Page 11 of The Unwilling Bride
That, and the intense inspection of my every action from James, makes my stomach flip-flop. I calm myself, letting muscle memory take over.
When James calls out an order, I repeat it down the line. Plates land at the pass and I steady them before they reach him.
I taste for seasoning, adjust if needed, wipe a stray smear from the rim, shift a garnish a fraction to the left.
Then I step back and let him make the final call.
It doesn’t feel like I’ve been out of a job for a few months.
If only I didn’t have to work in such proximity to my hot boss. His nearness makes me very aware of his hulking body.
Oh, and he smells exactly as I remember. Sea salt infused with notes of leather and cedar.
It’s raw and masculine. Unadulterated. It’s not from a bottle.
Like most chefs, he doesn’t wear cologne to protect his sense of smell. I can recognize the unique scent of his body, despite the plethora of food smells in the kitchen. Must be survival instinct.
The way an animal in the forest knows when a predator is nearby so it can protect itself.
Ha! I begin to chuckle but, thankfully, control myself, turning it into a throat-clearing.
He glances my way before turning back to his own work, his hands moving in that rhythmic, terrifyingly precise way. He’s searing sea bass.
He flips the first fillet. One. The second. Two. The third. Three.
I grab a pan. My hands are shaking, but I force them still. I dice the butter. I measure the juice. I work through the first batch. Perfect shine. The second. Identical. The third. A mirror image.
I plate a sample of each batch on a side dish. Three carrots, aligned with deliberate space between them, lacquered in the new glaze.
“Taste,” he says, not turning around.
I cut into one and bring it to my mouth. “Bright. Velvety. Better.”
He stops. Reaches for a clean spoon and samples the first batch. Sets it down. A second spoon for the next. A third for the last.
Silence stretches. The low hum of the refrigerator fills it.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. My chest tightens. What’s he going to say?
“Adequate.” He sets the spoon down beside the others, aligning them with precise care.
“Adequate?”
My stomach drops. I just executed a culinary hat trick under a microscope and it’s… Adequate?
It tasted better than any glazed carrot I’ve ever made. I did it, not once, but three times. But he isn’t impressed.
The flare of anger cools, replaced by doubt.
He leans in. “Adequate means you haven’t ruined my reputation yet.”
Silver flecks catch in his eyes. His scent wraps around me, dark and familiar. Heat coils low in my belly.
It’s absurd that I remember every second of the few hours we spent together. Meanwhile, he seems unaffected. He’s focused solely on dismantling my technique.
Sweat trickles down my spine. The kitchen is a furnace, and standing this close to him doesn’t help. Neither does the pressure to meet his impossible standards.
“Perfect is a destination. You’ve barely left the driveway.”
