Page 160 of The Christmas Trap

"I was a Marine. I had many near-death experiences. Each time, I took it as a sign that I’d been given a new lease on life and that I shouldn’t waste it."

"Makes sense." I’m surprised he’s sharing so much of himself. In the months I’ve known him, he’s barely grunted at me. Except for the time he hired me, when he laid out the unwritten rules of his kitchen, which were basically:

The chef is always right.

The chef is always right.

The chef is always right.

Okay, not exactly. But close:

Speak less.

No excuses. Only results.

Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

The last, because so many sous chefs before me had quit. None lasted more than three months. I'm positively a unicorn at six months on the job. You’d think he’d want to find a way to keep me as a result? But apparently, not. Despite his reputation as a nightmare taskmaster—or perhaps, because of it—there's a queue of people lining up to work with him. I'll be replaced in hours, if not minutes. And neither he nor the kitchen—not even the friends I made here—will miss me.

"When I left the Marines, I had one goal in mind. To cook so well, I could not be ignored. I set my mind, not on becoming the best?—"

"No?"

He shakes his head. "I wanted… Still want to be the only one doing what I do. I knew I had to break the rules to create something new. To reinterpret the old classics. To redefine what fine dining meant."

"It’s why you never let a dish leave the kitchen unless it’s flawless."

"I also know that what I’m making here is my legacy. This is the way I will pass something on. An identity. A philosophy. A mindset, perhaps."

I nod, entranced. All of which makes sense. The Michelin stars are like winning gold in Olympics—in the culinary world. You have to be beyond exceptional to have gained three like James has.

"You live by discipline, hierarchy and precision. You have to account for every detail in the kitchen. Orchestrate each dish like a symphony. So each one is a masterpiece."

"You’re as good as your last dish," he agrees.

It’s true. "I don’t disagree, but?—"

His gaze widens. He hadn’t expected me to interject that, huh?

Well, surprise. "When you’re so obsessed with control?—"

His eyebrows rise, probably because I used the word 'obsessed,' but I push on. "—when you’re so obsessed with control that any deviation feels like a failure, then it’s that very control that stifles your creativity."

He goes still. His shoulders seem to turn into boulders. His massive chest stills. He stares, unblinking. Those gray eyes of his turn into pools of glass. Colorless and fathomless. If the last time our eyes met it felt like a breeze had blown in from the Tundra, now it feels like we’re on the moon without any protective gear. That’s how stark and cold it feels. And it has nothing to do with the fact that we’re in a freezer.

My heart seems to stop beating.Did I go too far?Ice seems to bite the space between us.

A fresh wave of goosebumps dots my skin. Without conscious command, my legs seem to move of their own accord, and I to rise to my feet.

I sidle toward the doorway, not daring to look over my shoulder. He hasn’t spoken a word, which is good… Right?

I reach the door and grab the handle when his voice stops me.

"Come here," he orders.

I freeze. The command in his voice snaps at my nerve endings and vibrates to my core. I’m suddenly so turned on. Liquid heat pools between my legs. My nipples tighten.No, no, no.I cannot admit to being so attracted to this man that I’ll do anything he asks of me. Though, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed on in my job. It’s why I put up with his bossiness. Because it secretly turns me on. And that’s so very unprofessional. Because I’m a sous chef with five years of experience.

My last job was with a very well-known restaurant in London. I know what I’m doing. But he treats me like I’m a novice. Still, the absolute authority in his voice, and the fact that he’s my boss, stops me. I pivot, then make my way to him. Coming to a stop in front of him, it feels like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. Or for an audience with the devil himself.