The spoon slipped from her hand as she stared at me in disbelief. An invisible lump formed in my throat, tight and impossible to swallow.
Oh my, I hope I didn't blow it.
"Who are you?" she asked calmly, picking up another spoon and taking a bite of my dish.
I blinked, confused by the sudden question.
"Scarlett, ma," I replied quickly. Gosh, please don't ask for my last name.
"There's no renowned chef whose daughter bears that name," she whispered, more to herself than to me. Seeing my confused look, she continued, "Are you sure you don't have any professional experience? Because this is really good."
I smiled. Well, thanks to my mom—who vowed never to cook for me—learning became a survival skill.
"So does that mean…" I paused, letting the unfinished question hang between us.
She sighed softly. "I can't believe it, but yes. You're hired."
