Page 12 of The Unwilling Bride
His tone is almost lazy, as if it makes no difference to him whether I ever get there. I know better. The indifference is deliberate. A mask. Because he cares. A lot.
If I fall short, he won’t hesitate to say so.
A plate of venison is set before me.
For a second, I just stare. It’s flawless. Dark, glossy slices fanned over velvet purée, jewel-bright garnish placed with surgical care. It looks like art. Like something that belongs behind glass.
My pulse quickens. How am I meant to compete with this?
I wipe the rim carefully, aware that my hands are no longer as steady as I’d like. Then I pass it to him.
He studies it in silence. Measures the diameter with a ruler. Adjusts nothing. Then, almost absently, wipes the rim again with a pristine white cloth.
I already wiped that.
Heat floods my cheeks. Not humiliation, exactly. More…awareness. This is the level. This is the bar I need to aim for.
It unsettles me.
It excites me.
He claps his hands in—you guessed it—three sharp bursts.
“Service! Table twelve.”
My hands hover over my station. The tweezers feel like lead. How do I deliver on that level of exactness every single time? Under this heat? With him watching my every move?
The ticket machine spits out a fresh string of orders. Its rit-rit-rit echoes the frantic staccato of my heart. Fuck. My pulse spikes. My stomach drops.
I’ve survived frantic lunch hours before, but The Ice Commander’s standards turn cooking into a high-pressure performance, like heart surgery or competing in front of Olympic judges.
The weight of his expectations is heavy. Along with my own, bearing down on me.
I have to move fast and keep every detail perfect.
This is the big league. The real thing. The moment I’ve trained for my entire career.
I square my shoulders. I can do this. I will prove I deserve the sous chef jacket with my name on it.
"The beurre blanc." He jerks his chin toward one of the small heavy copper pots at my station. "What's wrong with it?"
I glance over. The sauce looks fine. Pale, emulsified, gently steaming.
But he said, 'What's wrong?' Not, ‘Is something wrong?'
I lean closer. Sniff. Taste.
"Too much wine. It wasn't reduced enough before the butter went in. The alcohol's still sharp."
He stares at me. The silence stretches.
“Can you save it?"
His voice is flat, like the blade of a knife resting against my throat.
Think. The answer is there. I know it is. "More butter. Splash of cream to soften the edges. I can balance it." I hold his gaze when I say it.
A subtle tightening around his lips tells me I got that wrong. The floor drops out from under me.
