I led her to the back of the restaurant, barging through the swinging double-doors in a confident stride. The minute I stepped into the hectic kitchen, the hustle and bustle stopped. Everyone paused shouting over the dishes. Staff who ran from one station to the other halted, staring at me. Mouths fell open, dishes crashed against the floor and eyes widened. Hell, you’d think I walked in there with a loaded Uzi and not a frightened chick.
Guess my staff was surprised to see me. After all, I was notorious for being a short-tempered, snippy *. And the fact that I’d never bothered to meet any of my employees didn’t exactly push me up the list as Boss of The Year. They were waiting to see what I’d do. I was a case study. I was the psychopath. That’s the legend I fed, and that’s the legend I had to live up to, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.
The place was as hot as a furnace, and I grunted my disapproval, wiping off my forehead. Sparrow was standing behind me, clutching my hand in a death grip. She was scared shitless, and I kind of liked it.
“Who’s the head chef around here?” I asked, and watched as people flinched. No one spoke. No one breathed. No one f*cking moved. Their terror echoed and bounced on the walls.
After a few seconds, a large man with a dark porno moustache and stained, white chef’s coat stepped forward, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel before tossing it on a chopping board and offering me his sausage-thick fingers for a handshake.
“That’d be me, sir. Name’s Pierre.”
I didn’t even look at his hand, let alone shake it. “Don’t really care. Now, this girl right here…” I turned around, pointing at Sparrow, whose eyes grew wider by the second. “She wants a job working in this kitchen.”
“We don’t need any new employees, but she can leave her contact number and—”
“I don’t remember assigning you as my HR manager,” I snapped. “Test. Her. Now.”
Hushed gasps filled the room. Some girl shrieked in the far corner of the kitchen. All eyes were on Sparrow, desperately trying to figure out why I wanted to help Plain Jane get a job at one of Boston’s finest. Guess they didn’t get the memo about the wedding of the month. The sound of something sizzling on a frying pan was the only thing audible in the crowded kitchen. Something other than my short fuse was burning.
“For the love of God, drag your asses back to work before you set my place on fire,” I roared.
Everybody jumped back to their stations, other than the head chef. He eyeballed Sparrow like she had just kidnapped his family at gunpoint and thrown them in a cellar full of venomous snakes. I turned around to glance at my wife. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she returned a challenging glare to the chef. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by his stink eye.
Atta girl.
I curled my finger behind my back, signaling her to step deeper into the kitchen. She did. I kept my eyes trained on what’s-his-name, who bit his hairy upper lip in barely contained frustration.
“Go on,” I murmured, my scowl lingering on his face. “Test her.”
He blinked a few times, trying to digest the situation. Then he sighed, looking around him for support. No one even dared to look at us now.
“Come with me,” he instructed her.
I followed them. Pierre—he introduced himself again when I referred to him as “the cook”—plucked one of the menus from beside the stove and shoved it into her hands. He didn’t have a clue that she was my wife, and I wanted to keep it that way. To find out whether she really knew what she was doing.
I wanted her out of the house, but not at the expense of giving my customers food poisoning.
Pierre stabbed at the menu with his oily finger, leaving a stain on the parchment as he pointed at one of the dishes. I couldn’t help but notice it was the most expensive, long-titled entrée on the menu. A f*cking trap if I ever saw one. My eyes narrowed in annoyance, but I didn’t move. Just took out a toothpick from my breast pocket and placed it between my lips, rolling it from side to side with my tongue.
“Roasted venison loin, grains, parsnip puree and sauce poivrade.” His smile was triumphant.
Sparrow turned her gaze to him, not a muscle in her round, freckled face flinching. “It takes about three and a half hours to make this dish,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“I have time,” the chef hissed, nostrils flaring.
A sudden, unexpected urge to cut the son of a bitch to tiny pieces washed over me, but I leaned against one of the steel counters instead, looking both bored and content. “So do I.”
She looked between us like this was a conspiracy, but threw her red mane behind her shoulder and shrugged off our attitude. “Better get started, then.”
Sparrow got down to business straightaway. She almost flipped Pierre the finger when he sarcastically offered her an apron. I watched as she filled up the empty station he assigned her with the ingredients she needed. Her movements were swift and confident as she got comfortable and found everything she needed. I knew the chef set her up with an unfair task. He just gave her the name of the dish and hoped she’d f*ck up. But by the look on his face every time she ran from side to side, holding carrots, beef stock and bay leaves, I had a feeling this girl knew her way around the kitchen, much to his dismay.
While I watched her cook, I suddenly realized it was her art. The pan was her canvas, the ingredients her paint. She cooked with fire in her eyes, with passion in her soul, with love in her heart.