Page 9 of One Sweet Lie

“Because—”

“Speak up!”

“It’s for Mrs. Ledru, the wife of the Tiffany’s CEO, sir.” I could barely hear my own voice. “I overheard her say that your caramel sauce was a bit bitter during her last visit.”

“So, you decided to make your own?” He clenched his jaw. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“She appreciates the additions.” I felt everyone staring at me. “They make her feel like she gets personal attention from you.”

“Answer the question that I asked, Chef Harlow.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I made my own caramel sauce.”

The alarm on the range sounded, signaling that someone’s cream was seconds away from burning, but no one made a move.

No one dared to even blink.

“So, you think you’re better than me?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“That must be the case, because you’re taking interviews at other kitchens behind my back,” he said. “Are you no longer happy making my world-renowned recipes and learning from the best?”

“Sir, that’s not why I’m doing that.”

“This is aMichelin starkitchen,” he interrupted. “This is as high as it gets, and instead of being grateful that I took a chanceon you and your limited drop-out school talent, you want to betray me by working elsewhere?”

“I’m only interviewing for part-time side jobs,” I said. “I need more money, and all the kitchens I applied to bake different things from yours.”

“Enough.” He held up his hand. “Do yourself a favor from here on out and tell them you’re in search of somethingfull time.”

“What?”

“Get the hell out of my kitchen, and don’t ever come back.”

“Chef, please.” I shook my head. “Don’t do this to me.”

“You have an interview today, correct?” He shrugged. “If I were you, I would thank me for giving you the time to get there early.”

“If you give me a second chance, I swear I’ll never do it again.”

“I need two orders of tiramisu for table twelve!” He yelled over my words. “Mycaramel sauce—made exactly as I wrote it—with the flan for the Harris family at table eleven!”

The kitchen roared back to life without me, without a single colleague shooting me look of sympathy.

I knew it wasn’t personal; they couldn’t afford to lose their jobs either.

Refusing to let my emotions show, I took off my apron and headed to the employee room. I pulled my purse from the locker and gently lifted the sweets carrier I’d brought along for my interview.

Double checking my batch of cupcakes, I slipped out of the exit and into the soft summer drizzle.

As I walked to the subway station, I pretended like the wetness falling from my eyes weren’t tears; they were misguided raindrops.

Sixteen stops later,I emerged on West 23 Street and walked into The Hearst Employment Agency.

There was no receptionist or signage, so I pulled out my phone and double checked the listing to make sure I was in the right place.

*Manhattan Executive Seeking Chef for Daughter’s Weekend-Long Sweet Sixteen Party*

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