Chapter 2 Confusion

Adam Black POV

I have a restaurant to run.

And a day far too packed to deal with nonsense.

As if it wasn't enough that one of the waiters had quit suddenly - no notice, no respect, just a "new path" as if this were some reality show - now I had to hire a replacement. And as the cherry on top of the chaos cake, today the intern was due to arrive. Or rather, the "apprentice."

A complete waste of my time.

I know, logically, that everyone deserves a chance when they're starting out. But why here? Why in my restaurant? They could just as easily waste some other chef's time - in a place where the pressure isn't constant and the standards aren't stitched into the walls.

Here, there's no room for mistakes.

Mateus Grayson - my business partner - thought it would be a "brilliant" idea to create a contest. "A way to discover new talent," he said. "Great promo for the restaurant." Cheap labour, of course. As if I'd fall for that. An intern.

And to make matters worse, it was international. One of those "visionary" ideas from a social media campaign - cooked up by a marketing agency to draw attention.

More visibility, more reach, more logistics to give me a migraine.

What did it actually add?

Nothing.

Waste of time. Headaches.

I opened the laptop to review the file of the intern who was supposed to arrive.

Jordan Parker.

No photo. Of course. Either a file error or someone forgot the image. And naturally, no one corrected it. Great start. Incompetence at the first click.

I sighed.

I hate incompetence.

And I hate delays.

I looked at the clock. The waitress I hired to fill the open spot should've arrived already. Nothing. No sign. Off to a great start.

Is it too much to ask for a team that shows up on time and knows how to do the basics without me having to supervise every damn thing?

I was about to call Clara Moreau, my front-of-house manager, when my phone buzzed with a notification from the entrance intercom.

Someone had just arrived.

Still more than an hour before the intern was due. It had to be the new waitress.

Brilliant. Punctuality was already optional, it seemed.

Excellent. I was already half in the mood to fire her before she even started.

I made my way to the entrance with firm steps, keeping my tone in check so I wouldn't start shouting too early. I saw Clara speaking with a young woman - too young. Early twenties, maybe. At least she looked presentable. Pretty, even, despite the glasses taking up half her face.

Great. A waitress who needs glasses to see.

Brown hair pulled into a rushed but functional ponytail.

As soon as they spotted me, Clara pointed in my direction and the girl started walking over.

"Hi! I'm..." she began, before tripping over her own foot.

By instinct, I stepped forward to catch her, but all I felt was a tug on my shirt sleeve.

She fell anyway - knees to the floor, face flushed with a muffled "Ouch" - and took part of my shirt with her.

I stood still. Looked down.

The sleeve was torn. Stretched out. A hole in the fabric revealed part of my shoulder.

She jumped up immediately, red from ears to toes, wide-eyed.

"Oh my God... I... I tore your... shirt?!" she stammered, horrified.

"Looks like it," I replied, dry.

"I can pay for a new one! I mean, I can try..."

I tossed her the waitress uniform I had in hand.

"You can start doing what you were hired to do."

"But I..."

I didn't care. Not one bit. I'd already lost too many minutes to this.

________________________________________

Jordan POV

There I was, holding a uniform, my face burning with shame and the very real sensation that I had just ruined everything - and I hadn't even set foot in the kitchen yet.

I was nervous. My heart was pounding so loud it almost drowned out my thoughts. When I stepped forward to greet him and introduce myself, I don't even know how - black magic, maybe? - but I tripped over my own foot. Classic. He reached out to catch me, but my natural gift for disaster had already kicked in.

Instead of balancing myself, I grabbed his shirt - just the shirt - and ended up on the floor, on my knees. And my face landed... well, front and centre.

Crap. Kill me now.

I felt myself blush from my ankles to my ears. Where the hell was I even looking?! I got up in a flash, hoping he hadn't realised the humiliating angle I'd landed in.

And that's when I saw his shirt. Torn. A rip on the shoulder. Clearly designer. White, spotless... or, well, it had been. Now it was just a memory of its former glory - and a perfect representation of my self-esteem.

"Oh my God... I... I tore your shirt?!" I heard myself say, in a tone that didn't even sound like mine. A panicked high-pitched squeak. An internal scream disguised as an apology.

"Looks like it," he said, with the emotion of a rock.

"I can pay for a new one! I mean... I can try..." I stammered, torn between laughing, crying, or digging a hole right there.

He ignored me with the elegance of an irritated lord and threw a uniform into my hands.

"You can start doing what you were hired to do."

He was more handsome than in the photos. And even more unbearable than people had warned - which, honestly, was impressive. I had hoped it was an exaggeration, but no.

"But I..." I tried to explain again, but he had already turned his back, walking toward the main dining room with the stride of someone who'd run out of patience for the entire year. Not even a glance back. As if I were just another stain on his mental apron.

Only then did I properly look at the uniform. It wasn't a kitchen one. It was for a waitress.

"He's always like that. It's not personal. It's... with everyone." said the woman who'd greeted me. I read the name stitched into her uniform: Clara Moreau. She didn't seem particularly warm, but she wasn't yelling at me - which, at that moment, was already a relief.

"Put on the uniform, alright? I'll show you the tables in your section."

"Tables?" I asked, confused. "I have to wait tables?"

Was this some kind of hazing ritual? A test? An initiation ceremony?

"That's what you were hired for," she said, as if it were obvious. Same thing the chef had just said. Wait... Was it?

While trying to process everything, I suddenly found myself in uniform, following Clara through the restaurant, trying to catch half the instructions she was firing like a machine gun.

Oh. My. God.

This had all the ingredients to go horribly wrong.

And me? I was the disaster waiting to happen.