Page 9 of Billionaire Wolf Needs a Chef

"Likewise," Bridget replied with a smile that made her cheeks dimple. She had kind brown eyes that sparkled and her long hair twisted in a bun under a hairnet. "I've heard a lot about you. Ready to dive in?"

"Absolutely," I said, rolling up my sleeves.

I tied an apron around my waist and donned a hairnet before getting to work. As I chopped garlic and sautéed onions, I couldn't help but notice the curious glances from the rest of the team as they walked past the open doorway of the test kitchen. Iknew they were sizing me up, trying to figure out if I had what it took to lead the revamp.

The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity, but I quickly found my rhythm. Bridget guided me through the setup, showing me where everything was kept and explaining the workflow. Despite the initial chaos, I felt a sense of calm settle over me. The beating heart of the kitchen was where I belonged, surrounded by the smells of spices and the sounds of sizzling pans.

As she diced tomatoes, Bridget gave me a curious look. "So, Ivy, what's your deal? Where'd you come from?"

I glanced up, meeting her gaze. "I used to run my own kitchen in one of the best restaurants in the city," I said, stirring the sauce I had going on the stove. "Had to quit after a bad review, but I'm not letting that stop me."

Bridget raised an eyebrow. "Most people would have walked away from the profession after something like that." Her tone was filled with curiosity, but I didn't detect any ill intent.

"Not me," I said with a grin. "Besides, when one door closes, another opens."

She smiled as she transferred the chopped tomatoes into a bowl. "Well, I'm glad you're here. A fresh new perspective is exactly what this company needs."

By mid-morning, we'd made significant progress on the Tuscan Sunset kit. We had refined the ingredients for the ribollita soup, tailoring the recipe to what could be sourced from Cam's suppliers. The existing pasta recipe also had to be altered and I was adding the final touches to the new tomato sauce when I felt a presence behind me. I turned, my heart skipping a beat as Isaw Cameron standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

"Mr. Fitzgerald," I said, trying to steady my voice.

He stepped into the kitchen, his sharp gaze scanning the countertop where we'd laid out the meal kit components. "Ms. St. Clair," he said, his tone clipped. "Care to explain what you're doing?"

I took a deep breath, reminding myself to stay calm. "We're revamping the Tuscan Sunset kit," I said, gesturing to the array of ingredients. "We've added a white bean soup to complement the pasta and tweaked the sauce to bring out more depth of flavor as well as to take advantage of in-season ingredients. It's a simple addition, but I think it elevates the whole dish."

He picked up a spoon, inspecting the soup with a critical eye and stirring it before taking a small spoonful. The room went silent. Bridget and I watched him with bated breath. He chewed slowly, his expression giving nothing away.

"It's acceptable," he said finally, setting the spoon back down. "But acceptable isn't good enough for this company. We need exceptional."

I felt a flicker of frustration, but I kept my tone polite. "I understand, Mr. Fitzgerald. This is our first iteration of a new recipe. There's bound to be room for improvement as we try to create the perfect recipe."

Cameron's eyes narrowed slightly, and he stepped closer, his presence imposing. "I hired you for results, Ms. St. Clair, not for you to try."

For a moment, I was speechless, the weight of his words pressing down on me. But then I met his gaze, refusing to back down. "I understand the stakes, sir," I said, my voice steady. "But I also believe that if we don't take risks, we'll never grow. I'm here to help this company succeed, and sometimes that means taking a chance on the unknown."

The room was so quiet you could hear a spoon drop. Cameron stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched, almost like he was fighting a smile.

"Interesting," he murmured, his tone softer now. For a heartbeat, his gaze met mine before dropping to my mouth. Like a reflex, my tongue darted out to wet my lips. His eyes snapped back up. "Very well, Ms. St. Clair. Prove me wrong."

He turned and walked toward the exit before pausing for a moment. "By the way, the soup needs more rosemary." With that parting suggestion, he left me standing there with a mix of emotions swirling inside me. I wasn't sure whether to feel relieved, frustrated, or something else entirely.

"Well," Bridget said, breaking the silence. "That went better than expected. Our last head chef quit after Mr. Fitzgerald said his chicken tasted like a block of wood."

I let out a nervous laugh, still trying to process what had just happened. "Is he always like that?"

"Only when he's in a good mood," she quipped.

Despite everything, I found myself smiling. Maybe I'd gotten under Cameron's skin, or maybe, just maybe, I'd earned a bit of his respect.

The rest of the day flew by in a blur. We put the last touches on the Tuscan Sunset kit, experimenting with different ingredient combinations, so the kits could continue to go out if the company needed to switch suppliers, and tweaking the sauce and soup until it was just right. Bridget and I worked together seamlessly, falling into a comfortable rhythm that usually came from a team with years of familiarity.

At one point, I caught sight of Cameron watching us from the doorway. He stood there, arms crossed, his biceps bulging against his neatly pressed shirt as he watched me cook. He didn't say anything, but his presence was impossible to ignore. I could feel his sharp gaze on me. Our eyes locked. Then, without a word, he vanished.

Bridget smirked. "He's been lurking here three times today."

"Probably making sure we're not burning the place down," I muttered.

"Sure," she said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Or maybe he just likes thenew view."

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