Page 41 of Clinically Delicious
Definitely not trying to impress my smoking hot boss who’d seen me at my absolute worst multiple times and somehow hadn’t fired me yet.
“Okay,” I said, standing up with renewed energy. “Let’s do this. But first, ground rules: you sit at the kitchen counter, you don’t touch anything sharp, and if you see me about to do something stupid, you tell me immediately.”
“Like what?”
“Like if I’m about to set something on fire. Or cut myself. Or accidentally create a situation that requires another hospital visit.”
Megan giggled. “You’re funny.”
“I’m serious! I have a track record.”
We headed into the kitchen, and I felt something shift in my chest. Something that felt almost like... excitement?
No, that wasn’t quite right. It was more like purpose. Like I was about to do something I was actually good at, something that didn’t involve me tripping over my own anxiety or saying the wrong thing or accidentally ogling my employer in a towel.
I could do this. I could cook a meal that would make Dr. Lyon forget about the broken arm and the skateboard incident and every other disaster I’d caused since walking through his door.
I could remind him—and myself—that I wasn’t completely incompetent.
Even if I was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not thinking about the way his shoulders had looked in that towel, or the way his voice had sounded when he’d said my name in the hallway this morning, or the way Fitz had looked at me like I was something interesting.
Nope.Not thinking about any of that.
Just cooking.
Just a simple apology dinner.
Nothing complicated about that at all.
Twenty minutes later, I was in my element.
The kitchen had transformed from Dr. Lyon’s sterile, barely used space into my domain. Ingredients lined the counter in neat rows—chicken breasts, lemons, capers, fresh parsley, garlic, shallots, white wine. I’d found a package of fresh fettuccine in the fridge (thank God the man had good taste in pasta) and heavy cream for a proper sauce.
Megan sat on a stool at the kitchen island, carefully zesting a lemon with her good arm while I prepped the chicken.
“You’re really good at this,” she observed, watching me butterfly the chicken breasts with quick, precise cuts.
“Thanks, sweetie. I used to do this for a living.”
“Really? You were a chef?”
“Almost.” I pounded the chicken flat between two sheets of plastic wrap, the rhythmicthwackoddly satisfying. “I went to culinary school in Boston. Was supposed to work at this really fancy restaurant downtown.”
“What happened?”
Good question, Megan.What happened was that my former best friend since freshman year of culinary school—Tracy‘the backstabbing jezebel’Anderson, with her perfect hair, perfect body and her effortless charm and her ability to make even thehead chef laugh at her jokes—had taken the position that was supposed to be mine.
The position I’d been promised after my externship. The position I’d worked my ass off for, pulling double shifts and perfecting my technique and learning every station until I could work them in my sleep.
The position that Tracy had gotten instead because “she took the initiative and hadn’t bothered to cover her itty-bitty-titties” and “demonstrated her excellent ability to contort her body into any position that would shame any circus acrobat”and “really connected with the head chef in a way that would have had the health inspector issuing a red slip to the department of Health!”
Translation: she’d been better at schmoozing. Better at playing the game. Better at being the kind of sous chef that particular Michelin-starred restaurant clearly desired.
And I’d been... what? Too anxious? Too in my own head? Too busy actually cooking to network properly?
“It didn’t work out,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Sometimes things just don’t go the way you planned.”
“That sucks.”
