Page 26 of All We Need

Honestly,Imust be bored ifIwas hoping for something more exciting.Thewhite card sits nicely in the display case, pristine and bold.

Now,I’mhungry.ThefoodIhad the other week was delicious.Icould definitely eat.Myeyes scan the menu, contemplating what to have when something doesn’t look right.

Tuna tartare?

That’s one of my favorite meals.Iwouldn’t have turned that down for oysters.

The longerIscrutinize each item, realization sinks in.

This is not the same menuIwas given during my first visit.

The doubt that sat heavy in the pit of my stomach earlier switches to rage.

I spent so long proving myself in my career, and whileI’mswimming in new territory,Irefuse to be trivialized here.Letalone by a smooth-talking, jokester of a man whose biggest concern is the dents in his cheeks.

With heated determination,Iwhip the restaurant door open and go on the hunt to prove why my true colors burn red, orange, and yellow.

I’m done being underestimated, especially byBoothSadler.

CHAPTER NINE

booth

The sharp undersideof the pass digs into my palms asIclutch the edge of the stainless steel.

Gloria was the only chefIever worked for, and for a woman who reminded me of my grandmother, she had a bite like a rottweiler if you didn’t do what she said.Whenpromoted,Ipromised myselfIwouldn’t be your typical jackass of a head chef who threw his weight around and demanded respect rather than earning it.

That’s why, despiteKyle’stremendous fuckup,Iremain calm.

Even though this is the third serving of crab cakes he’s overcooked tonight.

“Kyle.”Myvoice carries over the clatter of pans. “Aword?”

From the other end of the kitchen, his resounding sigh has my jaw twitching in annoyance.Thecracking noise isn’t from my knuckles, but my molars grinding together as my last ounce of patience wears thin.

We’re too slammed for you to lose your cool now,Booth.

“Today, please,Kyle.”Mywords are pinched asIprompt him.

The sound of his shoes slapping against the linoleum floor lets me know he’s taking his sweet-ass time.Hesidles up next to me, bristling, his tone bored. “What?”

Breathe.Breathe.Breathe.

“Ten minutes agoItold youthis”—Islide the entrée in front of him—“is not acceptable.Thefirst time you said it was a mistake.Thesecond you blamed the fryer.What’sthe excuse this time?”

We stare each other down.Hiswhite chef jacket is stained already.Hasit been cleaned since his last shift?

An arrogant twitch of his lips leaves my calm exterior crumbling. “Maybethe crab cakes were made poorly,Chef.”

He knowsIprepped those crab cakes this morning.

After he forgot to do it last night.

Service continues around us, andSimoncovers me asIstand off withKyle.Mysous is equally as tired asIam with our line cook’s attitude.

The sound of the door swinging on its hinges hasKyle’sattention redirected, and his expression shifts to confusion.

I may not be a hotheaded boss who rules his kitchen by screaming and smashing plates in a tantrum, butI’malso not a pushover.

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