Page 13 of The Unwilling Bride
“I don't serve balanced.”
He steps into my space, and suddenly, the air is gone. He’s a wall of muscle and cold authority, blocking out the rest of the kitchen, until the only thing left in the world is him.
“I serve perfect. My name is above that door. My standing is on every plate. So, when I ask if you can save it, I’m asking if you can make it flawless. Can you?”
He frowns. His blue eyes are glacial.
A ball of anger squeezes my throat, pushing aside my earlier nervousness.
Perfect? I just rebuilt the glaze for the heritage carrots from the brink of disaster. I corrected it under pressure. And he’s standing thereimplying I still haven’t proven myself to him? He still doubts that I can deliver to his standards?
My fingers curl into my palms.
For a second, indignation burns bright and reckless. I want to snap back. To tell him no one hits flawless every time. That you can’t always cook with such mathematical exactness.
That variables exist, and for a reason. It’s the accidents which give rise to moments of genius which make cooking fun.
Then doubt seeps in, colder than his stare.
What if he’s right?
What if my way of thinking is wrong? What if my preference to approaching cooking in a more creative fashion means I’ll only ever remain a good chef and never become a great one?
I swallow. I’m acutely aware of how close he is. The heat rolling off him. That dark, magnetic scent that unsettles my focus. My pulse stumbles.
Focus.
This isn’t about him. It’s about the plate. It’s about honing my craft. About learning from him and outdoing myself or, at least, trying to. So what, if I don’t hit his level of excellence every single time. I’m not going to stop trying.
I set my jaw. “I can’t make it flawless. Not at this consistency.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Then what’s your solution?”
It’s the only one I know he’ll accept. I grab the handle of the pan.
"I remake it. Perfectly.”
5
Harper
"How long will it take you?" he drawls in that gravelly voice of his which I’m fast coming to hate.
And I thought I knew this man.
To be fair, I only met him that one night. Every other time I got together with Phe, he was deployed.
But apparently, he’s someone completely different when it comes to working for him.
How he could be my sweet-tempered best friend Phoenix’s brother; I have no idea.
"Ten minutes," I manage to sputter out.
He fixes me with his cerulean gaze. "You have six."
What the— "That's not?—"
