"You know what? You're officially my favorite person," he says, his mouth still full. His name tag reads Samuel, and he's got an eager energy that hasn't been beaten out of him by the industry yet, though his hair is standing straight up like he either just stuck a spatula in an electrical socket or he's been running his hands through it all night long in frustration.
Another one of the chefs guffaws, spraying a mouthful of blueberry muffin
everywhere. "You sure it's not LeBastard?"
At the mention of the big boss, everyone groans in unison. One of the French stagiaires mutters the nickname again under his breath with such visceral hatred that it makes me flinch. "LeBastard. Ce fils de pute."
I don't have to speak French to understand that they're not exactly singing
his praises.
Wincing, I make eye contact with Samuel.
"It's been that bad?"
"Worse than you could possibly imagine," he says vehemently.
I glance at Nubio, who nods in confirmation. "We're three weeks out from
the investor preview for Project Olympus and he's rejected every single dish we've presented."
Project Olympus—Andrew's baby, his magnum opus. It's a skyscraper-sized
ode to fine dining. A fourteen-story complex with a dozen restaurant concepts under one roof, each one with the oh-so-humble goal of revolutionizing a world cuisine. Italian, Korean, Casmire's finest—Andrew has pulled out all the stops to make it a mecca of good eats.
That comes with a price tag, of course. Meaning that the investor preview dinner is make-or-break for the project's funding.
I've seen the numbers; we're talking about a potential three-billion-dollar valuation if he can pull it off.
The "if" is the part that's got everyone burning the midnight oil.
"Maybe someone needs to get him laid. Make the grouchy motherfucker a little less grouchy, you know?" suggests Tony, one of the sous chefs. To my horror, he turns and starts waggling his eyebrows at me.
"Take one for the team, Erica. You're pretty enough, and God knows he needs to release some tension."
My face goes nuclear. Last night's delusional fantasies flood back—warm skin, soapy scent, hands coaxing lower…
What if I had? What if we had?
"Pfft, please," I snort, aiming for what I hope and pray comes off as casual,
I-would-never dismissiveness. "Andrew Simon doesn't even see me as human, much less as a woman. I'm basically sentient office furniture to him."
"I don't know," Chef Nubio says, giving me a sly look. "You've got some legs on you, chica. And you're single, yeah? I see sparks. And I think that stubborn hijo de puta sees 'em, too. He looks at you, you know."
"Probably just wondering if he can legally make me work the dish pit," I say, but my mind is racing and my pulse is racing even faster than that.
Tony chuckles. "Spoken like someone who's been here too long. Remember
when you could have hope? Dreams? Basic human dignity?"
"Vaguely," I say, and everyone laughs again, but there's an edge of truth to it. For six years, I've been clawing my way up from receptionist, putting in seventy-hour weeks, skipping vacations, missing birthdays. Just like Mom always said: Keep your head down, stay quiet, don't make waves. Of course, Mom also said that about her various post-Dad boyfriends' drinking habits, about the landlord who used to let himself into our apartment, about every disappointment life ever threw at us.
Don't make waves, Erica. That only makes things worse. Just endure. Well, look where that got me: twenty-seven years old, depressingly single, and about to go blind.
Maybe "enduring" is overrated. "Besides," I continue, "can you imagine? Me and Andrew? He'd probably make me submit a PowerPoint presentation before we could do the deed."
The kitchen erupts in laughter, and I feel the spotlight shift away from my
burning face. Thank God. "Oh my God, yes," Samuel wheezes. "He'd have performance metrics!"
"KPIs for everything," Tony adds, wiping tears from his eyes. "Customer
satisfaction scores."
"'Your moaning was only at seventy percent capacity.'" Chef Nubio mimics
Andrew's clipped tone perfectly.
"I expect excellence in all areas, Ms. Jones. This is simply not good enough.'"
I snort-laugh so hard cappuccino nearly comes out my nose. "He'd probably write NGE on my ass with a Sharpie."
That mental image sends everyone into fresh hysterics. One of the prep cooks is literally on the floor, clutching his stomach.
"Stop, stop," the French stagiaire gasps. "I cannot breathe!"
"You know he'd time everything," I continue, emboldened by their laughter
and the sugar rush from the bite of kouign-amann I just stole. "Foreplay:
twelve minutes and not a second more. Any longer is just poor time management."
Chef Rubio scoffs. "Girl, you're being generous. That man would schedule
sex like a business meeting. 'I have an opening between my 3 P.M. conference call and my 3:45 portfolio review.'"
"Forty-five minutes?" Tony shakes his head. "Nah, he'd block fifteen, tops. Five for the act, five for a critique, five to check his emails."
"While still in bed," Samuel adds.
"While still inside you," I correct. Everyone guffaws; meanwhile, I'm trying to ignore the way my whole body feels like it's been dipped in hot sauce. Making fun of Andrew like this feels dangerous, thrilling. It's playing with matches next to a gas leak.
Part of me wonders what he'd think if he could hear us. Would those ice-blue eyes narrow in that way that makes my stomach do weird jumping jacks? Would his jaw clench? His hands tighten? His eyes burn?
"You know what the worst part would be?"I say, riding the incomparable high of making your coworkers laugh while you talk shit about your tyrannical boss. "Andrew would take one look at you and—"
"Ahem."
I hear a throat clear, and even as I start to turn, I know what I'm going to find. Sure enough, I do.
Andrew Simon stands framed in the kitchen doors, impeccable as always in a
powder blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. His scowl is at full force today.
That ten percent smirk from last night is nowhere to be found— it's pure venom, pure heat, pure what the fuck do you think you're doing?