven, displaying no interest in the meeting.
“In this beautiful new kitchen, we are going to make wonderful food.” Michael’s enthusiasm picked up. He really cared about the food. This desire to cook a perfect meal was exhibited on his cooking shows, too. It was one of the things she found so attractive about him.
His passion.
She imagined his passion changed into desire. A heat wave passed through her body, and she re-crossed her legs. Then, she stiffened. She should not have passion for the man who’d stolen her job.
Bob, one of the prep cooks, nodded his head, while Michael continued speaking in a pep-rally tone. Susan, the pastry chef, smiled. Earl could barely contain his eagerness.
Isabel picked up on the changing moods. Even she wanted to pick up a spoon and get to work.
“The people of Castle Ridge, and beyond, will be talking about what we prepare. Our meals will not only be sustenance. They will be an event.” Michael’s expression sharpened and his gray eyes pulled her into the picture he painted against her will. “Our guests, including tourists from around the world who come here for first class skiing, are going to get first class cuisine.”
Several staff members clapped. They were warming up to him and his vision.
Would these people have respected her as head chef? She’d worked with them for years, and she’d never given a go get ’em speech.
“We are going to create a name for Castle Ridge Lodge, and specifically for The Heights restaurant. I’m counting on each of you to do your part.” He cheered them on, and boosted their faith in themselves. “I understand the kitchen is open for room service from early in the morning until late at night. Our focus will be on the dinner clientele in the restaurant.”
She was pleased with this change. It meant they could focus on the restaurant experience and not be short-order cooks for room service. A smaller, less-experienced staff would lead room service operations. Had Michael negotiated this change? If she’d been head chef, would she have been able to enact a similar rule? Doubts poked and smashed, causing her tummy to ferment. He inspired greatness in everyone except her.
He frowned, his expression growing serious, and his gaze touched on everyone. “I’ve met with each of you individually to talk about your hours
and shifts and responsibilities. Call me Chef while in the kitchen.”
He hadn’t met with her. Her stomach churned. Except for their first run-in when she’d learned she wasn’t to be head chef and had challenged him. Stupid. Did she even have a job after her ridiculous challenge?
The churning stopped and settled into a rock in her stomach. Of course she had a job. He’d asked her to stay. They had a bet.
“I also wanted to gather you together to talk about rules and regulations. About sanitation and cleanliness. About the proper use of the new equipment.”
She half-listened to his lecture. She knew how to use each piece of equipment, and each of them had been given the user guides. She was one of the most strict when it came to sanitation and cleanliness. There’d been many a staff member who’d been disgusted when she’d forced them to throw away an entire batch because of a slight fear of cross-contamination.
“Let’s talk about attire.” He swiveled toward her and she jerked her attention back to the speech. “That means clean chef coats, aprons, and hats. Long hair tied back, and facial hair neatly trimmed. Appropriate shoes.”
Jerking her legs, she tucked her feet beneath the stool. Her four-inch, purple, ankle-wrap pumps probably wouldn’t be considered appropriate. They were cute, though.
“I know kitchen clogs are ugly.” He wiggled one of his black-shoed feet. The clogs had no heel, no buckles or laces, and appeared to be made of plastic. “But they’re comfortable and safe. No chance of slipping on a wet spot, or a heel getting tangled in a mat.”
She twisted her ankles tighter. The assault couldn’t be directed at her, yet she felt the lashing. Maria sent a sympathetic glance.
“Too bad.” Bob, one of the younger guys on the staff, said. “Isabel’s legs look great in heels.”
A few laughs erupted, until Michael zeroed in on the man. His facial muscles tightened. “They’re not appropriate, and not safe, and certainly not comfortable.”
Bob’s face paled. He’d only been teasing. That’s how the kitchen staff interacted. They were a big family. Would Michael change the atmosphere?
Her protective instincts rose. This was her kitchen, and he was changing the rules and the environment. “I don’t wear heels during shift. Only before and after.”
“One other rule.” He avoided her. “There will be no romantic entanglements between staff.”
Shards of pain scattered across her chest and stabbed her heart. Whatever she’d thought they might have, whatever attraction they felt, he was telling her in a very public way they’d never have a relationship.
A rustle went through the staff. Maria and Tony shared a look. Both of their faces slackened. The two of them had been dating for over a year. Everyone on staff knew about their relationship, and it didn’t interfere with their productivity.
Isabel held her breath, waiting to see if someone spoke up. She certainly would never give away their secret. It might be a betrayal toward the new head chef, but if she’d been head chef she wouldn’t have made such a stupid rule.
“Great!” Michael clapped his hands, startling everyone, unaware of the bombshell he’d dropped. “Let’s get to work on the trial dinner set for tonight. Let’s show the lodge employees what we’re capable of doing.”
Staff members headed to their stations.
“Isabel.” He waved toward his office. “Let’s finalize tonight’s menu and discuss local sources.”
She lifted her chin in a stubborn tilt. “Needing my help already, Chef?”
His lips flattened and he peered around to see if anyone listened.
Expecting a lecture on insubordination, she firmed her muscles, waiting for the assault.
“I thought you’d like to give your opinion on local vendors, since you’re so familiar with them, but I can base my decisions on past orders.”
“No.” She jumped to her heels, knowing by helping him she’d be helping him succeed, but she wanted to prove her capabilities. “I want to help. I’ve got some ideas about new vendors.”
Vendors she’d promised she’d test out once she was in charge. She couldn’t let those people down because she was angry at Michael.
“Go change your shoes, and we can get to work.”
She regarded her shiny, designer pumps. Always wearing a baggy chef’s coat, the shoes were the only way to exhibit her personality and her fabulous shoe collection. “I’ll change later.”
“You walk around in those stilts?” His eyebrows arched as high as a soufflé.
“I’m careful, and Chef Françoise didn’t mind.” She pursed her lips. “I’m fine in them.”
Michael let out a huff. “I’ll let it go for now. Once we’re open for real, you’ll have to wear safer shoes from the moment you arrive in the kitchen.”
“You mean, ugly shoes.”
* * *
Michael let Isabel have the last word, leading her into his office. He sensed the tension radiating off of her. Their working relationship was going to be similar to walking a tightrope, keeping a perfect balance like the perfect blend of spices. He didn’t know whether to trust her, or wait for sabotage. He coughed. The producers would love sabotage.
Just as the cameras would love her long legs. He certainly enjoyed the view, like Bob. Michael had probably come down too hard on the guy, but he didn’t want other men appreciating her legs.
Because they were in a work environment. No other reason.
Michael and Isabel went through the vendor selection quickly, even with her combative nature. Everything he suggested she negated, while he’d agreed to give her new suggestions a try when they next ordered. He knew he had to be patient and understanding. Everything would go more smoothly with a happy sous chef.
“Shall we do a walk-through?” He hated how he sounded so formal, as if he were asking her to prom. His mind soured. She’d taken two guys to prom when he’d been a senior. She’d worn a tight dress with a thigh-high split.
“Sure.” She grabbed a clipboard hanging on the wall and led him into the kitchen. “Guess we don’t need to check the equipment, since it’s new.”
He followed her, and his gaze only dipped to her ass a couple of times. He was proud of that. “We need to make sure everything’s on and ready to go.”
“Do you think we’re idiots?” She slapped the clipboard against her thigh, emphasizing her hips and small waist. Her lips pursed in a mutinous snarl. “The staff has a routine. Turn everything on, deliver health code supplies to every station, re-up the stations with the basics like shakers and squeeze bottles.”
“Good to hear.” He was glad they had routines, but he was a perfectionist. “I always double-check.”
“So do I.” Her snippiness put him in his place.
He should’ve been insulted at her tone, except his fascination with her hips and legs as she sashayed across the kitchen in those high heels marking things off on her clipboard with a hard and angry check had him checking a few things off on his own.
Like how come her chef coat was tailored to fit her frame, emphasizing her womanly shape. Or how come her muscular calves looked as if she worked out almost as much as him. His pants tightened.
His lecture on footwear hadn’t been directed at her. He was setting expectations for everyone. Including his expectations about relationships. Relationships would only cause problems and drama. Drama the network executives craved, and he planned to halt in advance.
“Fish box next?” She didn’t wait for his reply.
And he followed like a lovesick schoolboy.
A briny waft of sea air hit him as they entered. Which was good. You didn’t want a chemical smell or a rotting smell. Fish was one of the most delicate of foodstuffs. “Smells fine.”
She monitored the thermometer. “Temp is good.”
His was warm and moving to hot. “Fish are stored properly and upright. Plenty of ice coverage.”
“Portioned fish are wrapped tight.”
He thought about how tight she’d f
eel with him inside her. Whoa. He would not go there. He stuffed his attraction down and responded, “Quality appears excellent.”
The two of them fell into this simple rhythm, checking and re-checking the other freezers and storage bins. It was as if they’d worked together for years instead of minutes. The cold temperature must’ve cooled his lust. That, and her professionalism.
They checked on the pastry chef and the poissonnier, who handled the fish, making sure they were on top of their preparations.
“If we can’t find enough fresh salmon this time of year, we’ll need to find a substitution.” He sank down into the office chair.
“I thought about that when we were going through the production box.” She perched on the desk, revealing more tantalizing leg.
His groin pulsed, wanting attention. He ignored it. “What can we find in enough time?” He really needed to stop ogling her like a tempting dessert. She couldn’t be on his plate.
“I’ll text a vendor and ask for suggestions.”
“Perfect.” He relaxed back into his chair. Several times, she’d anticipated his questions and was one step ahead. He’d never been in tune with anyone before. The sensation flowed through him, making his veins hum. What would happen when it came to crunch time, and the pressure of cooking under a deadline? Could she anticipate his needs then?
His cock stirred, and he shifted in his seat, his other head thinking of only one kind of need. He had to halt these thoughts. He had to stay on top of things in the kitchen and not think of Isabel sexually.
That was a going to be a bigger challenge then the bet.
* * *
Isabel stood poised at the pass, waiting for the next plate. The first seating had gone well. The clientele were relaxed and wanting to share in the glory of opening night. The quality had been superior, so much more than she’d expected.
