Frowning, I walk past her and go to the walk-in fridge. I scan the shelves, grabbing the butter, heavy cream, lobster, and all the other ingredients I can fit in my arms. I set them on the counter, and search until I find the right size pots.
Cheryl is watching me closely. I'm not sure if she's taking notes in her head or if I'm doing this all wrong. But I know this recipe, and I'm confident I can do this right. I chop the carrots and onion, the fresh parsley, tarragon, and thyme sprigs.
“Brandy and white wine. . .” I say out loud, looking around. I glance at Cheryl, and she shrugs her shoulder, but doesn't guide me to where it is. “All right, I'll find it myself.”
I cross the kitchen, but don't see any liquor for cooking. With my hands on my hips, my eyes spot the hallway that Monroe walked down. Maybe it's down there, I think to myself. Taking the sharp corner, I slam into another wall.
“Whoa,” he says, his hands gripping my arms and keeping me upright. “You need to slow down and watch where you're going.”
His fingertips press into my arms, sending a wave of electricity buzzing through my skin. I can feel the heat flush my cheeks and my heart starts to race. His eyes pin me in place as he looks down at me.
I'm in awe. He's hard as granite, his hands so large they wrap all the way around my arms. I can smell his cologne. Sandalwood and mint, that's what's invading my senses. He smells so damn good I want to lean in and smell more of him.
Monroe licks his lips as he releases my arms. His fingers linger for a long second on my skin, filling my body with intense heat. I swallow hard as his eyes soften. His thumbs swirl across my arm before he releases me completely. Our eyes dance around each other for a moment. His move around my face, hovering over my lips, then coming back to my eyes.
He clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair. “I don't want to see you being so neglectful in my kitchen again. Be aware, and always know your surroundings. You're not the only one working in this kitchen.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Martisse, I'm just looking for the white wine and brandy for the bisque. I have no idea where it is.”
He looks up at Cheryl, his brows knitting hard. “So, you haven't had the tour yet. We need to fix that,” he says it loud enough so she hears him.
Cheryl's peeking over her shoulder, and quickly turns back to what she's doing.
“Call me Monroe,” he says. He jerks his head for me to follow him. “We keep all that stuff back here.”
I follow him down the hall to another storage room. My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I ignore it as he points at different items. Monroe hands me the brandy and the white wine, and I follow him back into the hall.
“Thank you, Mr. Martisse.”
“Monroe,” he corrects me.
“Right, Monroe.”
“One more thing.” He holds up his finger and pulls open the door to his right. Monroe goes inside, coming back out holding a white coat. “If you're working for me, you need to look like it. Here, put this on.”
I take the chef coat and put it on. It fits perfectly, as if he already knew what size I wore. Buttoning the front, I run the pads of my fingers over the embroidered logo on the left breast. I love it.
“That's better, now you look like you belong here. All right, after you prep the bisque, I want you to start seasoning the scallops, and then take care of the sweet potatoes I brought in.”
“Absolutely,” I say, trying to not sound too moony over his looks. I need to stay professional. Monroe is definitely a guy who takes his business seriously, and I plan on showing him that I'm a serious chef, too.
Cheryl is glaring at me but doesn't say a word. What is she going to say? She knows as well as I do that he expected her to give me a tour and show me the ropes. She didn't. She chose to treat me like a thorn in her side instead of her new co-worker.
My phone buzzes a second time, so I check to see if my new boss is around. He's not. Tugging my phone out quickly, I see it's my best friend Corrine.
How's it going? is the first text. The second that came in a few minutes later is, Hello? You dead?
Not dead, but busy for sure. And it's good so far, I text back.
And your boss? I've heard he's easy on the eyes. So, how hot is he?
I giggle to myself and glance over my shoulder again. It's still safe. Cheryl is busy making fresh French fries, and she's facing away from me.