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“Fucking Christ, Flores, what thefuckdid you do?” Henley snarls, his bloated face turning a deep, furious shade of red. He advances on me, his heavy steps weighted with what appears to be an intent to tear me apart like a fresh baguette. I brace myself for the rage I deserve, my body frozen in place.

“Stand down, Henley,” Greyson snaps, his arms crossed over his muscular chest and a look of severe displeasure on his face. “I’ll handle her.” Judging from the fierce tempest in Greyson’s crystalline eyes, I think I’d rather take my chances with Henley. At least I know Henley isn’t creative enough to devise some cruel and unusual torture to punish me.

“Stand down?” Henley splutters. “The bitch just ruined tonight’s dessert, and you want me tostand down?”

Greyson bristles, and I get the distinct impression I’m not the only one he’s angry with. “Things don’t always go according to plan in the kitchen, Henley. A true chef knows how to improvise.” He glares at the stout pastry chef a moment before turning his gaze on me. “Flores, what did you work on last week when I instructed you to explore herbal flavors?”

If every chef’s attention wasn’t fixed on me after I loudly demolished a sheet of pastry, it certainly is now. My sentencing of morning practice wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t common knowledge either. Not until now. And now half thechefs in the room are judging me with jealousy in their eyes—like Iwantto be on the receiving end of Greyson’s special, sadistic attention.

“Brown butter and rosemary ice cream, chef,” I answer, focusing on the pain in my left palm to keep from cowering away from the sudden spotlight I didn’t ask for. “There’s a quart of it in the freezer.”

Greyson nods his head, his blue eyes a little less icy than they were before. “Good.” He turns back to Henley. “Use that.”

Henley scoffs. “That will never be enough for one hundred dishes.”

“Keep the portions small. What else, chef?”

It takes me a moment to realize Greyson is addressing me, not Chef Henley. I have to think quickly, a thousand different combinations running through my head at once. “Fresh fruit from our morning produce delivery? Balsamic seared strawberries would give it a nice balance.”

“Good. And a third element?”

I see it in my head so clearly, it’s like I’ve made the dish already. “Spiked chocolate curls. White chocolate with Elderflower. Dark chocolate with Grand Marnier.”

“Perfect.” And I swear there’s a smile on his lips, though I haven’t the faintest idea what the fuck put it there. “Henley, can you get that pulled together in time?”

Henley splutters like he can’t imagine a greater humiliation than having to prepare a dessertI’vecreated. As if I haven’t dutifully assembled his shitty little cakes and mouses every day for the past six months. “I can try,” he snaps. “But our diners will betrès déçus.”

I roll my eyes at his sparse use of French. Even though Greyson is the only one in the kitchen fluent in French, some of the others like to throw it in here and there to make themselves feel superior. It’s a power tactic that I’ve hated since my first weekhere. Mind you, I regularly slip with a few Spanish phrases of my own, but that isn’t to make myself feel more exclusive—it’s to tell these two bastards to take it up the ass without them knowing.

“Tell them they’re getting an exclusive, off-menu experience,” Greyson orders with a careless wave of his hand. “It’s gourmet dining, chef—the smaller the food, the higher the luxury. If we gave our elite patrons a crumb, they’d rave about it to no end. Trust me, they’ll eat this shit up.”

I glance up at Greyson, my brows furrowed in confusion. This whole time, I thought he belonged with the elite clients he served. Given his French background, I expected nothing less. But I’m reminded that I know nothing about Gavin Greyson before he earned his fame in Paris. He grew up somewhere in Chicago, but I couldn’t say where. And his scathing words regarding gourmet dining and his rich patrons make me think that maybe his background isn’t so different from mine after all.

“If you say so, chef,” Henley grumbles. “You’re the boss.”

“Indeed I am.” His blue eyes turn on me, and any trace of that rare smile has disappeared. “Flores, take care of that burn on your hand then wait in my office. Now.”

Shit, I’m in so much trouble.

Chapter Nine

ANGÉLICA

Ihaven’t been in Greyson’s office since the day we met. And I’m even more terrified now than I was then. My burned hand hurts like hell in spite of the ointment I put on it, and it feels like I’ve been waiting hours. The damn clock on the wall reminds me it’s only been thirty five minutes. If he was going to wait until after dinner finished for the evening to yell at me, he could have at least let me help prep the dessert courseIcreated. But no, how very typical that part of Greyson’s punishment for my fuck-up is sitting in an empty office while Henley plates my dessert and takes all the credit. I’d be furious if I wasn’t so goddamn tired.

I must fall asleep at some point because my head is resting on Greyson’s desk when he finally storms into the room. I rub my bleary eyes and try to look like I didn’t just take a nap on his desk. I can tell from the stern set of his jaw that he’s still livid about my earlier mistake, and I definitely don’t want to give him more ammunition when he’s in one of his usual bad moods.

“Sleeping on the job, Flores?” he seethes, ripping off his dirty, black apron and throwing it across the desk. Like always, he’swearing full black, his shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck. I’ve never seen what he looks like underneath. He keeps himself so covered, I’ve wondered if maybe he’s scarred below all that black. Not that scars would make him any less beautiful.

“Maybe if you didn’t stay up all night partying, you wouldn’t be throwing trays of pastry on my kitchen floor,” he adds, the judgment in his voice thick and oppressive as he throws himself into the chair across from me.

Indignation crackles under my skin at the false accusation. “I don’tparty,” I hiss, leaning over his desk so that I can glare at him. “This job barely allows me enough time to sleep and eat, so how the fuck would I make time to go out and social?Ni siquiera he follado en seis meses,” I add under my breath, my words bitter as burned garlic.

“And what exactly does that mean?” He has that annoyed crease between his brows that always appears when I use Spanish around him. Apparentlyhedoesn’t like being in the dark, but speaking full French in the kitchen is entirely acceptable. Men are such champions of double standards.

“Why don’t you add another language to your vast collection and figure it out?” I answer with a sweet smile.

“Angélica,” he warns, and my skin prickles as a warm rush of heat washes over me. He never uses my first name, not since he butchered it when we first met. And it’s clear from the way he says it now that he’s been practicing. The thought twists at my insides in the strangest way.