"Pastry chef had a delayed reaction. Didn't hit until she got to her car."

We ride the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where the test kitchen occupies half the level. It is Bastian's pet project, a state-of-the-art facility that looks more like a spaceship than a kitchen. He makes sure that the crew keeps it spic-and-span, too-we're talking "toothbrushes scrubbing the grout" levels of cleanliness-so it's a glistening, unblemished ocean of white and stainless steel as far as the eye can see. Legend has it that the health inspector fell to his knees and wept tears of joy when he first came to approve the place's opening.

The doors haven't even fully opened when Chef Rubio appears. Under normal circumstances, she's an espresso in human form: Puerto Rican, loud as hell, with an irrepressible smile and hips that constantly swing to salsa music that no one else can hear.

My first thought today, though, is that she looks beyond exhausted. She's practically got piping bags under her eyes.

"Please tell me those are from Grain & Gather," she says to me in a hushed rasp when she sees what I'm carrying.

I wink. "Would I bring you anything else?"

"Mija, I could kiss you. On the mouth. With tongue." Thankfully, she spares me the early morning tongue bath. Instead, she grabs two boxes, then calls over her shoulder in rapid Spanish. Within seconds, I am surrounded by chefs, all of them clawing for the goodies and groaning wordlessly like a zombie horde.

"Oh my God, kouign-amann," someone moans.

"Are these the brown butter croissants? Eliana, you angel."

"Coffee's still hot!"

I ask how things are going, someone starts explaining the difference between lamination techniques in French versus Austrian pastries, and for a few minutes, everything feels normal.

Better than normal, actually. There is something beautiful about watching people's faces light up over simple pleasures.

Chef Rubio closes her eyes and sighs when she bites into a morning bun. The newest line cook, barely out of culinary school, holds his croissant aloft like it's made of gold.

"You know what? You're officially my favorite person," he says, his mouth still full. His name tag reads Samuel, and he's got an eager energy that hasn't been beaten out of him by the industry yet, though his hair is standing straight up like he either just stuck a spatula in an electrical socket or he's been running his hands through it all night long in frustration.

Another one of the chefs guffaws, spraying a mouthful of blueberry muffin everywhere. "You sure it's not LeBastard?"

At the mention of the big boss, everyone groans in unison. One of the French stagiaires mutters the nickname again under his breath with such visceral hatred that it makes me flinch. "LeBastard. Ce fils de pute."

I don't have to speak French to understand that they're not exactly singing his praises.

Wincing, I make eye contact with Samuel. "It's been that bad?"

"Worse than you could possibly imagine," he says vehemently.

I glance at Rubio, who nods in confirmation. "We're three weeks out from the investor preview for Project Olympus and he's rejected every single dish we've presented."

Project Olympus-Bastian's baby, his magnum opus. It's a skyscraper-sized ode to fine dining. A fourteen-story complex with a dozen restaurant concepts under one roof, each one with the oh-so-humble goal of revolutionizing a world cuisine. Italian, Korean, Chicago's finest-Bastian has pulled out all the stops to make it a mecca of good eats.

That comes with a price tag, of course. Meaning that the investor preview dinner is make-or-break for the project's funding. I've seen the numbers; we're talking about a potential three-billion-dollar valuation if he can pull it off.

The "if" is the part that's got everyone burning the midnight oil.

"Maybe someone needs to get him laid. Make the grouchy motherfucker a little less grouchy, you know?" suggests Tony, one of the sous chefs. To my horror, he turns and starts waggling his eyebrows at me. "Take one for the team, Eliana. You're pretty enough, and God knows he needs to release some tension."

My face goes nuclear. Last night's delusional fantasies flood back-warm skin, soapy scent, hands coaxing lower... What if I had? What if we had?

"Pfft, please," I snort, aiming for what I hope and pray comes off as casual, I-would-never dismissiveness. "Bastian Hale doesn't even see me as human, much less as a woman. I'm basically sentient office furniture to him."

"I don't know," Chef Rubio says, giving me a sly look. "You've got some legs on you, chica. And you're single, yeah? I see sparks. And I think that stubborn hijo de puta sees 'em, too. He looks at you, you know."

"Probably just wondering if he can legally make me work the dish pit," I say, but my mind is racing and my pulse is racing even faster than that.

Tony chuckles. "Spoken like someone who's been here too long. Remember when you could have hope? Dreams? Basic human dignity?"

"Vaguely," I say, and everyone laughs again, but there's an edge of truth to it. For six years, I've been clawing my way up from receptionist, putting in seventy-hour weeks, skipping vacations, missing birthdays. Just like Mom always said: Keep your head down, stay quiet, don't make waves. Of course, Mom also said that about her various post-Dad boyfriends' drinking habits, about the landlord who used to let himself into our apartment, about every disappointment life ever threw at us.

Don't make waves, Eliana. That only makes things worse. Just endure.

Well, look where that got me: twenty-seven years old, depressingly single, and about to go blind.

Maybe "enduring" is overrated.

"Besides," I continue, "can you imagine? Me and Bastian? He'd probably make me submit a PowerPoint presentation before we could do the deed."

The kitchen erupts in laughter, and I feel the spotlight shift away from my burning face. Thank God.

"Oh my God, yes," Samuel wheezes. "He'd have performance metrics!"

"KPIs for everything," Tony adds, wiping tears from his eyes. "Customer satisfaction scores."

"'Your moaning was only at seventy percent capacity.'" Chef Rubio mimics Bastian's clipped tone perfectly. "'I expect excellence in all areas, Ms. Hunter. This is simply not good enough.'"

I snort-laugh so hard cappuccino nearly comes out my nose. "He'd probably write NGE on my ass with a Sharpie."

That mental image sends everyone into fresh hysterics. One of the prep cooks is literally on the floor, clutching his stomach.

"Stop, stop," the French stagiaire gasps. "I cannot breathe!"

"You know he'd time everything," I continue, emboldened by their laughter and the sugar rush from the bite of kouign-amann I just stole. "Foreplay: twelve minutes and not a second more. Any longer is just poor time management."

Chef Rubio scoffs. "Girl, you're being generous. That man would schedule sex like a business meeting. 'I have an opening between my 3 P.M. conference call and my 3:45 portfolio review.'"

"Forty-five minutes?" Tony shakes his head. "Nah, he'd block fifteen, tops. Five for the act, five for a critique, five to check his emails."

"While still in bed," Samuel adds.

"While still inside you," I correct.

Everyone guffaws; meanwhile, I'm trying to ignore the way my whole body feels like it's been dipped in hot sauce. Making fun of Bastian like this feels dangerous, thrilling. It's playing with matches next to a gas leak.

Part of me wonders what he'd think if he could hear us. Would those ice-blue eyes narrow in that way that makes my stomach do weird jumping jacks? Would his jaw clench? His hands tighten? His eyes burn?

"You know what the worst part would be?" I say, riding the incomparable high of making your coworkers laugh while you talk shit about your tyrannical boss. "Bastian would take one look at you and⁠-"

"Ahem."

I hear a throat clear, and even as I start to turn, I know what I'm going to find.

Sure enough, I do.

Bastian Hale stands framed in the kitchen doors, impeccable as always in a powder blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. His scowl is at full force today. That ten percent smirk from last night is nowhere to be found-it's pure venom, pure heat, pure what the fuck do you think you're doing?

Our eyes meet across the kitchen.

The laughter dies in my throat.

"Don't stop on my account," he growls. "Tell me, Ms. Hunter: what would I take one look at you and do?"

If spontaneous human combustion were real, I'd be a pile of ash right now. If only that were so.

Everyone turns in slow motion, like those dreams where you're trying to run but can't move fast enough. The horror on their faces might be comical if I weren't experiencing my own personal apocalypse.

"Mr. Hale!" Chef Rubio recovers first and tries to jump to my rescue. "I was⁠-"

"Not you, Chef." He steps into the kitchen, and everyone takes an unconscious step back. It's like watching a nature documentary where the antelope sense the lion approaching and wait to see which poor sucker he'll be turning into lunch. "Please, Ms. Hunter-continue."

I want to die. I want to melt into the floor and become one with the tiles. I want to reverse time and tell past-me to keep her stupid mouth shut about what Bastian Hale may or may not do while he's still inside of you.

But I can't do any of those things.

All I can do is squeak out a pathetic "I'm sorry" that crashes and burns before it even makes it halfway across the kitchen.

Bastian nods like he expected no less. He takes another meandering step into the kitchen and his gaze sweeps around as if to memorize every flushed, guilty face. "How thoughtful of you to cater a breakfast party, Ms. Hunter. I wasn't aware we'd restructured the morning schedule to include social hour."

The kouign-amann in my hand wobbles. "It's not-" I start. "I just thought⁠-"

"You thought." Another step closer. "You thought it would be appropriate to distract my entire kitchen staff during extremely important crunch time hours with... " He picks up a box and examines it like it contains evidence of a crime. "Pastries."

"Mr. Hale," Chef Rubio tries again, "we were just⁠-"

"Getting back to work, I assume." He doesn't even look at her. His eyes stay on me, and there is nothing-nothing-of last night's warmth in them. "Unless Ms. Hunter has also taken it upon herself to do that for you? Perhaps she has opinions on the tasting menu for the investor dinner? Well, Ms. Hunter? I'm all ears."

My face burns. Everyone is staring at their shoes, their half-eaten pastries, anywhere but at us.

"I was trying to be nice," I croak.

"Is 'nice' anywhere in your job description, Ms. Hunter?"

"No, but⁠-"

"But nothing." He drops the box on the ground and a donut goes rolling mournfully into the distance. "You're not special, Ms. Hunter, and you are not exempt from the rules or from the work. You're an employee. One of many. And like every other employee, you're expected to focus on your actual job instead of playing food fairy to people who should be working."

Who is this man? I want to scream and ask anyone who will listen. What happened to the bright-eyed tease from last night? Who is this asshole, this tyrant, this stranger?

And who am I?

Last night, I felt-stupidly, maybe, or naively-but I felt like I was somebody to him.

This morning, I am nothing. Just another employee. A food fairy getting her wings plucked off.

My eyes burn. Do not cry. Do not cry in front of Bastian Hale and the entire test kitchen staff.

"I came in early," I manage. "On my own time."

A surge of angry heat passes over his face. "If you have enough of that, perhaps we're not challenging you sufficiently. I'll have to adjust your workload."

"I should go," I say, in a horrifyingly sad echo of last night.

"Yes," he agrees. "You should."

I turn to leave, and the kitchen staff parts like the Red Sea. No one makes eye contact. Someone-I think it is the pastry chef who cried in her car-squeezes my arm as I pass, but I can't look at her. Can't look at anyone.

But as I'm passing by, Bastian's hand flies out and catches me by the wrist. It's like last night's fantasy, but turned into a nightmare. His palm is hot and heavy even through the wool of my sweater. I could almost swear I smell the fabric burning.

His eyes bore into the side of my face. I keep mine straight ahead, locked on the double doors that lead away from him, away from this.

"This is a place of business, Eliana. Not a charity. And certainly not a social club for employees who can't seem to understand their place in the hierarchy."

Last night, I touched his skin.

Last night, he touched me back.

This morning, he puts me firmly and brutally in my place.

3

ELIANA

de·glaze: /dēˈɡlāz/: verb

1: to add liquid to a pan to dissolve the browned bits and create a flavorful sauce.

2: to salvage something worthwhile from what appears to be completely ruined.

"He said what?!" Yasmin's voice carries across half the restaurant. Several heads turn our way in alarm.

"Yas, volume," I hiss. "We've talked about this."

Honestly, though, I'm grateful for her outrage. After this morning's humiliation, I need someone in my corner.

Even if that someone has the discretion of a foghorn.

We're at Noodle Theory, this cute little ramen place tucked between a dry cleaner and a tax office that serves steaming bowls of heaven for nine bucks a pop. It's become our spot over the past two years-close enough to our office building for lunch breaks, cheap enough that I can afford it, and loud enough that we can have actual conversations without corporate eavesdroppers.

"I don't give a rat's ass who hears me." Yasmin stabs her chopsticks into her tonkotsu like she's imagining them going through Bastian's eye socket. "The man's a sociopath. First, he's all flirty and shirtless 'n' shit-which, sidebar, we need to discuss that whole situation, you shameless tease-and then he publicly flames you for bringing pastries? Pastries, El! Pastries!"

"I know." I push a soft-boiled egg around my bowl. All morning long, my appetite has wavered somewhere between nonexistent and actively hostile. "I just don't understand what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong, babe. That's the point." Yasmin scowls at me fiercely. She's been my best friend since I started at Hale, the only other woman in our department full of frat bros in Patagonia vests who pop Zyns like it's a full-time job, the only one who understands what it's like to work twice as hard for half the recognition. "You know what this is? This is him putting you back in your place because you saw him vulnerable."

"He was just shirtless, not vulnerable. And given the way his abs look, he's not exactly-you know what, I'm getting off track here."

"Elly, the man runs this company like Seal Team Six. You've seen his calendar. You've seen his clothes. You've seen his whole, y'know, aura. And yet you caught him off-guard. That probably scared the shit out of him."

I want to argue, but something about what she's saying feels kinda right. The Bastian from last night was a completely different person from this morning's ice sculpture with an attitude.

"It doesn't matter anyway," I say, forcing myself to take a bite of noodles. They taste like cardboard, but that's not the ramen's fault. Everything has tasted like cardboard since Dr. Haggerty's life-ruiner of a prognosis. "He made it very clear where I stand. Just another employee."

"Fuck. That," Yasmin declares. "You want to know where you stand? You're the woman who walked into that building six years ago with a community college degree and holes in her shoes, and worked your way up to senior project manager through sheer fucking brilliance. You're a fuckin' rock star, El."

"Somehow, I don't think he sees it that way."

"So then quit! Screw him! He needs you way more than you need him. You'd find another job like that-" She snaps her fingers. "-because you're great and he sucks and them's the facts, girl."

Quit. God, that's a terrifying word. I've been thinking it all morning, this wild, reckless idea that keeps sticking a toe in the deep end of my mind. Quit. Walk away. Use these precious ninety days-eighty-eight and a half now-for something more fulfilling than dealing with Bastian Hale's temper tantrums.

"I can't quit," I whisper into my bowl.

"Why the hell not?"

"Health insurance, for one. Plus, y'know, like, rent, food, the radical idea that I need money to live."

"You're brilliant, Elly. Anyone in this industry who knows anything would be licking their lips at the thought of stealing you away from the blue-eyed bastard."

"Yeah, sure. I mean, maybe. But I⁠-"

Yasmin puts her hand on mine. "Look, I've watched you kill yourself for this man," she continues, softer now. "Always first in, last out. You do the most and you never ask for the easy way out. And for what? So some trust fund sociopath can humiliate you for being kind? For caring? Nuh-uh. Again, I say unto you: Fuck. that."