Page 140 of Only Mine
“Chef what?” The words leave my mouth so slowly they might as well be crawling across the floor.
Eddie’s ears turn the color of the beet puree we serve with the duck. “Chef ... Daddy. That’s what they’re calling you online. And you’ve gained two hundred thousand followers.”
I stare at him so long that he actually takes a step back, bumping into Lyle, who drops a stack of plates. The crash echoes through the kitchen like a gunshot.
Eddie holds up his hands in surrender. “Their words, not mine. Though I did see someone wearing a T-shirt with ‘The Hands’ written across it when I came in.”
My responding laughter makes him freeze. It’s such an unexpected sound that three other line cooks flinch.
Eddie hesitates. “So that’s a no on the merch?”
“That’s a fuck no. And we have a dress code. If anyone doesn’t follow it, they’re out on their ass.”
“Got it, Chef.” He scurries back to the dining room, leaving me to stare blindly. The expo shouts out orders that are piling up. These are dishes I could prepare in my sleep, but right now, it feels like he’s shouting in a foreign language.
One of our new servers approaches with her phone out. “Chef, do you mind if I?—”
“Put that away before I toss it in the fryer.”
She blanches and backs away.
I return to plating, but my hands aren’t steady anymore. The quenelle of crème fraîche slides off-center. The microgreens scatter unevenly. Everything is just slightly wrong, like a painting tilted two degrees.
“Refire on table seven,” Mags calls out. “They said the duck is too pink.”
I look at the returned plate. The duck is perfect. Pink in the center, crispy skin, sauce pooled exactly where it should be. But they’re not actually complaining about the food.
They want to see me.
“Table seven can go fuck themselves,” I mutter, but I start preparing a new duck anyway. Because that’s what you do. You cook. You serve. You don’t let the circus distract from the craft.
Unfortunately, the circus has already set up camp in my dining room.
“Chef.” Eddie appears at my elbow again. “There’s a woman at table fifteen who says she knows you. Says her name is Brenda Chu?”
My knife stills against the cutting board.
Brenda. Wrenley’s agent. The woman who picked my lock and sized me up like livestock at a cattle auction.
“What does she want?”
“She ordered the tasting menu and asked me to tell you she’s here on business. Not pleasure.” Eddie pauses. “She also said to tell you she doesn’t bite unless provoked.”
I set the knife down, wiping my hands on my apron. Through the kitchen window, I can see table fifteen. Brenda sits alone, perfectly composed in a royal blue blazer, scrolling through her phone with the casual indifference of someone who’s never doubted her place in the world.
She’s not here for the food.
“Take over the pass,” I tell Eddie.
Eddie’s eyebrows lift halfway to his hairline, but he nods and takes my place. The kitchen’s rhythm doesn’t falter as I untie my apron and fold it.
I’m through the doors before I can change my mind. Thedining room’s ambient chatter dips as I emerge. Phones discreetly angle in my direction, catching the rare sighting.
Brenda doesn’t look up as I approach, her manicured finger scrolling through something on her screen. Only when my shadow falls across her table does she finally acknowledge me.
“Chef Toussaint.” She sets her phone face down. “Your duck is extraordinary.”
“What do you want, Ms. Chu?”
