Culinary Alchemy;
Best Friend’s Father, Enemies to Lovers, Steamy Romance
Best Friend’s Father, Enemies to Lovers, Steamy Romance
Sample Excerpt Chapter One
It was still slowing down to stop when I hopped off the streetcar cresting the hill on Lombard at Hyde.
‘Damn, I’m late,’ my mind screamed at me, berating my level of incompetence. 'Shit!', feeling the relentless simmering of conflict that threatened the stable structure of my future reality. I, all but knocked over the Maître ‘D, bursting through the doors of Le Papillon. "Sorry, Henri. My apology," I muttered, not stopping as I sprinted toward the kitchen. “Chef Lefevre, it will never happen again,” I blurted, my face crimson and distorted in an obvious painful grimace. |
“See to it, Isabella,” Adrian replied, only giving me a sideways glance as he strode past on his way to the freezers. "Meeting in 5! … My office."
My shoulders slumped as I resigned myself to inevitable consequences, "Yes, Chef."
"The rest of you, back to work. Guests in a few," as he entered the freezer.
I imagined his scowl as he inspected the ingredients, which I’m sure he had done at least five times before I arrived. He swirled 180, and back to his office.
"Do you have a death wish or something?" Chef Ètienne Dubios asked, wiping his hands clean as a force of professional habit.
"The third day in a row! Anyone witnessing this … they'd think you're doing it on purpose ... Just to annoy him."
As part of our onboarding process, we all were instructed to imitate Ètienne's behavior and attitude towards work. And yet, a full year later I was violating the code of his work ethic; ‘Always Early’.
Dubios, had worked with Chef Lefevre as his sous chef for almost seven years, and could easily be regarded as the head chef's only colleague, as Lefevre never picked a bone with him.
“I just overslept," withholding the truth. "It's not intentional,” sheepishly defending my inexcusable behavior on my way to the locker rooms.
"Head waitress? Huh! You're late!" one of the young, new hires, remarked as I walked in.
"Did you see Chef Lefevre? He asked for you!”
“We just knew he'd turn you into tonight's Beef Wellington," another snickered.
“Instead of running your mouths, make yourselves useful ... Get the tables set," I ordered, mustering up my head waitress authority.
"Yes, ma'am," they chorused, but their mischievous smiles said, ‘we’re not done with you yet’.
Glancing at my wristwatch while changing, ‘Oh, shit. Late again!’ realizing Chef Lefevre was already waiting on me.
‘Again?’, “Ugggghhh”, escaped my throat. Yet one more thing I had added to his list of irritations with me.
I rushed to his office. Stopped in front of his door. Took a deep breath, and knocked … “Chef Lefevre? … I'm here.”
"Enter," his voice, cold and stern, sounded like he was standing right behind the door.
I made my way-in cautiously.
‘No’? Not behind the door … but seated at his desk.
From the window to his left, rays of sunlight spread across his face. Those menacing gray eyes locked my gaze commandingly.
"Three days," as he got up and walked towards me. "Three days in a row you've been late!"
“I’m so sorry. I apologize sir … for my tardiness … I assure you, it won't ever happen again”, my mind distracted by the dust made apparent floating in the sunlight.
“I promise”, meekly bowing, fidgeting subserviently as he approached. The lines in his face etched more deeply than usual.
Standing now in front of me, staring me down to assert his dominance. I shuddered, “Uhhhhgg.” It was working.
He may get on my nerves, but in contrast, his gentleness melts me at my core. I sensed no permanent anger behind the scowl on his face. Yet my knees quivered with apprehension.
"Come on, Adrian," I blustered. Then pleading in a sultry voice, “Adrian”? I placed my left hand against his chest … then pressed the full length of my body into his torso, “mmm”, audibly escaped my lips.
"One last chance?" with a coquettish grin, “Please?” batting my eyes flirtatiously.
‘I know him. This is just pretense, only an act’. Gulping noticeably, the rigidity in his face was as yet unfazed.
His right hand misled with tenderness, then tugged abruptly and too hard on my hair, “Ow!” pulling my gaze upward forcibly, exposing my neck, leaving it open for him to feast on.
As his lips made contact, I gave into the sensual exhilaration, their stimulation spread goose bumps over my entire body.
“Mmm”, making no attempt at disguising my desire this time, I pressed my pelvis aggressively into his.
I was repulsed by many things about him. His arrogant harshness … occasional curt cruelty, and the way he was extra hard on me, even borderline abusive at times in comparison with my colleagues.
But he did know how to make a woman feel good, even with just a light brush of his lips, and a gentle trace of fingertips alone.
He pulled abruptly away, staring into me. His eyes glazed with lust and desire … I was sure mine reflected the same back to him.
Letting me go, he returned to his desk. "Why are you late? Three days in a row is totally unacceptable."
"I was studying … learning … how to cook," I replied. “Lost track of time.”
He smirked at me, like he had heard a-not-too-funny-joke and didn't laugh because there was no humor in it at all.
"Do what you want," he sighed.
"Just don't let it affect my business hours ... Got it?"
"Okay, Chef Lefevre," bowing in subjugated humiliation.
"Uh hem ... I heard Grace will be returning soon. Can't wait to see her again."
“Just get back to work." He instructed, unwilling to discuss his daughter's return.
‘Fine! You’re annoyed, but still…’ rolling my eyes as I, “Hufft,” leaving his office.
***
Our relationship wasn't always like this. And now, was quickly becoming more than a little complicated.
Long story short, I'm head over heels in LUST, currently engaged in a romantic tryst with my grumpy boss, who’s also my best friend's father.
What’s worse? At times, I can barely stand him. At others, I need him to make me Cumm.
This all started a year ago when I approached my best friend Grace, hoping that her world-famous father, Chef Adrian Lefevre, would give me a job in his restaurant.
"Grace, are you kidding? He actually said he'd hire me?" Nervously checking again to make sure my outfit was presentable.
"Daddy may be stern and difficult at times, but in the end he always gives me what I want," smiling, her fingers teasing my hair, then doing her best to smooth it out in the process.
The contorted grimace on her face was enough. I didn't need a mirror to tell that she’d only made things worse.
No time to fix it. We were already swinging through the double doors of Le Papillon.
This was arguably the best five-star restaurant in all of San Francisco, and the first steppingstone to achieve my dreams of becoming a world class chef.
Now immobilized with dread. The butterflies in my stomach had butterflies of their own.
Grace, sensing my anxiety and hesitation, grasped my hand and pulled me into the foyer.
"Good morning, Henri," greeting the Maître ‘D with her impish charismatic grin.
"Good morning to you, Miss Grace," he replied, exhibiting his customarily warm smile, and nodding also in my direction.
I returned his smile, softly muttering a greeting of my own as well.
His eyes remained trained on me, increasing my discomfort as we made our way back to her father's office.
Grace knocked on the door, opening it without waiting for a response.
"Father! Ta da. I have arrived," announcing triumphantly with a giggle, and I followed behind being as inconspicuous as possible.
The ‘man of the hour’ stood pensive at the window, viewing the bustling crowd, milling about at the intersection of Lombard and Hyde.
The crown jewel of San Francisco’s street corners, at its crest of Lombard is the most winding street in all of North America.
Contemplative, he swirled a glass of red wine in his left hand. Then, congenially he turned around greeting us with an affectionate smile, obviously expecting only his daughter.
But then, there I was also. ‘Grace obviously didn’t even ask him … Now what?’
His expression immediately hardened. Raising the wine glass to his lips, as a programmed social gesture in order to hide his displeasure.
"Who's this?" asking Grace without looking away from me.
I swallowed hard and smiled in return. In that moment, I was overwhelmed by his extremely intimidating power of authority.
"Dad, this is Isabella. You know. The one I keep chattering on about?" Hoping for a sign of recognition at least, if not approval.
“Now, be nice daddy,” removing the wine glass from his hand. “She’s my best friend.”
"I see," was all he said ... Deadpan. Not annoyed ... Not even impressed one way or the other at all.
"And how may I help you, Isabella? … Grace’s best friend," crossing his arms and shifting his stance from right leg to left.
"It's an honor to meet you, Chef Lefevre," keeping my tone professional and yet soft, "I've heard so …"
"Straight to the point," he cut me off rudely, "Don’t have all day ... Lunch rush."
I glanced sideways, eyeing Grace. She met me with an apologetic shrug.
Returning my focus, and meeting the gaze of his steely gray eyes, I addressed him. “Chef Lefevre … I want to be a chef. So, I came here to learn culinary alchemy from the best … you, sir … ”
My shoulders slumped as I resigned myself to inevitable consequences, "Yes, Chef."
"The rest of you, back to work. Guests in a few," as he entered the freezer.
I imagined his scowl as he inspected the ingredients, which I’m sure he had done at least five times before I arrived. He swirled 180, and back to his office.
"Do you have a death wish or something?" Chef Ètienne Dubios asked, wiping his hands clean as a force of professional habit.
"The third day in a row! Anyone witnessing this … they'd think you're doing it on purpose ... Just to annoy him."
As part of our onboarding process, we all were instructed to imitate Ètienne's behavior and attitude towards work. And yet, a full year later I was violating the code of his work ethic; ‘Always Early’.
Dubios, had worked with Chef Lefevre as his sous chef for almost seven years, and could easily be regarded as the head chef's only colleague, as Lefevre never picked a bone with him.
“I just overslept," withholding the truth. "It's not intentional,” sheepishly defending my inexcusable behavior on my way to the locker rooms.
"Head waitress? Huh! You're late!" one of the young, new hires, remarked as I walked in.
"Did you see Chef Lefevre? He asked for you!”
“We just knew he'd turn you into tonight's Beef Wellington," another snickered.
“Instead of running your mouths, make yourselves useful ... Get the tables set," I ordered, mustering up my head waitress authority.
"Yes, ma'am," they chorused, but their mischievous smiles said, ‘we’re not done with you yet’.
Glancing at my wristwatch while changing, ‘Oh, shit. Late again!’ realizing Chef Lefevre was already waiting on me.
‘Again?’, “Ugggghhh”, escaped my throat. Yet one more thing I had added to his list of irritations with me.
I rushed to his office. Stopped in front of his door. Took a deep breath, and knocked … “Chef Lefevre? … I'm here.”
"Enter," his voice, cold and stern, sounded like he was standing right behind the door.
I made my way-in cautiously.
‘No’? Not behind the door … but seated at his desk.
From the window to his left, rays of sunlight spread across his face. Those menacing gray eyes locked my gaze commandingly.
"Three days," as he got up and walked towards me. "Three days in a row you've been late!"
“I’m so sorry. I apologize sir … for my tardiness … I assure you, it won't ever happen again”, my mind distracted by the dust made apparent floating in the sunlight.
“I promise”, meekly bowing, fidgeting subserviently as he approached. The lines in his face etched more deeply than usual.
Standing now in front of me, staring me down to assert his dominance. I shuddered, “Uhhhhgg.” It was working.
He may get on my nerves, but in contrast, his gentleness melts me at my core. I sensed no permanent anger behind the scowl on his face. Yet my knees quivered with apprehension.
"Come on, Adrian," I blustered. Then pleading in a sultry voice, “Adrian”? I placed my left hand against his chest … then pressed the full length of my body into his torso, “mmm”, audibly escaped my lips.
"One last chance?" with a coquettish grin, “Please?” batting my eyes flirtatiously.
‘I know him. This is just pretense, only an act’. Gulping noticeably, the rigidity in his face was as yet unfazed.
His right hand misled with tenderness, then tugged abruptly and too hard on my hair, “Ow!” pulling my gaze upward forcibly, exposing my neck, leaving it open for him to feast on.
As his lips made contact, I gave into the sensual exhilaration, their stimulation spread goose bumps over my entire body.
“Mmm”, making no attempt at disguising my desire this time, I pressed my pelvis aggressively into his.
I was repulsed by many things about him. His arrogant harshness … occasional curt cruelty, and the way he was extra hard on me, even borderline abusive at times in comparison with my colleagues.
But he did know how to make a woman feel good, even with just a light brush of his lips, and a gentle trace of fingertips alone.
He pulled abruptly away, staring into me. His eyes glazed with lust and desire … I was sure mine reflected the same back to him.
Letting me go, he returned to his desk. "Why are you late? Three days in a row is totally unacceptable."
"I was studying … learning … how to cook," I replied. “Lost track of time.”
He smirked at me, like he had heard a-not-too-funny-joke and didn't laugh because there was no humor in it at all.
"Do what you want," he sighed.
"Just don't let it affect my business hours ... Got it?"
"Okay, Chef Lefevre," bowing in subjugated humiliation.
"Uh hem ... I heard Grace will be returning soon. Can't wait to see her again."
“Just get back to work." He instructed, unwilling to discuss his daughter's return.
‘Fine! You’re annoyed, but still…’ rolling my eyes as I, “Hufft,” leaving his office.
***
Our relationship wasn't always like this. And now, was quickly becoming more than a little complicated.
Long story short, I'm head over heels in LUST, currently engaged in a romantic tryst with my grumpy boss, who’s also my best friend's father.
What’s worse? At times, I can barely stand him. At others, I need him to make me Cumm.
This all started a year ago when I approached my best friend Grace, hoping that her world-famous father, Chef Adrian Lefevre, would give me a job in his restaurant.
"Grace, are you kidding? He actually said he'd hire me?" Nervously checking again to make sure my outfit was presentable.
"Daddy may be stern and difficult at times, but in the end he always gives me what I want," smiling, her fingers teasing my hair, then doing her best to smooth it out in the process.
The contorted grimace on her face was enough. I didn't need a mirror to tell that she’d only made things worse.
No time to fix it. We were already swinging through the double doors of Le Papillon.
This was arguably the best five-star restaurant in all of San Francisco, and the first steppingstone to achieve my dreams of becoming a world class chef.
Now immobilized with dread. The butterflies in my stomach had butterflies of their own.
Grace, sensing my anxiety and hesitation, grasped my hand and pulled me into the foyer.
"Good morning, Henri," greeting the Maître ‘D with her impish charismatic grin.
"Good morning to you, Miss Grace," he replied, exhibiting his customarily warm smile, and nodding also in my direction.
I returned his smile, softly muttering a greeting of my own as well.
His eyes remained trained on me, increasing my discomfort as we made our way back to her father's office.
Grace knocked on the door, opening it without waiting for a response.
"Father! Ta da. I have arrived," announcing triumphantly with a giggle, and I followed behind being as inconspicuous as possible.
The ‘man of the hour’ stood pensive at the window, viewing the bustling crowd, milling about at the intersection of Lombard and Hyde.
The crown jewel of San Francisco’s street corners, at its crest of Lombard is the most winding street in all of North America.
Contemplative, he swirled a glass of red wine in his left hand. Then, congenially he turned around greeting us with an affectionate smile, obviously expecting only his daughter.
But then, there I was also. ‘Grace obviously didn’t even ask him … Now what?’
His expression immediately hardened. Raising the wine glass to his lips, as a programmed social gesture in order to hide his displeasure.
"Who's this?" asking Grace without looking away from me.
I swallowed hard and smiled in return. In that moment, I was overwhelmed by his extremely intimidating power of authority.
"Dad, this is Isabella. You know. The one I keep chattering on about?" Hoping for a sign of recognition at least, if not approval.
“Now, be nice daddy,” removing the wine glass from his hand. “She’s my best friend.”
"I see," was all he said ... Deadpan. Not annoyed ... Not even impressed one way or the other at all.
"And how may I help you, Isabella? … Grace’s best friend," crossing his arms and shifting his stance from right leg to left.
"It's an honor to meet you, Chef Lefevre," keeping my tone professional and yet soft, "I've heard so …"
"Straight to the point," he cut me off rudely, "Don’t have all day ... Lunch rush."
I glanced sideways, eyeing Grace. She met me with an apologetic shrug.
Returning my focus, and meeting the gaze of his steely gray eyes, I addressed him. “Chef Lefevre … I want to be a chef. So, I came here to learn culinary alchemy from the best … you, sir … ”