Page 19 of The Nanny and the Hothead
Well, perhaps notallof them.
One person had dared to defy him. She’d done it with a salad while calling him astupid hothead. He could still feel the plate crashing into his back. A vegetable carnage of lettuce, avocado slices, diced cucumbers, and tomato wedges scattered around his feet. When he’d finally gathered his wits, he’d caught a flash of the salad-hurling bandit hightailing it out the back door.
Who was the culprit?
It was the quiet redhead with emerald-green eyes!
The one he had to pretend to ignore. She smelled like strawberry sunshine. He could barely avert his gaze when she’d breeze into the kitchen to pick up her orders. He didn’t even have to see her to know she was there. She’d always pulled her auburn locks into a ponytail. It swished and swayed with her every move, tempting him, taunting him as if it were calling out to him.
Come and get me if you can!
He’d be a liar if he said that he hadn’t imagined twisting the locks of hair in his hand and pulling hard as he took her from behind.
He’d played out that fantasy more times than he could count.
But that’s as far as it could go.
Charlotte. That was her name. He didn’t learn the names of any of the waitstaff. But he knew hers. And now she was gone. After branding him a stupid hothead and littering his floor with produce, she’d bolted out of the kitchen. And he hadn’t seen her since.
A damned good thing!
She’d been a distraction. And he’d cut distractions out of his life. That’s how it had to be. But this one, this Charlotte, she was different. The other employees not only feared him, but they also accepted his crap willingly. Not Charlotte. She wasn’t scared of him. The few times he’d caught her eye, he’d found her steady and unflappable. And her observant eyes spoke volumes. She might appear meek, but a strength dwelled beneath the surface. A strength she might not even know she possessed. Not to mention, she clearly wasn’t impressed with the second reason people put up with his bullshit.
What’s reason number two?
He was rich and famous.
He was a who’s who in the food world, thanks to breaking out as a reality TV chef in his early twenties. And things snowballed from there. He’d become a staple on morning TV programs and starred in shows on various food networks. Scratch that. Hewasbasking in the limelight, raking in high TV ratings, putting out cookbooks, getting paid bank to speak at events, and being flown around the globe to cook for royalty until he’d dropped off the radar three years ago when the shit hit the fan.
When he learned a truth that rocked him to his core.
His throat thickened as he recalled the past. But he swallowed it down like a poison pill. Emotions in check, he glanced around the bustling kitchen. His kitchen. Running the way he demanded.
Forget about the past and focus on the food.
Unfortunately, that was a lot harder these days.
He tossed the tasting spoon into a tub containing dirty dishes, then focused his rage on the subpar truffle risotto. He glared at the man who’d screwed with his recipe. “Why the hell did you add extra parmesan?” he snarled as the sous chef shrank.
He’d tasted the imbalance immediately. That was part of his gift, part of what propelled him to stardom in the culinary world. He knew what components went together to create the perfect bite, dish, sandwich, soup. You name it. He could rock the hell out of it. Akin to that damned mouse inRatatouille,his sense of taste and smell was heightened. He was probably a bloodhound in a past life. But whatever you wanted to call it, he had it in spades.
Was it a curse, or was it a blessing? He wasn’t sure. What he did know was that he exacted excellence in the kitchen, and he knew what that tasted like.
News flash: it wasn’t this parmesan massacred slop.
“Sorry, Chef, I’ll remake it,” the sous chef stuttered, anxiously fidgeting with the tie on his apron. The kid looked like he had ants in his pants. But it was Mitch who was truly itching to get out of his skin. Every cell in his body vibrated as the muscles at the base of his neck tightened. And surprisingly, it had nothing to do with the shitty risotto.
No, there was another distraction coming his way. A distraction as innocuous as the detonation of an atom bomb.
He gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to break every damned plate in the restaurant to work out this maddening energy. But he held it together. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he leaned toward the kid, lowering his voice. “It’s a delicate balance,” he began, schooling the young chef. “The fats—like in the parmesan—bring out the flavor. The dish’s rice complements the truffles. There’s a goddamned order to it! A symmetry, a balance,” he hissed. “Follow the recipe to the T. Do it my way or see yourself out.”
“Yes, Chef, thank you, Chef,” the kid replied like an obedient foot soldier.
Mitch eyed the young man. He couldn’t be much older than twenty-one—the age he was when he got his big break, and his name became a household staple. It was eleven years ago, but it felt like a thousand lifetimes had passed between then and now.
He shook off the sappy sentiment. He had no use for it anymore.
“What’s the one rule in my kitchen?” he asked, holding the kid’s gaze as he morphed back into asshole chef mode. He ran a tight ship. He had to. Discipline meant strict adherence to the rule. The culinary world attracted many with colorful backgrounds. That was a nice way of saying that some real screwups graced the back of the house. And once upon a time, he’d been one of them. His first time in a commercial kitchen had been an unmitigated disaster. Discipline saved him. Now, he relied on it in every facet of his life.
