A/N: All rights and characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I'm just toying with them.
"Damnit!" I breathed as the cut on my finger bled and slowly dribbled to my wrist. The new executive chef – James, had bought new knives for the kitchen, and I wasn't used to the way they cut. "Fuck." I groaned loudly, feeling dizzy as I placed the knife on the chopping board and ran my finger under the tap, well aware that I was in the centre of madness. There were people running around everywhere, there was the occasional plate smashing, and then there were the little things, like…cutting fingers, or our food being sent back into the kitchen, and things being sent into an outrageous, organized chaos. James had hired four new staff, and they were still learning their place in the kitchen.
I was the sous chef – the one keeping this kitchen 'organized'. I worked underneath James, and hated it. He used this as an excuse for me to be his kitchen bitch. When James wasn't in the office, he was harassing me in the kitchen. Although this place had never been more stocked with prepping materials, so I had nothing to complain about. Trading utensils for harassment was like second nature to me at the moment. This restaurant was ranked number two in the country, so James expected us to be fighting our way to the top.
I reached into the small cupboard above my bench for the first aid, realizing that I was out of Band-Aids. Perfect. Before I could whine about anything, Ben – one of the waiters, pushed the door open to the kitchen, slapping a plate onto the counter and looked at me pointedly. "The couple at twenty-nine are asking what you think a rare steak looks like." He said with a 'sorry it had to be you,' kind of face. I stared at him with an open mouth, not one of my dishes had ever been sent back into my kitchen. I released a string of profanities under my breath. Panicking, unsure what to do, I muttered, "Seriously, the nerve of some people…"
Wrapping my finger in a cloth and taking the plate off of the counter, I fired up a steak.
Fact number two – we were not only the second ranked restaurant in the country, we also had the most expensive food and drinks, so it wasn't uncommon for couples to come in, men trying to impress their girlfriends by ordering the most expensive things on the menu. They in fact, burnt a hole in their credit card, by trying to get into their panties. Good thing I had an employee discount – or, I could cook even better food at home, in my apartment.
It was ten o'clock. We stopped serving at ten-thirty, and stayed open until eleven thirty for drinks. Usually, everyone was gone by eleven, and I let staff clean and go, so I could be left alone with a red wine at the bar.
I bent over the counter and inspected the dish. It was a beautiful steak, just pink enough, a splash of red in the centre, garnished with gorgeous herbs and spices. It was a shame to see it go to waste due to some ass-holey guy trying to impress his pick of the month. "If you don't pick your act up," James's breath hovered over my neck, "you're being cut." I sighed and turned around, wiping my fingers across my coat before plucking his greasy fingers away and crossing my arms. I hated it when James hovered – it made me clumsier in the kitchen, and all around pissed off.
"James, you know I'm the best in this city alone - it'd be your loss, not mine. I'm sure any other place would be thrilled to have me." I bluffed casually.
"I'm sure I could find a surpassing sous chef." He countered, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge me.
I knew James, inside and out. His face was an open book. He knew that if I left, this restaurant would suffer, and the number one place was just too much to let slip through his fingers. He was a competitive, stubborn, piece of work.
"Well I'm sure you'd have to go halfway across the country. I could just transfer to La Bella Italia…it would be much more…efficient, for me. It's closer to my apartment." La Bella Italia was the number one restaurant in the country; they served Italian…obviously, and trained their staff like the military.
"They wouldn't get their money's worth. I'm sure you'd have more customers throwing plates at you."
I would never say such a thing about my cooking. Tonight was the first time a dish had been sent back to my kitchen. I'd been working here for four years. To me, at least, that was a pretty spectacular track record.
"Why are you such a pompous ass?" I snapped back at him, I wasn't afraid of James.
"Why do you still have customers that are complaining? Not good enough of a cook?" He retorted smarmily. I felt the blood boil underneath my lips and bit my cheek before I said anything that could cost me my job.
Glancing around the kitchen, I realized that we were making a scene, and decided to make the most of it. I threw my tongs at him, and then decided to ignore him as he held the smirk on his face, sliding the plate to Ben, the waiter. I heard my favourite person in the kitchen – one of the new staff, actually, Christina, yell, "Fight the power!" Earning a few chuckles from the other staff, and making me smirk, despite my awful mood. "Bon appétit." I said, as he balanced plates across his forearms and backed out of the kitchen.
Deciding I needed a break, I asked Kate to take over the next few orders for me.
I strolled into the wine cellar. It was a small, dark, soundproof room. I used it when James, in particular, was bothering me. I let my lungs fill with the rich aroma of wine as I sunk onto the small wooden crater in the corner of the room.
I was twenty-six years old, and in love with food that ignited your taste buds. Food could be everything - sexy, sensual, delicious, and surprising - everything in a good man.
My mother had taught me how to cook – and although she was an obtuse drunk, some of her best secrets came out when she was intoxicated.
She had passed away when I was eighteen, of liver failure. I had sat next to her hospital bed, and one of the things she had told me frequently was, 'I don't regret drinking. If that is what will kill me, I'll gladly die with my selection of poison.' She was one of my favourite people in the world.
I didn't have a father, either. He died when I was little – about eighteen months old. Once Renee passed, I had made the decision to enroll myself in cooking school when I realized that I was actually pretty good, and I knew that Renee would have supported the decision.
I heard the suction of the door close and in walked Ben with a guilty expression on his face. "I thought you'd be in here. The couple at 29 wanted me to give this to you…" He reluctantly gave me a napkin with ink scrawled across, and then proceeded to clamber out of the room.
I want a refund; I will be contacting your head of management for poor service, and all around poor cooking.
I sighed and rolled my head back so I could hit it quietly against the wall a few times.
Fact number three – I was sleep deprived.
I worked from wee hours of the morning (nine am is in that category), until late. I worked every day until Sunday, where I snuggled into my duvet until the afternoon, and could only be bothered to eat unreal food and watch movies. Why was Sunday so close to Monday, and Monday so goddamn far away from Sunday? Don't get me wrong. I loved work. I loved cooking – food was basically my life. My best friends were a knife and chopping board, and my sex life included a Tupperware box of tiramisu.
Once the night was over, I downed my wine and scooted across Fifth Avenue with my scarf blowing in the wind. I had closed the door to my apartment, stripped off my work clothes and crawled into my duvet.
The window in my bedroom opened to a view of the city. It was beautiful.
I tried to count the stars before I fell asleep.
In the morning, rain was sliding down my window. Seattle was very rarely sunny, but beautiful nonetheless. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else.
I had made pancakes and maple syrup, with mascarpone and bacon. I rocked my hips and danced around in the kitchen in my underwear to whatever song was on the radio while I whisked the batter. I called it my Canadian breakfast.
On a full stomach, I dashed into work, directly into James's office.
He sat with his legs kicked up on his own table, arms folded behind his head, as if he were waiting for me.
"I need to talk to you about something." He looked pointedly at me, removing his feet from the desk and folding them under the table. He folded his hands under his chin and narrowed his eyes, as if wondering how I'd approach whatever he was about to tell me. "We need another sous chef." My jaw dropped to the floor.
"What the hell do you mean we need another sous chef?" I screamed, placing my hands on his desk. "Am I not enough? I run the whole goddamn kitchen, James, and everything's running fine." I fired off at him. I was extremely upset; he wanted to hire another sous chef. Was he trying to replace me?
"You and I both know that you are a great chef, Bella…almost better than I am, but we need this extra person. You can share the kitchen. I'd ask you to do the interviews with me, but when you left without your wine last night, I took the opportunity to interview a guy called Edward..." I narrowed my eyes at him as he flipped through his pocket diary. "Cullen. Edward Cullen. I couldn't pass him up, Bella. His reputation is exceptional." I let out the gust of hot, angry air I'd been holding in my lungs, unsure of what to say. Instead, I angrily flipped him off and walked out of his office, snatching my chef whites from the rack outside of the kitchen and tying them tightly around my waist. I used my behind to open the swinging door while I tied my hair back in a messy bun. Realizing that James had followed me from his office made me that much more pissed off at him. Choosing to ignore him and begin my prep for today's menu, I stopped dead in my tracks just as James said, in my ear, "He starts today. Be nice."
In front of me, at my bench, was a gorgeous, obviously arrogant man, smirking at me as if he'd just watched the show I'd made.
A/N: Hello all! I'd just like to congratulate you on making your pick of this story :) it'll be a rollercoaster, i promise. Reviews are like a tupperware box of tiramisu. x