Miss Disaster in Love

Jordan Parker

Clumsy.

Absent-minded.

Hopelessly uncoordinated.

Or maybe... cursed.

Or maybe it's just... me. Jordan Parker.

My dad says I have a magnet for bad luck because I always walk around with my head in the clouds. And, well, today I can't argue. He was right - though I refuse to let him tease me about it over the phone.

I'm at the airport. On time. Ready to board the flight to the internship of my dreams. No delays, no running around. Everything going smoothly - which, let's be honest, should've been my first red flag.

The problem? I arrived 24 hours early. Yep, a whole day before the actual flight. Who messes up the travel date? Me, of course.

I was so proud of myself for packing early, arriving calmly... So confident that I didn't even think to double-check the ticket date. Idiot. And now what? Call my dad to come pick me up, so he can laugh until he wheezes? Not a chance.

So I decided to improvise. "Think positive, Jordan," I told myself, while searching for a nearby hotel. Fifteen minutes on foot, the map said. I figured it was a good idea to walk, stretch my legs, enjoy the fresh air... And it was a good idea... until one of the suitcase wheels broke halfway there.

"Shit," I muttered. And as if that weren't enough, I gave it an impulsive kick - which broke it even more. "Brilliant, Jordan. Very classy."

I dragged the suitcase the rest of the way, sometimes carrying it like a giant hard-plastic baby, other times angling it weirdly, trying to use the wheels that still worked. Mentally cursing the entire time, of course. What was supposed to be a short stroll turned into a miserable pilgrimage.

The room I managed to book was tiny, but cozy. A simple bed, warm yellow lighting... It even had some charm. Too bad it cost more than it should have. My budget was already on life support and this improvised stay just pulled the plug. But alright, Jordan. Breathe.

What brought me here, after all? I won a contest! Yes, me - the girl who breaks luggage with her feet - won the chance to intern at Chef Adam Black's restaurant. The man, the myth, the legend... and, they say, an ogre in an apron.

A chance to prove I can do this. That I can be more than just Clumsy Jordan. That I can, with lots of effort, become a chef.

Of course, my brain immediately kicked into sabotage mode. What if I mess everything up? What if he fires me on the first day because... well, because I'm me - a two-legged disaster.

After a depressing fast-food meal (because obviously the hotel's "gourmet" restaurant was reserved for people with money), I returned to the room to relax. But the TV wouldn't turn on, the remote was dead, and I think the manual button didn't even exist. I gave up.

I lay down. The mattress was a mix of cement and sand. The pillow felt like it was stuffed with old sponge. The only thing working was the sound of car alarms outside.

Still, I went to sleep with a stupid smile on my face. Because, in the middle of all this mess... I was heading for a new life.

Will I survive this experience? Will Chef Black think I'm completely useless?

Or worse... what if he's right?

Well, tomorrow is the actual travel day. The official start of my (desperate) attempt to be an adult. Let's see how long the universe lets me pretend I'm competent.

But one thing's for sure: whether it's pots, stumbles, or misunderstandings... this adventure is going to get messy.

________________________________________

I woke up with one of those stomachaches that mix nerves, anxiety, and possibly last night's sketchy food. I could barely look at the hotel breakfast - and yet, I grabbed a mini croissant out of stubbornness. Dry. Obviously.

And because I'm a woman who learns from her mistakes... I decided, once again, to walk to the airport. Yes, with the same broken suitcase. Because saving a few bucks on a taxi makes sense, right? It's not like I'm rolling in cash.

The walk was torture, just like the day before, but I made it - sweaty and ready to throw the suitcase in a dumpster.

I checked my luggage and, since there was still loads of time before boarding, I sat by the gate with my book. Some random romance novel, with a heroine who was unbelievably competent, sexy, and elegant. Basically, everything I wasn't. Still, I let myself get lost in it.

I was finally having a peaceful moment - until they announced the flight delay.

Of course. Because my life is never a straight path. It always comes with detours, layovers, and preferably one or two nerve-wracking hurdles.

The flight was delayed two hours. Meaning I'd arrive at night, in a city I'd never been to, clueless about how to reach the apartment, exhausted, with back pain, and expected to meet the country's most feared chef the next day.

I decided to call the man renting me the studio. The voice on the other end was a middle-aged man with that dragging tone of someone who's lost patience with everything in life - including me, apparently.

"Yes?" he answered, as if I'd interrupted something critically important.

"Good afternoon! This is Jordan Parker. Just letting you know the flight's delayed and I'll arrive later than expected..."

"Right... fine. Just don't ring the doorbell too hard, it wakes the dog."

And he hung up. Great. I already felt super welcome. All that was missing was the dog hating me on arrival and going for my ankle.

I looked around. Happy families, laughing couples, people rushing all over... and there I was, with a rebellious stomach and an uncertain future ahead. As uncertain as the suspicious smell coming from the pastry shop nearby.

I sighed, closed the book, and let my thoughts wander. To Chef Adam Black. Handsome, sure. Intimidating? Definitely. Feared, respected, adored by critics and hated by apprentices. A true kitchen dictator. And I, Jordan Parker, was going to throw myself right under his wing - or rather, his frying pan. Brilliant.

But a part of me - tiny, but stubborn - still believed that maybe... just maybe... this could be the start of something extraordinary. The beginning of a new chapter. My big turning point.

Or maybe... it was just my stomach protesting.

Right then, the loudspeaker announced the opening of the boarding gate at the same time a cramp stabbed through me like an internal knife.

"Fuck," I muttered, bending slightly forward while clutching my abdomen with one hand and trying to grab my backpack with the other.

Everyone around me stood up with excitement, bright eyes and that "finally!" energy. I, on the other hand, was mentally calculating the time until boarding, the location of the airport bathroom, and the odds of fainting in the queue.

Go or not go? Risk it or not?

I chose to trust the gods of aviation. Plane. Just hold out a bit longer. At least this way I wouldn't risk missing the flight after already waiting twenty-six hours too long.

When I finally boarded, I was greeted by a flight attendant with a trained smile.

"Good afternoon."

"Bathroom?" That was my greeting. Simple. Direct. Desperate.

She pointed with British politeness to the back of the plane, and off I went, backpack on, hurried and completely unsubtle, like a panicked penguin. Of course, I was stopped multiple times by people in the aisle looking for their seats.

I reached the bathroom and, well... let's just say it was a moment of spiritual release. And physical. Pre-flight Jordan stayed there. The Jordan who emerged was slightly lighter, a little less tense - and still fully aware that the journey was only beginning.

I returned to my seat, smack in the middle row, between a woman reading a self-help book with gusto and a man who was already snoring before the safety briefing even began. Of course.

I leaned my head back, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. Tomorrow would be my first day in a completely different world. But for now, I still had four hours of flight ahead.

I breathed deeply. Thought of the kitchen. Thought of Adam Black. Thought... Loud snore from the guy on my right. Yep. It was going to be a long flight.

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.

Adam POV

I needed to start prepping for lunch service. The waitress had arrived - late, but still. Now the damn intern was running late too. Was this some kind of conspiracy?

Though, honestly... maybe it was for the best. The counters were clean, the stations in order, and the clock was ticking down to the first ticket.

"Lorenzo, I need the seasonal vegetables washed and cut into julienne strips. And double-check the mise en place for station four - it looked like a farmers' market yesterday," I said, eyes still on my notepad.

Lorenzo Vidal was my sous-chef. Can't say he was my first choice, but he proved himself capable - and that, to me, was what mattered. And he was here. In this small town everyone else ran from... the one I came back to.

Lorenzo nodded with that controlled smile of his. We weren't friends. But we worked well together. Boss and employee, like it should be. No blurred lines. No unnecessary trust.

"All done, Chef. I even added fresh herbs to the base sauce, like we discussed at the last meeting."

"Like we discussed." He loved reminding me. Loved seeming diligent, attentive, efficient.

It was past noon. The heat rose - and not just from the stove. First orders started coming in. Clara did her job well - precise, quiet, always on time.

The kitchen came to life, a rhythm of metal on wood, pans sizzling, fast-paced orders - a symphony that only made sense here.

For a moment, I almost forgot about the intern. Almost. Still no sign of them.

And the new waitress? Wasn't she supposed to be picking up plates by now? I didn't even know her name. Then again, if she'd arrived on time, maybe we'd have covered those basics.

That's when I heard the crash. Shattering glass. A stifled gasp. Then silence. The kind of silence that falls when everyone around knows something went very, very wrong.

I looked up. Lorenzo paused mid-task but didn't move.

Of course. Why get involved when you can watch from a safe distance?

"What was that?" I asked, already heading for the kitchen doors.

I pushed through the swing doors. Two steps. That's all it took to see the chaos.

Shards on the floor. A fallen glass. A customer with water in her lap. And in the middle of it all... the new waitress. Wide-eyed behind her glasses, gripping an empty tray like it could somehow fix everything.

Of course. Just what I needed today.

Jordan POV

I swear it wasn't my fault. I tried. I really tried. Even if disaster had already been circling the room like a black cloud about to burst.

I was doing my job - diligently, I might add. Or being hazed, more like. Because technically, I was supposed to be in the kitchen... not out here, balancing drinks like some kind of circus act.

I took the orders, gave them to Clara, took a deep breath... and started serving drinks. Playing it safe, I carried as little as possible. Two glasses first. Then a bottle. Everything lined up neatly on the tray, balanced with the care of someone transporting live explosives.

But no.

Clara thought I was wasting time and shoved me out with a fully loaded tray. Glasses, bottles, ice - the whole liquid arsenal the table had ordered, teetering on the edge of disaster.

Miraculously, I made it to the table.

I leaned in carefully, ready to start distributing the drinks. And that's when the customer - impatient or maybe trying to be helpful - decided she could take the bottle off the tray herself.

Fatal error.

I felt the shift in weight, the tray wobble. I tried to compensate.

I failed.

Two glasses slid. One hit the floor directly. The second bounced off the edge of the table and ricocheted. The customer jumped, startled - and in doing so, tipped the water bottle over... onto herself.

I heard her "AAAH!" before the rest of the tray's contents hit the floor.

Crash. Splash. Chaos. Water. Shards. Soaked blouse. Horrified expression. Me, frozen. Empty tray in hand. Mouth slightly open. Feet glued to the floor.

Beautiful. Perfect. Epic first day.

I have no idea how long I stood there, staring at the wreck like a slow-motion car crash. Frozen. Guilty. Ready to evaporate.

Eventually, I moved.

"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry... I'm sorry..." I started muttering on loop as I bent down to pick up the glass shards. "Oh my God..."

I grabbed the tray and started placing the larger pieces on it, trying to ignore the eyes around me - or the unspoken judgement hanging in the air.

And then... I saw them. Shoes. Black. Perfectly polished. And I knew. Even before I looked up, I knew.

The Chef. Adam Black. Looking like he was about to turn my first day... into my last.

Without a word, he grabbed me by the arm - firm enough to make me stand, not hard enough to break anything - and shoved a broom and dustpan into my hands.

I stood there, staring at the tools like they were alien weapons. Oh. Right. The glass. For the glass.

For a moment, his stare short-circuited any intelligent thought I might've had. All I had left was panic mode. And the pounding of my heart like a samba drumline.

Before I even started sweeping, I heard his voice - low, irritated, grazing my ear like a whispered threat:

"When you're done... kitchen."

Chills. Crap. I was definitely getting fired.

...But at least I'd make it into the kitchen first. Small victory.

I watched him walk off toward the table, where he apologised to the customers on my behalf - in a tone so controlled it almost sounded professional. He even offered them lunch on the house.

I think the customers pitied me... or maybe it was the death glare he gave me. The customer - the same one who thought playing waitress was a good idea - even spoke up.

Said she'd just been trying to help, shouldn't have grabbed the bottle, and apologised... to him. Not to me. To him.

Of course. Obviously, he's the victim here.But did that help calm the beast?

Nope. Not even close. The look he shot me before heading back to the kitchen made that crystal clear.

Well... in for a penny, in for a pounding.

If I was getting fired, he was at least going to hear my piece. I came here to intern in the kitchen - the kitchen - not get hazed into waitress duty just because his staff didn't show up.

And if I was going out, I'd go out with noise.

I swept up the last of the shards, sighing, defeated.Okay... maybe louder than breaking dishes is hard to top - but hey, never say never.

All I wanted was a chance in the kitchen... not a one-way ticket to the Hall of Fame of Clumsiness.