CHAPTER TWO - AMBER FOSTER
I pulled into the staff parking lot behind the restaurant for my first day of work. The place looked deserted; only one other car sat in the lot. I was about a half hour early, but I didn’t expect to be the only one there.
Oh well, better to be early and wait than show up late. I only had one chance to make a first impression and I didn’t want to screw it up. Besides, I’d waited as long as I could before leaving my apartment.
First day jitters had made sleeping impossible. I had tossed and turned most of the night. A little bit before dawn, I’d finally given up and gotten out of bed, not sure if I’d slept at all. After a shower and a few cups of strong coffee, I was as ready as I was going to be.
I double checked my appearance in the rear-view mirror. Dark crescents hung beneath my eyes. I scrounged through my purse for some concealer. Kitchen work was hot and sweaty, so I hadn’t bothered with too much makeup. Still, I couldn’t show up looking like an extra from The Walking Dead.
I smeared the flesh-colored goo under my eyes. Much better. I wasn’t going to impress my new boss with my looks, but it couldn’t hurt to look decent.
Chef Harrison had a reputation in the industry. Some people praised him as a perfectionist, the kind of chef who demanded every detail be flawless. Some denounced him as a dictator in the kitchen, pushing his staff beyond the breaking point. Others just plain called him an asshole.
While opinions differed, the one thing everyone agreed upon was that his restaurant, Emery, produced amazing food. No matter how difficult working there might be, the experience would be invaluable. I could learn a lot from Harrison, if I could endure his famous temper.
The back door to the restaurant burst open, so hard it slammed against the building’s exterior. The sound of it made me jump, leaving me to feel a little foolish. I was just glad no one else had seen my reaction.
An incredibly handsome guy with thick shoulders and a well-trimmed beard emerged from the doorway with trash bags gripped in both fists.
The garbage must have been heavy because I could see his muscles flexing beneath his thin white t-shirt. A dark tattoo decorated his left arm and I could almost make out the image of wings across the top of his chest.
He threw the bags easily into the dumpster, and they landed with a sound like thunder.
He must have been the owner of the other car in the lot. I guessed the busboy must show up early to get things cleaned up before the chefs arrived.
He pulled his arms behind him like he was stretching his back, and i had the pleasant effect of making his shirt cling to him like a second skin. His broad, masculine chest lit a pleasant warmth inside me.
Fuck. How long had it been since I’d been close to a well-built guy? Shit, any guy for that matter? I sure as hell hadn’t ever been with a guy that hot, or ripped. Only in my dreams.
My eyes followed the hard lines of his torso down to where the hem of his shirt had risen above his stomach. His jeans hung low on his hips, exposing the v-shaped muscles of his abdomen.
My mouth watered at the sight of him and I couldn’t help but wonder how he looked with the jeans thrown in the corner and his undies pooled on the floor beneath him.
Get ahold of yourself Amber.
The restaurant couldn’t be all that bad if I got to work with a guy like that. When things got tough, I’d just offer to rinse as he washed. I giggled to myself at my train of thought. Clearly, I needed a boyfriend if the mere sight of a good-looking guy got me all hot and bothered.
The man turned his face in my direction. “Hey!” he called out.
Oh, God.
I hoped he hadn’t noticed me eye-banging him from my car like some pervert stalker.
He marched toward me, his brow furrowed in anger. As he got closer, my stomach dropped a thousand feet. This wasn’t a busboy.
It was Chef Harrison.
I recognized him from pictures I’d seen online, but he’d always been dressed in his crisp white chef’s coat. I’d never seen him like this, and I never imagined he was hiding such gorgeous secrets beneath his professional attire. I knew he was a handsome man, but he hid his deliciously ripped body so damn well. The world would never know.
I hopped out of my car to greet him, but he shouted at me before I could speak.
“Who the hell are you?”
The question threw me off guard. I’m not sure what I expected, but it hadn’t been this. Panic flared in my chest, and I blurted out the first thing I could think of.
“What?” I asked dumbly.
He got in my face, towering over me, making me feel small.
“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my parking lot?”
“I-I’m Amber Foster,” I stammered. Holy shit, he was beautiful up close. Yep, I was going to struggle with this job. Maybe his asshole persona would help diminish just how incredibly fine he was. My nipples budded and every nerve ending in my body pulsed like I was on the edge of some great pleasure. Warmth raced up my chest and cheeks as I tried to simply breathe.
He looked me up and down and shrugged. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I’m your new chef.”
I thought the explanation would diffuse the situation, but somehow it made things worse.
His angry expression shifted to a look of contempt. “Ahh, yes. The culinary school rock star.”
It wasn’t at all a compliment. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I did win a few awards during—”
“You’re in the real world now. Awards mean jack shit.”
I swiped a shaky hand across my forehead, which was suddenly slick with sweat. “Of course, Chef. It’s just that it was a very competitive field of—”
“I don’t care, and neither do the customers. Send out one of those awards on a plate and see how much they give a damn. From here on out, only one thing matters; the food. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Chef. And can I just say that I’m really excited to be working for you.”
His emerald green eyes bore into mine, like he was staring right into my soul. I quivered under his gaze, and I hoped he couldn’t see it. I’d already started off on the wrong foot, though I had no clue how. I was early. I was polite. I was me. Either way, I didn’t want to piss him off any more than I already had.
“Oh,” he said. “Are you done kissing my ass?”
Heat burned my cheeks again. How dare he speak to me like that? What the fuck was the matter with him? Hell, what was the matter with me? Standing there taking it like a whipping girl.
I bit back a scathing reply, partly because I still wanted the job, and partly because every time I spoke, things just got worse.
He nodded. “Okay, good. Time to see the kitchen. Try to keep up.”
Chef Harrison turned back to the open door of the restaurant. His long-legged stride forced me to jog to keep pace. As much as I didn’t like him already, I couldn’t help but let my eyes move down his back to the curve of his ass. The man was a masterpiece –a prick but a masterpiece nevertheless. How anyone could put up with him outside of the bedroom was a mystery.
The thought calmed me just a little. Was he dominating and demanding between the sheets? Fuck, I wanted to know so bad it hurt. I’d never been with a man who actually acted like a man. Most of them were glorified girls. The pussification of America was real, and I was living proof that it wasn’t working.
“Hurry up and get out of your head.” He glanced back, his eyes piercing into me.
My mind reeled. I felt like my feet couldn’t find solid ground. The man had flustered me from the first word, and I hadn’t been able to regain my balance.
I wasn’t used to feeling that way. No one had ever treated me the way Chef Harrison had. I wouldn’t let them. It was a hard world out there and you had to be tough to survive. Growing up without my parents around molded me to be a force to be reckoned with and I’d never backed down from a fight.
Losing my parents at a young age meant I had to survive through some pretty tough times growing up and make it out strong. My past was what attracted me to the culinary world. Being in a busy kitchen was both chaotic, while at the same time, the closest to feeling right at home. What I remembered most about my mother was her love of cooking, and she was remarkable at it. No schooling – just a natural raw innate skill. It was breathtaking to experience. She taught me the basics and so much more at a young age. As a kid, I was able to do more than most adults could in the kitchen. My mother’s memory was my strength and motivation. So, needless to say, I could be one tough bitch when it came to anyone questioning my culinary skills, or intimidating me in general. I’d never taken shit from anyone, and I sure as hell never let anyone mistreat me.
Despite all that, Chef Harrison steamrolled right over me. He just had a presence about him that was impossible to ignore.
He led into the kitchen, and my mouth dropped open at the sight of it. Every inch of the place was spotless. I’d been in a few kitchens before, but none of them had been that clean. It made sense. He had such high standards. Of course, that would extend to cleanliness as well.
“Here we are,” he said, looking around at the stoves and ovens. “You’re new home. For as long as you can last, anyway. Have you ever worked in a professional kitchen before?”
I thought about lying to him, but he’d seen my resume. I was sure he already knew the answer to his question.
Dick.
“No, Chef, I haven’t.”
“Figures. Let me tell you how this works. This kitchen is like a pirate ship.”
“A pirate ship?” I lifted my eyebrow.
He nodded. “There’s a reason it’s called a kitchen crew or a kitchen brigade. There’s a hierarchy here. I’m the captain, and you are part of my crew. You do what I say, when I say it. No arguments. No questions. No hesitation. And if you do any of those things, I’ll eat your ass.”
Eat my ass? My body tightened at the thought. The man wasn’t being sexy in the slightest, and yet I must have been a closet-case masochist. I was quickly turned on by him and hated myself for it.
I’d heard the terms before. The kitchen brigade, or brigade de cuisine if someone wanted to be fancy, was the code that dictated jobs in the kitchen. But I’d never thought about it like a pirate ship. I don’t know if anyone other than Chef Harrison looked at it that way.
Still, the moment he said it, things started clicking into place. The gruff demeanor, the sexy swagger, and the absolute dominance over me, his new crew member. He was totally a pirate captain. The Dreaded Pirate Chef Harrison.
I could work with that. “Aye aye, captain.”
“Very good,” he said. His expression didn’t change, but I could have sworn I saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
He grabbed a binder off a shelf and thrust it at me. “Today, you’ll work the lunch shift. Here’s the recipes for the menu. I expect you to learn it. All of it.” He glanced at a clock on the wall. “You’ve got about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes? Was he out of his fucking mind?
What had I gotten myself into?