"I expect you all to get up to speed on the preparation of Maribel's dish." Tyler turns in a circle as he addresses everyone. His chef's jacket pressed to perfection, his dark slacks just as pristine. His hair is trimmed again, and the stubble that was present the last time he ate me to orgasm has been wiped away with the edge of a blade. "The dish debuts on the menu tomorrow."
Tomorrow? That means that I'll spend the rest of today cleaning whole salmons, before I filet them for the real chefs to cook for lunch.
***
I close the cooler for the last time, grateful that my shift has finished for the day. My hands are dry and swollen from working near water the entire day. I thought I'd be put on the fish station since Darrell has told me repeatedly how amazed he is with my knife skills.
That never happened. He gave the job of working with the salmon to Drea and another junior chef who had to show her step-by-step what to do. I picked up the slack left by them which meant peeling potatoes and carrots for hours straight.
Once I was done with that, I helped with dinner service doing garnishes. I'm exhausted and as soon as I'm home, I'm going to bed.
I'm about to leave the kitchen to head to the area where the lockers are. It's a small room, tucked in the corner of the kitchen. Each employee is given a narrow metal locker to store their belongings during their shift. Although each locker comes equipped with a padlock, I'm one of the few who actually make use of it. I lock my purse in it before I start every shift.
I take a step and then I see Tyler round the corner from the dining room. He's rushed, a scowl on his face, perspiration dotting his forehead. Chef Monroe entertained the mayor and his wife tonight at the chef's table.
Unfortunately, all didn't go as planned. There were small mistakes made by the head chef that resulted in the mayor's wife refusing to eat her lamb because it was undercooked.
I didn't take any enjoyment in that. If someone fucks up, it's a reflection of all of us. Tyler is the one who takes it the hardest though.
"Cadence," he calls my name from across the kitchen. "I want to talk to you."
I want to go home and make a tent out of my bedsheets so I can camp out there for the night, or maybe a few nights.
"Not tonight," I say curtly. "I'm going home. I'll be back before noon tomorrow. You can talk to me then."
"The attitude," he begins as he crosses the space separating us. "What's that about?"
How rich that he's questioning me on my attitude. I did the job I was required to do. I'm off the clock. I don't owe him a thing, but I will offer a simple explanation. "I don't have an attitude, Chef. I'm tired. I'd like to go home now."
He kisses my forehead as I stand there seething with unbridled resentment and exhaustion. "I'll take you home, Cadence. We can leave right now."
CHAPTER 18
"I meant I wanted to go to my home," I say as we enter his apartment. It's the second time I've been here and I don't feel any more comfortable than I did the first time.
It's a large space, although admittedly it's not as extravagant as it was in my imagination. I was basing my perception on the piece that was written about him in the New York Times last year. It was a feature article about the opening of Nova and although most of the pictures accompanying the two page spread were taken at the restaurant as it was being designed, there was one taken here, in his apartment.
I used the memory of that image, combined with the one on the cover of his cookbook to conjure up a bachelor pad for the ages. The reality is an understated one bedroom apartment, with a custom designed kitchen and an uninhibited view of Central Park.
He lives simply. His life dedicated to his craft. I've been witness to that for weeks now. His existence is centered on the restaurant. Nova's success is as critical to him as the blood in his veins. He carries the weight of the staff's failures on his shoulders, as he is tonight.
"Her dish was better than your dish, Cadence."
I knew we'd discuss this, hell I thought it would happen earlier today after that meeting, but it hadn't. Instead, he avoided me, or maybe I wanted to believe that's what he was doing.
"You never tried mine, Chef."
"Tyler."
"You never tried my dish, Chef," I repeat the salutation on purpose. We may be in his apartment but this is a business discussion. "You passed on it. How could you determine her dish was better if you hadn't tried mine?"
"You're not liberal in your use of seasonings." He slides out of his chef's jacket. "I watched you prepare it. I tasted the sauce when you ran to get the plates for presentation. It wasn't on par with what Maribel cooked."
I stand my ground, watching as he crosses the room to a wooden hutch that houses a makeshift bar. He pours two fingers of amber liquid into one tumbler, before he swallows it back. He refills it again and then pours the same into another tumbler.
I take it when he offers, sipping the liquid. It's whiskey. The strength of the alcohol burns a path down my throat. "You sampled the other three dishes and passed on mine. Everyone noticed."
"I don't care if they noticed, you shouldn't either." He waves his hand toward the sofa, but I don't budge.