Chapter Two
“Has the pantry been re-stocked?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Even the white beans?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“And the duck?”
“Cleaned and prepped, Chef.”
Holly nodded at Pierre. “Good. I have some work to do here, but I’ll be out thirty minutes before front of house opens to check on the preps one more time.” Pierre nodded, got up from the chair, then left her office.
Once the door closed, Holly let out a deep sigh. The last two days had been nerve-wracking to say the least. But she never lost her cool, keeping her reputation as solid as ever. She was glad for the soft opening, allowing them to work out the kinks in the kitchen (and there were still a few) before they formally opened to the public sometime after New Year’s.
Mostly, they’d had friends and family come to the restaurant, maybe a couple of bloggers here and there, plus walk-ins. She wasn’t quite confident yet to open for lunch, but based on what she’d seen, she was positive her crew could manage it. After all, she was able to whip them into shape, and, so far, they’d done alright. By anyone else’s standards, they’d done quite well, but she wasn’t in this to be just “good enough.” No, Holly expected excellence from her crew. She wanted them to go for the gold, or, in this case, those coveted stars all chefs aspire to have.
No, nothing would distract her from making Petite Louve a success. Not even a certain irritating chef from across the street. “Ugh,” she sighed unhappily. She couldn’t escape him. Every damn day she walked into the restaurant (and went home), his name was right there in front, as if it was mocking her.
What an ego. Naming the restaurant after himself. Curiosity had gotten the best of her, of course, and she looked him up on the internet. Dante Muccino—bad boy celebrity chef— breaking hearts all over New York with a different model or actress on his arm every night.
It seemed Dante Muccino’s celebrity status had grown over the years, thanks to the success of his restaurant. No one had heard of him until five years ago when he somehow secured some funding for his restaurant. And, now, everyone wanted to be there to hobnob with the rich and famous. It took weeks to get a dinner reservation at the Italian restaurant. There were even rumors of a new branch opening up internationally.
Who the heck was Dante Muccino? She’d never heard of him until two days ago. She knew his type, though. Hotshot celebrity chef who let his success get to his head. Probably only worked in the kitchen if there were cameras around and went out with an endless parade of girls.
A commotion outside shook her out of her thoughts, and Holly rose from her chair, frowning as irritation began to scratch at her. What the heck was going on out there?
She yanked open the door and marched into the hallway that led to the kitchen. Her eyes narrowed as she saw her crew gathered around the cold prep table, obviously not working.
She cleared her throat loudly and crossed her arms over her chest. Several pairs of heads turned around, their faces registering surprise and then fear. Before they could scatter away, she held up her hand. “What’s going on here?”
“N-n-nothing, Chef,” her commis chef Julian said, his eyes darting left to right.
“Nothing? Then why are you all standing there—what is that?”
Christina, the pastry chef, quickly put her hand behind her. “I-It’s nothing, Chef,” she stammered.
“Show it to me,” she said, walking closer. “C’mon now. If it’s not drugs or something illegal, you shouldn’t be scared to show it to me.”
The rest of the staff looked at Christina with wary eyes. Though she hesitated for a second, her shoulders slumped under Holly’s icy stare. Reluctantly, she held out her hand.
“A phone?” Holly asked. “This is what’s distracting you all from work?”
Christina heaved a sigh and then turned the phone on. A hush fell over the kitchen as the video began to play.
Holly squinted, trying to see what was on the small screen. The room where the video was taken wasn’t brightly lit, but it was obviously inside a restaurant. Whoever was taking the video was seated, the camera pointing up to the man standing in the middle, dressed in chef’s whites. Though the picture was grainy, the audio was quite clear.
“I see the restaurant across the street’s re-opening,” A voice from off camera said. “I heard from my real estate guy it’s gonna be some fancy shmancy French place. Is that true?”
“Yeah, and are you scared of the competition?”
“Me, scared? Nah.” Dante Muccino’s arrogant profile focused into view. “And French cooking? Please. Talk about uptight, overpriced, and bland.”
“So you think they won’t last the year?”
“Won’t last the month,” Dante said, then let out a laugh.
Holly was glad for years of practice of keeping her emotions in check. She didn’t flinch, didn’t say a word or turn red, even as she felt the anger bubbling at the surface. “Get back to work,” she said to her crew in a calm voice, then handed the phone back to Christina with a curt thank you.
She wasn’t sure how she got back to her office, as the edges of her vision were turning blurry. But, somehow, she made it inside without losing her cool. Walking to the closet in the corner of her office, she opened the door, walked inside, pressed her face against her wool coat hanging on the rack in the corner, and let out a scream, followed by muffled curses that would have made any sailor blush.
A few seconds later, she sighed, wiped her face, and opened the door, determined to go back to work and show her staff she was still The Ice Queen. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Sharice standing by the door, hands on her hips.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her face drawn into a frown. “You saw the video?”
She nodded.
“That motherfucking scumbag,” Sharice cursed as she stomped into her office and slammed the door behind her. “Just because he’s hot, he thinks he can say things like that? And to think I told my friends his cannoli was orgasm inducing. The pastry,” she clarified, when Holly shot her a dirty look.
“How could he put up that video?” Holly asked.
“It wasn’t him,” Sharice said. “It was some diner over at the next table. A blogger, apparently, of some fame. Put it up on his blog and social networks. He even named you and Petite Louve.”
“How did he know my name?”
“Probably got it from our website or our press release,” Sharice guessed. “Anyway, the video’s been shared by about a hundred thousand people. So far.”
This time, Holly couldn’t help herself. She felt the heat creep up her spine, and her fists curled at her side.
“Holly?” Sharice’s brows drew into a furrow. “What are you thinking? Are you all right?”
She let out a long breath. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Do you need the evening—”
“I said I’m fine,” she insisted, smoothing her hands down her shirt and straightening her shoulders. But Dante Muccino won’t be, she added silently.