Our eyes meet across the kitchen.
The laughter dies in my throat.
"Don't stop on my account," he growls. "Tell me, Ms. Jones: what would I
take one look at you and do?"
If spontaneous human combustion were real, I'd be a pile of ash right now. If only that were so. Everyone turns in slow motion, like those dreams where you're trying to run but can't move fast enough.
The horror on their faces might be comical
if I weren't experiencing my own personal apocalypse.
"Mr. Simon!" Chef Nubio recovers first and tries to jump to my rescue. "I was—"
"Not you, Chef." He steps into the kitchen, and everyone takes an unconscious step back. It's like watching a nature documentary where the antelope sense the lion approaching and wait to see which poor sucker he'll be turning into lunch.
"Please, Ms. Jones—continue."
I want to die. I want to melt into the floor and become one with the tiles. I want to reverse time and tell past-me to keep her stupid mouth shut about what Andrew Simon may or may not do while he's still inside of you.
But I can't do any of those things.
All I can do is squeak out a pathetic "I'm sorry" that crashes and burns before it even makes it halfway across the kitchen.Andrew nods like he expected no less. He takes another meandering step
into the kitchen and his gaze sweeps around as if to memorize every
flushed, guilty face. "How thoughtful of you to cater a breakfast party, Ms. Jones. I wasn't aware we'd restructured the morning schedule to include social hour."
The kouign-amann in my hand wobbles. "It's not—" I start. "I just thought—"
"You thought." Another step closer. "You thought it would be appropriate to distract my entire kitchen staff during extremely important crunch time hours with… " He picks up a box and examines it like it contains evidence of a crime. "Pastries."
"Mr. Simon," Chef Rubio tries again, "we were just—"
"Getting back to work, I assume." He doesn't even look at her. His eyes stay on me, and there is nothing—nothing—of last night's warmth in them.
"Unless Ms. Jones has also taken it upon herself to do that for you? Perhaps she has opinions on the tasting menu for the investor dinner? Well, Ms. Jones? I'm all ears."
My face burns. Everyone is staring at their shoes, their half-eaten pastries, anywhere but at us.
"I was trying to be nice," I croak.
"Is 'nice' anywhere in your job description, Ms. Jones?"
"No, but—"
"But nothing." He drops the box on the ground and a donut goes rolling mournfully into the distance. "You're not special, Ms. Jones, and you are not exempt from the rules or from the work. You're an employee. One of many. And like every other employee, you're expected to focus on your actual job instead of playing food fairy to people who should be working."
Who is this man? I want to scream and ask anyone who will listen. What happened to the bright-eyed tease from last night? Who is this asshole, this tyrant, this stranger?
And who am I?
Last night, I felt—stupidly, maybe, or naively—but I felt like I was somebody to him.
This morning, I am nothing. Just another employee. A food fairy getting her
wings plucked off.
My eyes burn. Do not cry. Do not cry in front of Andrew Simon and the entire
test kitchen staff.
"I came in early," I manage. "On my own time."
A surge of angry heat passes over his face. "If you have enough of that,
perhaps we're not challenging you sufficiently. I'll have to adjust your workload."
"I should go," I say, in a horrifyingly sad echo of last night.
"Yes," he agrees. "You should."
I turn to leave, and the kitchen staff parts like the Red Sea. No one makes eye contact. Someone—I think it is the pastry chef who cried in her car— squeezes my arm as I pass, but I can't look at her. Can't look at anyone.
But as I'm passing by, Andrew's hand flies out and catches me by the wrist. It's like last night's fantasy, but turned into a nightmare. His palm is hot and heavy even through the wool of my sweater. I could almost swear I smell the fabric burning.
His eyes bore into the side of my face. I keep mine straight ahead, locked on the double doors that lead away from him, away from this.
"This is a place of business, Erica. Not a charity. And certainly not a social club for employees who can't seem to understand their place in the hierarchy."
Last night, I touched his skin.
Last night, he touched me back.
This morning, he puts me firmly and brutally in my place.
———Later that day at the Cafe———
"He said what?!" Mitchy's voice carries across half the restaurant. Several heads turn our way in alarm.
"Yas, volume," I hiss. "We've talked about this." Honestly, though, I'm grateful for her outrage. After this morning's humiliation, I need someone in my corner.
Even if that someone has the discretion of a foghorn. We're at Noodle Theory, this cute little ramen place tucked between a dry cleaner and a tax office that serves steaming bowls of heaven for nine bucks a pop. It's become our spot over the past two years—close enough to our office building for lunch breaks, cheap enough that I can afford it,and loud enough that we can have actual conversations without corporate eavesdroppers.
"I don't give a rat's ass who hears me." Mitchy stabs her chopsticks into her tonkotsu like she's imagining them going through Andrew's eye socket.
"The man's a sociopath. First, he's all flirty and shirtless 'n' shit—which, sidebar, we need to discuss that whole situation, you shameless tease—and then he publicly flames you for bringing pastries? Pastries, El! Pastries!"