Page 10 of Hard Limits

“You’re on the wrong floor. Are you Brax’s new assistant?”

Unfortunately. “That’s right.”

Two women sitting behind her exchanged a look. Pity mixed with “Boy, she’s an idiot.”

“Good luck.”

“You’re not the first person to say that. Which floor is the kitchen on?”

“The first floor. Want me to show you?”

At that tiny kindness, my eyes began to prickle. My emotions had been all over the place since I left Massachusetts.

“If you have the time, I’d be grateful.”

“Follow me. I’m Charlotte, by the way.”

“Meera.” I rolled my eyes. “Or Meena, according to Mr. Vale.”

Charlotte giggled. “Oh, he always gets his assistants’ names wrong. He called Terri ‘Kerri’ for a whole month.”

“And then he started getting it right?”

“No, then she quit. Come on, I’ll show you where to find the chef.”

Charlotte led me to the stairs rather than the elevator, and we headed down to the kitchen. I’d expected something far more modest, but the expanse of stainless steel and industrial appliances wouldn’t have looked out of place on one of those TV chef shows. It was quieter, though. People talked rather than shouting over the whirr of a mixer, the hum of an oven, and the hiss of food frying.

I counted four staff—three men, one woman—all wearing white tunics and blue-and-white checked pants. Charlotte pointed out the tallest of the men.

“That’s Fabien.”

“He’s the chef?”

“Yes, and his food is divine.”

She waved, but he didn’t smile, just put down the bowl he was holding and strode over.

“This is the new assistant? She’s late.”

“Give her a break. It’s her first day.”

“The caramelised onions are dry,” Fabien grumbled. “The dish has been sitting on the pass for ten minutes.”

“Just stir them or whatever.”

Muttering ensued, in French, not English. Stirring clearly wasn’t an acceptable suggestion.

“Je suis vraiment désolé, je suis toujours en train de trouver mon chemin,” I said.

When in doubt, apologise.

Fabien stopped dead. “Vouz parlez français?”

“Oui, un petit peu.”

When I was fifteen, I’d been offered the chance to join a French exchange program, and I’d taken the blessed opportunity to get away from my parents for a while. In Paris, I’d learned how life could be if your father acted like a dad instead of CEO of his own family and if your mother wasn’t a little mouse who never stood up to him. Celeste, my French sister from another mister, was the only person apart from Meera who knew how to contact me in an emergency. And like Meera, she’d been sworn to secrecy about my current circumstances.

Now Fabien beamed at me. “C’est merveilleux! I will fix the onions.”

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