Chapter 5 In the Kitchen

Jordan POV

When I returned to the kitchen, Lorenzo - the one Chef said would show me around - greeted me with a smile. One of those smiles. The kind that should come with a warning: may cause weak knees.

He was handsome. But not in that intimidating, sharp-suited way the Chef was. His was the approachable kind of handsome. Light brown eyes, ridiculous eyelashes, easygoing vibe. The sleeves of his uniform were rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong, toned arms.

I swallowed hard.

"You're the intern?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"Yeah. Jordan Parker." I tried to sound confident.

"Lorenzo Vidal. I'll admit, I thought you were going to be a guy."

Oh, of course. Again. I smiled, slightly embarrassed. "Not the first time, unfortunately. Perks of having a unisex name..."

(In university, I spent two weeks in the men's dorm before anyone sorted out the mistake. That was... an adventure.)

"I'm glad you're not," he said with a wink.

Oh! And I blinked... with both eyes. At the same time. What did he mean by that? That it was better to have a woman in the mix instead of three testosterone-fuelled men in one kitchen? Or... was he flirting? I'm absolutely terrible at spotting flirting.

"You'll start here." He pointed to the pre-washed vegetables. "Thin slices. You know how?"

"Yes, of course," I answered, nearly relieved. Like someone had handed me back solid ground.

As soon as I picked up the knife and started slicing, a wave of calm settled over me. Finally. I was in my element. No trays to balance. Just cutting. Cooking. That... I could do.

I hadn't been fired yet. That was a good sign, right? And I was in the kitchen. Finally, where I was supposed to be.

"Keep going."

The voice came out of nowhere. Right next to me.

I jumped. Dropped the knife. And cursed. Loudly. The kind of curse my dad would've made me rinse my mouth out with soap for.

I immediately felt both men turn their eyes on me. Does this man wear slippers? How do I never hear him coming?

I'd been so focused on chopping the vegetables - so zen in my "finally not ruining anything" moment - that I didn't even notice him walk in.

Adam Black stood there. Still. Watching. Like a silent judge on a cooking show... about to slam the red buzzer.

"I don't like that word in my kitchen."

"And I don't like being scared out of my skin," I muttered, annoyed. Yes, I've got a bit of a temper too - especially when someone catches me off guard with that judging stare and dictator-in-an-apron tone.

He didn't answer right away. Just raised one eyebrow slightly, as if debating whether I was worth wasting words on.

"Pick up the knife. And do better."

That was it. Then he turned and walked away like the whole exchange never happened.

Jerk.

And suddenly... everything changed.

Orders started flying. Instructions shot across the kitchen like bullets. Lorenzo responded with a kind of choreographed grace - smooth, fast, almost elegant.

And me? I tried to keep up.

Problem was... I had no idea where anything was.

The Chef shook his head every time I hesitated, visibly annoyed, and ended up pointing - silently - to whatever he wanted.

I'd been dropped right into the middle of this stainless-steel jungle with no map and a "do better" as my compass.

I did the best I could. I tried to help wherever I was asked. I knew I wasn't as smooth or quick as the two of them. But - even though my uniform was splattered with half a dozen sauces and my nervous energy was practically glowing - I didn't ruin a single plate. Not one.

I was quietly celebrating that little win... when my stomach decided to remind me it existed. Loudly.

It growled. Like, full lion roar.

But even with the last plates served... did the idiot Chef let us eat? Of course not.

Lorenzo went to lunch.

I stayed.

Got a lecture.

And a forced kitchen tour, with rushed, impatient explanations of where everything was.

________________________________________

Adam POV

The restaurant was quiet.

The customers had left, the staff had finished cleaning and gone. I stayed. Like always. Going over the service in my head. Preparing for tomorrow. Trying - and failing - to shut off.

The day had been more exhausting than it should've been.

The mess with the waitress... It's harder and harder to find someone competent and reliable. I'll have to accept Melissa. That wasn't the plan - she's too young. But I have to admit: she's got talent. Learns fast, moves instinctively, gets things done. And despite her age, I know I can count on her.

I've known her since she was a kid. I know her parents. There are ties. Maybe that's why it's hard to have her under my responsibility. But I don't have much choice. We'll see how it goes.

The real problem, though... is the intern.

Jordan Parker.

I thought she was a man. The résumé came without a photo - a basic error that could've been easily fixed. If she had, the mix-up wouldn't have happened. But of course, no. She just showed up, tripped over me, tore my shirt - hidden beneath the apron - and marched straight into chaos like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And I thought I was giving orders to the new waitress.

Yes, she was "late." Or not.

Damn it - she was early.

And honestly, that might be even more irritating. I hate mistakes. Especially my own.

"Hazed." Just thinking of it still makes me laugh. And I don't laugh easily.

But let her think what she wants. I'm not about to admit the confusion was mine. The mistake started with her.

Now... the rest.

She's a disaster. In every sense.

During dinner service, to be fair, she improved. Fewer stumbles, more focus. But she still moves with the energy of a badly steered hurricane. Knocked over pans, utensils. Nearly spilled an entire bottle of olive oil. Her uniform looked like it had been through a war zone by the end of the shift.

I've never seen anything like it.

At least I didn't have to play nurse again. That earlier moment - it was instinct, nothing more. I felt like I was helping my niece.

Well... not exactly.

There was a moment when she didn't look like a clumsy kid, but a woman. A woman... and for a second, my body reacted before my brain did.

No. Not going there.

I sighed. Not a woman. A walking catastrophe. With honey-brown eyes, hidden behind those glasses.

But I'll admit - reluctantly - I was almost impressed: she didn't ruin a single dish. Not one.

Granted, I didn't trust her with sauces or cooking - Lorenzo and I handled that. I haven't completely lost my mind.

She started with vegetable prep. Honestly, I expected half of it to end up on the floor. Incredibly, it didn't. In fact, whenever food was on the plate, it never hit the floor. But if it was an empty pan or a forgotten spoon on the counter... down it went.

She did dishes. Handled a few other tasks - nothing that involved actual cooking. Then I let her help plate.

I had to correct the first few. But the next ones?

Not bad. Almost... solid.

Still... I don't trust her.

Every time she moves too fast, I brace myself for the sound of something breaking. And most of the time... I hear it.

It's frustrating.

It's irritating.

It's a liability.

She won't last long. Either she gives up... or she makes a mistake I can't ignore.

"You can't fire her." Mateus's voice echoed again in my head. Of course. The stupid contest. I have to keep her. One month minimum. And film a promo video with her, no less.

Brilliant. His idea, as always. Maybe I can push her to quit.

But fine. He's the investor. He handles the admin, the brand, the things I don't want to think about. And in this business, I know... whoever funds it, runs it. Everything he's good at is everything I avoid.

I used to have my own luxury restaurant. In the capital. At the top. It shined from day one. I'm a known chef. In demand. Now I'm far from the spotlight. But once... I shone brighter than most.

I have to admit: even here, in this town, reopening my restaurant brought back a bit of that glow. Dimmer, quieter. But still there.

I say I don't care. I lie.

A year open. Already one Michelin star. In a small town, two hours from the capital - can I really complain?

Damn right I can.

Because I had more once.

But I also know the price of "more."

And I'm not willing to pay it again.