Chapter Text
"I need that grilled octopus plated. Now. This ain't a fuckin' old folk’s home."
"Yes, chef!"
Joel Miller was mean. That was the first thing you had learnt upon stepping into his kitchen over a year ago.
You'd know what you were getting yourself into before you'd even arrived at the restaurant for your first day. Joel's reputation preceded him; he was notorious for running a tight and intimate operation, so successfully that he had earned a Michelin star to his name. The restaurant itself was a small yet charming seafood and farm-to-table bistro located in the heart of the city.
It had taken some settling in, to put it lightly. You had your fair share of culinary experience, having worked your way around Europe as a poissonier after graduating from culinary school. Still, the other chefs at Joel's restaurant had been working in kitchens since you were in diapers, as they frequently enjoyed reminding you.
Despite the high expectations and fast pace of the kitchen, you soon found your feet.
"On the pass for saucier, chef."
Luke, the restaurant's sauté chef, rushed to your side, saucepan in hand. He delicately poured an olive oil, shallot, and herb dressing onto the tentacle, stepping back to indicate the dish was ready to be taken out onto the floor.
"Good job, sweetheart." Luke winked at you, placing a light tap on your ass.
As much as you loved your profession, degradingly misogynist gestures were extremely common. You'd made the mistake of calling out a sous chef earlier on in your career, soon realising how ingrained this kind of mindset was in the older generations you found in a kitchen.
So, you gritted your teeth and got on with it.
"This is a kitchen, not a brothel. Feel each other up on your own damn time." Joel called across the room, making you thankful for the heat of the kitchen masking the blush across your cheeks.
"Yes, chef. Sorry, chef." Luke responded, tail between his legs.
You continued preparing your seafood dishes, feeling Joel's presence lurking behind you.
"Waitin' for that sea bass to come back t'life?"
"No, chef."
"Then fuckin' grill it."
"Yes, chef."
"Too busy thinkin' 'bout your fuckin' boyfriend over there if you ask me."
You were a good chef; not even a decent chef, but a really fucking good one. You put your everything into your dishes, and Joel knew that, meaning his degrading comments stung even more sharply.
Sometimes it felt as though he specifically targeted you. You had wondered if it was down to your age, or maybe simply because you were a woman. You never did anything that warranted such scathing words, yet you were the primary recipient of them.
You did what you do best, and just got on with it. You carried on the rest of the night enduring his small but cutting digs in your direction, as well as a slap on the ass from Luke after plating up each dish.
Maybe it was the heat of the kitchen, or your patience wearing thin, but when you'd braved a particularly vicious snide comment from Joel back-to-back with a far too over-familiar hand on the waist from a passing Luke, you snapped.
"Fuck!" You shouted, slamming your fists down, realising just too late that your left hand was in perfect line with the grill.
Your reflexes kicked in instantly, pulling your hand to your chest with a pathetically weak hiss. Thanks to your prior outburst, everybody's gaze was already fixated on your station. Your eyes caught Joel's, fury burning on his face.
"Out. Now." He ordered.
Now it was your turn to tuck your tail between your legs, still clutching your hand as you barged out of the back door.
Don't cry, don't cry, don't you fucking dare cry.
Blatantly, your body wasn't listening to you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes before rapidly falling down your face. You had tried to stand up for yourself, to make a stand, and you'd failed miserably.
You were so lost in thought that you hadn't heard the kitchen door open, the sound of a small cough causing you to discreetly wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.
"You're not fuckin' blubbing, are you?" Joel scoffed.
"What's your fucking problem?" You spat, surprising yourself with the tone of your voice. Fuck it, you thought. Probably fired anyway, may as well go for the jugular.
"Why are you so mean to me, and only me? I work my ass off in that kitchen, day in, day out. Harder than anyone else, including you. You don't give any of the others half the shit I get. Is it because you're some soon-to-be dried up lonely chef with just your ten-year-old Time Magazine front cover to keep you company at night that you've got such a stick up your ass? Or are you just a sexist pig?"
He whistled and raised his eyebrows, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his back pocket, taking one for himself before offering you one. You accepted, leaning forward for him to light the end for you. As he flicked the lighter, you flitted your eyes up to meet his, which were already trained directly on you.
The second thing you had learned about Joel Miller, not so shortly after the first, was that he was beautiful. Whenever you caught his all-consuming, hazelnut eyes lingering on you, you couldn’t help but feel butterflies swarm in your stomach. It had been hell swallowing your attraction for him for well over a year; you knew the reason his curt words and stoic attitude hurt you so much was because you were desperate to impress him. Not because of his status or accolades, but simply because of the kind of man he was. He was rough around the edges and cruel just for the sake of it, but every now and then, you would catch a tenderness to him. Namely, when his daughters came to visit the restaurant, he would scoop them up in his big arms, transforming into a loving teddy bear as soon as he stepped out of the kitchen.
You stayed close to him after pulling away, both of you taking a drag in silence.
"S'only five years old, actually."
"What?"
"My Time Magazine cover. Only came out five years ago."
"Right." You suppressed a laugh, not wanting to give him the satisfaction that you'd found his comment humorous.
Another couple of minutes of silence passed as you soaked in the distant noises of traffic from the inner-city; the mixture of the far-off bustle, the warm summer night, and the nicotine rushing to your head made your outburst feel like a distant memory.
"You any better at pouring a whiskey than usin' a grill?" Joel asked, breaking your momentary tranquillity.
"Excuse me?"
He didn't respond; rather, he half-opened the kitchen door and barked for the sous chef to cover for him.
"Let's take care of that hand'a yours."
The adrenaline coursing through your blood had shifted your focus from the searing pain in your palm, which now came rushing back to you all at once. It could’ve been worse, but you were eager to ease the tight stinging as quickly as possible.
You followed Joel through to the back office, the commotion of the kitchen down the hall a honeyed murmur through the closed door. He placed two tumblers and a half-full bottle of whiskey in front of you.
“If you’d be so kind.”
As you poured the drinks, he rifled through the overflowing shelves for the never-used first-aid kit.
He took a swig from his glass before taking your hand in his, turning your palm upwards and resting it on his lap. He worked in silence, brushing over the wound with cleaning solution, gently dragging a thumb soothingly up the side of your hand each time you hissed through your teeth at the pain.
His touch was uncharacteristically gentle; he took his time in applying the antibiotic cream, rubbing smooth circles over your blistering skin.
“So, you and Luke are an item or somethin’?” He asked, a hint of something coating his voice that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
“Are you serious? God, no. He just seems to have a problem keeping his hands to himself.”
Joel’s head snapped up, meeting your gaze for the first time since you’d sat down opposite one another.
“I’d never have let him touch you like that if I knew.”
Unsure how to respond, you took another swig from your glass to keep your mouth occupied.
“M’sorry, by the way. For always bein’ so harsh on you. I know you’re talented-”
“Don’t give me that I just want you to reach your full potential shit. I know you don’t care enough for that-”
“I don’t care? That what you really think?”
His tone was softer now; if you didn’t know him better, you would’ve sworn you could hear a twang of sadness in his voice.
He gently dressed your wound, taking care to place the adhesive and secure it with a bandage. He tucked the loose end into place but kept a gentle grip on your hand, rubbing his thumb over your padded palm absent-mindedly.
“Course I fuckin’ care, that’s the damn problem.”
“You’ve got a real funny way of showing it.” You scoffed.
He poured you both another round, taking a swig of his drink before rubbing a hand over his mouth, a laugh creeping across his face.
“You were right earlier, I am fuckin’ washed up and lonely. I should’ve left, got more than enough damn cash than I know what to do with. Nothin’ I want more than to disappear to a farmhouse somewhere w’my girls, leave all this pompous shit behind.”
“So, what’s stopping you?” You asked softly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
“You walkin’ into my kitchen like a damn angel sent from above.”
A breath caught in your throat. It must be the whiskey, you thought, he’s probably loosened up and horny, trying his luck for a token of your appreciation for him putting you back together.
“I thought t’myself, how can I up and leave now, when the most beautiful woman I ever saw has just walked into my kitchen?”
“You’re drunk.” You tried to rationalise, not believing the words tumbling out of his mouth.
He held his hand out flat, as still as a surgeon’s, as if it would somehow prove he was telling the truth.
“M’not, see. I just thought you n’that idiot in there were fuckin’.”
“Oh my god,” your eyes widened, leaning back in your chair at the realisation, finally piecing his actions together.
“You were jealous.”
“Of him? Never.”
“Don’t lie to me now, Joel. You thought we were together, and you were jealous. That’s why you were always so fuckin’ mean to me.”
His cheeks reddened as he brought a hand to the back of his neck.
“Maybe I was. Hated thinkin’ of a girl like you endin’ up with a piece of shit like him.”
“In comparison to what, someone like you?” You leant forward, placing your glass on the side before rising from your chair to stand in between his legs, resting your hands on the sides of his rough face.
“Now, sweetheart, would that be so bad?”