Chapter One

Control. That’s what he likes the most about running his own kitchen.

Everything has its place. Everyone has their roles to fulfill. Everything is measured and timed and seasoned.

Perfection.

He expects nothing less.

He likes his knives dangerously sharp—it’s more dangerous to work with a dull blade—and he likes his waitstaff to pick up orders the second the plates hit the line. He’s never bothered with a chef ’s hat because they’re quite frankly pompous as fuck and it’s hot enough in here as it is. He keeps his apron clean and the sleeves of his black chef jacket rolled up to just below his elbows.

Trained at the prestigious Gagnon-Allard School of Culinary Arts, he’s the pristine image of the world-class chef everyone believes him to be. He’s the great and mighty head chef of La Rouge, Alexander Chen. Under his guidance, the restaurant has achieved three Michelin stars—the epitome of culinary prestige.

But right now?

Right now, he’s stressed as fuck, and boy howdy does his kitchen staff know it.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice booming over the roar of hood fans and sizzling skillets. While the noises of the kitchen don’t stop, the talking does. None of the other chefs dare make a peep.

“A steak,” Peter answers evenly, though the hard set of his jaw betrays his cool tone.

Alexander stiffens, staring down his nose at the rotisseur. He lowers his voice, quieter than before and somehow more frighten­ing than when he was yelling. “I don’t want to make a parody of myself, Drenton. But if this steak were any rarer, it’d still be alive on the damn pasture. The table wants it cooked well-done.”

Peter looks like he wants to cry. Embarrassing for a man in his mid-thirties, but alas—Alexander has that effect on people.

“But these are prime triple A! Just look at the marbling! Cooking them well-done would be—”

“An absolute travesty and crime against God? I know. But it’s what the customer wants. Refire and run it, then I need another one for table ten on the fly.”

Peter gestures to the stove beside him with a huff. “Yes, Chef, but I’ve been trying to—”

“I don’t need your excuses. I need a cook who can do their damn job.”

Freddie, the pâtissier, hesitantly clears his throat. “Um, Chef?”

Alexander turns in one swift motion, the movement both effortlessly aggressive and smooth. He’s an owl making a pinpoint turn midair to lay its sights on new prey. Freddie is only a few inches shorter than Alexander, and just as broad. Nevertheless, he tries—and fails—to hide a grimace.

“The new hire is here. For the sous chef position.”

Alexander’s nostrils flare. “What sous chef?”

It’s at this exact moment Alexander spots movement on his periphery. All he catches is a glimpse, but it’s more than enough. A wisp of light-brown hair. Tanned skin. The worn-down fabric of a white chef ’s coat that’s seen better days.

Then he remembers. Alexander’s last sous chef, Mitchell, left almost a week ago. He hadn’t even bothered to tell Alexander in person that he quit. The sniveling weasel had stuffed his resigna­tion letter into the pocket of one of Alexander’s spare aprons, and that was that. Couldn’t handle the demands of the job, apparently. Very few can.

Alexander can’t say that it was a surprise. It was more of an inconvenience, if anything, trying to find a replacement. Despite his confidence as a chef, he knows handling an entire kitchen like this one without a second-in-command would be next to impos­sible. There are too many moving parts, too many chefs to keep in line. This kind of work requires a divide-and-conquer approach.
Hence the new, last-minute hire.

The new hire that’s now staring up at him expectantly. There’s something oddly familiar about her, but Alexander can’t quite figure out why.

“You’re not what I was expecting,” Alexander states.

He half expects her to blanch or flush or quiver like a mouse beneath his intense scrutiny. Alexander’s more than aware of the kind of effect he has on people. The kitchen is his kingdom, and as head chef, he’s the rightful king.

He’s intimidating. He’s powerful. He’s in his element.

The woman lifts her chin and holds his gaze instead, defiance in her eyes. “I get that a lot,” she replies calmly, the lovely lilt of an accent gracing her words. It sounds Southern, but it isn’t distinct enough for Alexander to pinpoint.

She sticks her hand out and says, “I’m Eden. Eden Monroe. It’s nice to meet you.”

Alexander doesn’t shake her hand. He glances at his watch instead. “You’re late.”

Eden frowns. “I’m on time for my scheduled shift. You said on the phone to be here at three.”

He glares at the other kitchen staff. “What’s rule one, people?” he prompts.

“Fifteen minutes early is on time, on time is late, and if you’re late, don’t show up at all,” the chorus of chefs mumble in practiced unison. They sound like robots, his policy on tardiness so drilled into their brains that the response is automatic.

Again, Eden doesn’t seem fazed. She takes it in stride, even going so far as to give Alexander a polite—albeit incredibly tight— smile. “Duly noted. Won’t happen again, Chef.”

Chef.

The way she says it makes his ears ring. It’s gentle, but there’s a hint of snark buried somewhere deep down.

He decides he doesn’t like it.

Alexander gives her a disinterested once over. She’s short, no more than five feet to his six. Her oversized chef ’s jacket looks more like an artist’s smock than a professional’s uniform. Alexander notes the splash of faded freckles across the top of her cheeks and bridge of her nose. They seem to stand out against the spotless steel environment of his kitchen.

There’s something strange about her demeanor, he notices. Wide-eyed and jumpy like a newborn foal, her gaze darting around his state-of-the-art kitchen—with its fleet of polished steel gas ranges, designated task stations, and impeccably organized army of staff—as if she’s stepped into Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and can hardly believe her luck. Too green, too unsure. She doesn’t look like she belongs here.

It’s not that he doesn’t think women can cook. Far from it. Some of his greatest inspirations growing up were female chefs: Julia Child, Nigella Lawson, Christine Hà. And, of course, his mother.

It’s just that Eden’s résumé boasted accolades and years of prior experience working in kitchens like this one. He has a hard time believing that the woman standing before him is going to be his new sous. She’s so—well—ordinary.

Most sous chefs he’s worked with have an air of authority about them. It’s not arrogance necessarily, though Alexander’s no stranger to a hotshot sous with an ego too big for their apron. They’re the ones in charge of calling the shots when the head chef is otherwise occupied. They’re the ones hungry and eager to move up the ladder, to learn all that they can and prove them­selves in preparation for one day running kitchens of their own.

Eden is . . . not that.

But the night is young, and Eden hasn’t even had the chance to prove she’s not completely useless. If she is, Alexander will have her replaced. It’s just that simple. There are plenty of ambi­tious chefs out there who’d kill for an opportunity to work in his kitchen.

Between running La Rouge and trying to find a replacement sous chef, he must have gotten his dates wrong. A mistake he won’t make again. He’ll conduct a more formal interview tomor­row, but for now, he needs all hands on deck.

“Drenton,” he snaps. “Give her a tour. Keep her at your station for tonight.”

“And the steak?”

“I’ll make the damn thing myself.” Alexander turns to Eden, more than a little aware of all the chits printing out on the line. “Tomorrow, Monroe. Two hours early.”

She noticeably swallows. He finds satisfaction in finally elicit­ing a normal response. He’s used to being on the receiving end of wide-eyed timidity.

“Two hours? I don’t know if I can make it.”

“Training starts immediately. Unless you don’t think you can handle it. If that’s the case, you can just go. You’ll only be in the way.”

She crosses her arms. “Who says I can’t handle it?”

Alexander doesn’t bother responding. It’s an abnormally busy day, and even though the restaurant has only been open for an hour, orders are piling up. There are still a million and one things to do, and answering rhetorical questions isn’t on his list.

Tickets to call.

Dishes to verify and plate.

Steaks to not screw up.

Dinner rush hits them like a tidal wave, but Alexander’s pre­pared. He always is. He’s been doing this long enough to know how to keep things moving. Lack of momentum is the fastest way to ruin a night. Food stops going out, orders keep coming in, chefs become overwhelmed with ten different dishes they’re trying to prepare at the exact same time. It’s a nightmare.

So he keeps things moving, calling out times and demanding accountability, and more often than not yelling at his chefs to get their heads out of their asses and focus on the tables that have been waiting the longest. It’s an extra headache not having a sous chef at the ready to help him with plating and putting out fires— one of them quite literal—but he manages somehow.

By the end of the night, his feet hurt. His arches ache and his back is sore from carrying his chefs through the worst of it. He doesn’t even take his break because, for him, there’s no such thing as sitting down on the job, not even for a breather.

He’s tired and getting agitated, his fingers itching for a smoke. Even when there’s a backup in the dish pit and one of the idiot waitstaff drops an entire tray of food out front, Alexander sucks it up, leans into the throbbing pain in his feet, and helps send out the last of the dessert that Freddie has diligently prepared. Alexander has to give credit where credit is due. Freddie’s hand­made éclairs are to die for. It’s just a shame he takes forever to make them.

Alexander’s about to ring the bell to call for a pickup when some­thing distracts him. A woman’s laugh.

Eden’s laugh.

It’s light, and the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

He risks a glance over his shoulder as he stabs the last chit onto the check spindle. Eden and Peter are at the meat station, already cleaning up the area and preparing for closing. They speak in hushed tones, almost conspiratorial, looking at ease with one another. They look like this is perfectly natural, two old friends who’ve done this countless times before. It doesn’t take long before Freddie wanders over and joins the conversation. Alexander briefly wonders what they’re talking about. It’s not like anyone willingly talks to him about nonwork things.

Then he shakes his head. He doesn’t care. He rings the bell and sends out the last order of the day.

Eden laughs again, bright and bubbly.

Alexander does his best to ignore her wide smile and concen­trates on overseeing cleanup. He sincerely hopes she isn’t this much of a chatterbox once she’s fully trained. He doesn’t like per­sonal conversations during work hours. There’s too much going on in a kitchen, lots of sharp objects and hot metal and scalding water. Unnecessary small talk will only get in his way of giving out clear, concise orders.

His dark-brown eyes lock with her light-hazel ones. Eden looks away quickly, and he suddenly realizes that he’s been glaring this whole time. He turns to head toward the kitchen doors to check on the maître d’. The sooner the last customers eat, pay and leave, the sooner they can all clock out and call it a night.

Somewhere deep down, Alexander knows that tomorrow’s training will prove incredibly . . . interesting.