Page 17 of Filthy Chef

“New sous chef, hopefully for longer than today! Nice to meet you.”

“I’m not a troublemaker,” Lola puts in.

Mustache Man takes his turn shaking my hand. “She totally is. I’m Tim.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I say, grinning. I hope everyone I’ve met so far keeps their jobs because this is the friendliest place I’ve ever worked.

“Good morning, everyone!” Cash Young’s voice booms over the dining room, and everyone quiets down. Lola gives me a frightened look, and we swivel our barstools around to face the music.

“I know you’ve all got questions, and I want to put you at ease. None of you will be losing your jobs. Today, anyway.”

The staff mostly falls utterly silent.

“That was a joke,” says Cash. Quiet, obligatory laughter fills the room, but everyone is still on edge.

Cash goes on, “Obviously, Jason and I will be seeing how well you all work with him and with each other. We’re not in any hurry to make any drastic changes. So I want you all to relax and know your jobs are safe.”

Lola exhales and drops her shoulders exaggeratedly.

“I know right,” I say, still unconvinced I’m not on the chopping block. Last hired, first fired and all that.

Standing beside Cash is a man wearing a tell-tale white chef’s jacket. I can’t see his face, as he’s turned away from the group. He’s having a side conversation with a perky little blonde, who, from this angle, appears to be fawning all over him. Her uniform polo shirt is unbuttoned as far as it will go, and she’s practically clapping her tits in his face. Yikes. I can’t stand it when people moon all over attractive chefs. I mean, we chefs are pretty sexy and badass, but it’s not like we’re rescuing children from burning buildings or anything.

Huh. He does have nice hair. That’s funny; he has the same brown curls like—wait…

“I’d like to introduce you to your new executive chef,” Cash says, tapping the shoulder of the guy in the white chef’s jacket, who’s accepting a very sensuous handshake from the perky blonde. The chef turns to face the crowd of workers.

“Chef Jason Riggins, but you’ll know him from now on as simply ‘Chef.’”

“Good morning.” Jason Riggins stares straight at me through the chorus of “Chef!”

I’m the only one in the room who is speechless.

My throat is dry, and I wish I could crawl under the bar with Don Julio and not leave until I have to be carried out.

Chef Jason is Jay.

My Jay. From last night.

“What’s wrong?” Lola nudges me.

“What?” My eyes snap to hers, and her wide-eyed gaze implies I’ve missed something important.

She hisses, “Cash is trying to introduce you. You’re the sous chef, right?”

“Me? Um. Yes?” I squeak.

She gives me a sharp elbow.

“Then get over there and introduce yourself!”

“Right.”

My stomach lurches as I slide off the barstool. My face must be as red as a tomato as I begin the eternal march toward the middle of the room, where Jay—I mean Jason—stands.

But why should I be embarrassed? Jason never told me who he was. I did nothing wrong.

I take up the spot next to Jason, hip-checking the little blonde, who sniffs and walks away.

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