Chapter 4 First Aid

Jordan POV

I stepped into the kitchen. Nervous. I knew I was about to be scolded. And still, I couldn't stop that twist in my stomach - the kind that hits when you know you're about to get chewed out... but you're also living a dream. Contradictory? Totally. But also, very me.

After all, this was Chef Adam Black's kitchen. This was where the magic happened. Where perfect dishes were born. Where the impossible turned into glossy sauce and edible foam. Or whatever it is they serve in Michelin-star restaurants.

I mean, I guess it's amazing. I've never tasted any of it. Just drooled over Pinterest-worthy photos and tried to recreate a few of his online recipes - with... delicious but very me results.

Yes, I can cook. It's the one place where I'm not a complete disaster. Well... mostly not.

My eyes swept over the kitchen like it was the first real one I'd ever seen. Everything gleamed. Stainless steel counters, pots stacked like trophies, knives lined up with military precision.

And in the middle of it all, two men working in perfect sync - quick, sharp, silent. Professionals.

For a moment - just a moment - I forgot why I was even there. The hiss of a pan brought me back.

Oh. Right. Shards. Fall. Soaked customer. Furious chef.

I swallowed hard.

Adam Black didn't even look at me. But I knew he'd clocked my presence the second I walked in. Several tense minutes passed in silence before he simply nodded toward the far corner of the counter.

"There," he said, with all the warmth of a slamming door.

He left the kitchen, went into the pantry, and returned with a box, which he shoved into my hands. I stared at it, confused - like he'd handed me a puzzle in Mandarin. Then I saw the symbol.

First aid kit.

Wait... am I injured?

"Go to the bathroom and take care of it. I don't want you contaminating my kitchen."

For a split second, I almost thought he was being... kind. Almost. But of course, that illusion was shattered by the tone - so sharp it made steel sound soft.

I went to the bathroom without a word and started looking for whatever injury I'd missed. To be honest, I hadn't even noticed I was cut. I found a small gash on my hand. That was the reason for all the fuss?

I cleaned it with disinfectant, slapped on a bandage, and done. Mission accomplished.

But the second I stepped out of the bathroom, a hand grabbed my arm.

Adam.

He didn't even give me time to ask what was wrong. He pulled me back inside with a quick, impatient motion. No words. Just that look - exasperated, sharp, almost homicidal.

"Can't even do this properly?" he muttered through clenched teeth. I had no response. Honestly, I didn't even know what he was talking about.

I followed his gaze. My leg.

Ah. Right. The blood.

It was trickling down my knee. Crap. How had I missed that?

When I looked back at him, I saw him shake his head in restrained frustration.

He nudged me gently at the waist, guiding me back until I was sitting on the counter. It was brisk, direct, but not aggressive. Professional. And still... way too close.

I couldn't help the shiver.

As he opened the first aid kit, I was trying to figure out if this was even real. Chef Adam Black, standing right in front of me, about to treat a cut on my knee. With those big, cold hands... surprisingly gentle.

Sitting there, with my skirt naturally riding up just above my knee, the wound was fully visible. He leaned in slightly to inspect it - focused, clinical. The touch was brief - just enough to clean it properly - but it was enough to make my stomach do a full somersault.

Now that I really looked, it did sting. Must've happened when I knelt to clean up the glass. Of course it did.

"Aren't you supposed to have experience waiting tables?" he asked, not even looking at me.

And poof - just like that, the moment vanished.

"No," I replied, my voice slightly higher than usual. "I came here to intern in the kitchen. I wasn't expecting to be... hazed into waitressing."

"Hazed?" he repeated, now looking straight at me. Serious. Intense. Brow slightly furrowed. I swallowed. Too direct?

"Jordan," he said. I couldn't tell if it was a question, a confirmation of my name, or the start of a scolding. I nodded, like I was answering a question anyway.

"I'm sorry about the incident. But I honestly have no experience with front-of-house service and-"

"I don't like apologies," he cut in, flat. "And I don't tolerate mistakes."

Then, as if only now realizing how close we were - squeezed together in a bathroom - he stepped back. Ran a hand through his hair with a quick, almost nervous gesture.

Uncomfortable? I certainly was.

"Start in the kitchen. Lorenzo will show you around."

________________________________________

Adam POV

Shit.

Jordan Parker.

The intern was... a woman.

A female intern.

I thought it was a guy. The name could go either way, right? But she didn't introduce herself. Just let me make a complete idiot of myself by bossing her around like a waitress. Why? Because she tripped. Because she tore my shirt. Because she "arrived late."

No - dammit, she was early.

Whatever.

She said she thought it was hazing. And, for some reason, that made me smirk as I walked back to the kitchen. Let her think what she wanted - I sure as hell wasn't going to admit the name mix-up. I'd already looked ridiculous enough.

I returned to the kitchen. I'd brief Lorenzo, check on Clara's service, and if necessary, wait tables myself. Wouldn't be the first time. That's how I started.

I heard her footsteps behind me. Light, hesitant. My thoughts shifted back to her. Again.

Damn it.

I just hope she doesn't wreck my kitchen. She seems naturally drawn to chaos. I let the dining room disaster slide, but in my kitchen?

No room for error.

________________________________________

"What's she doing here?" I asked Clara, seeing Melissa glide between tables like she was born with a tray in her hand. Balanced everything perfectly, weaved through guests like it was nothing. Efficient. Too efficient.

"Helping," Clara replied without even looking at me.

"I don't want her here," I stated. "She's too young."

"But you accepted Jordan," she countered, in that restrained, clinical tone of hers. The kind that never came with emotion - only logic.

I thought of Jordan. Her résumé. When I first saw her, I assumed she was the new waitress. She looked so... unprepared. And so young. But no. She was twenty-eight. The kitchen intern. Just looked younger - probably the glasses, and that lost-in-adulthood expression she carried around.

"She's older. Twenty-eight," I corrected, flat. "And she's not front-of-house. She's a kitchen intern."

"Oh." Clara said, raising one brow slightly.

Of course. "Oh." So typical of her. She glanced toward Melissa, who was already clearing another tray like a pro.

"Fine... hire Melissa," she told me. "She might be twenty, but she's better than most."

And she was. Clara was right - Melissa Kane worked well. Quick, sharp, carried herself well. But she was young. And not just in age. She had that spark in her eyes - the kind that pushes boundaries. I didn't need that kind of risk in my kitchen.

Still, she was here. She already knew the space. And Clara never made suggestions lightly. I'd take advantage.

I returned to the kitchen. I didn't trust the intern. Had no idea if she'd last - honestly, I doubted it - but I was almost certain she'd cause chaos. I still didn't get how she won the contest.

Okay. Waiting tables clearly wasn't her thing. Maybe she'd do better in the kitchen. Maybe.

I sighed.