Naughty AF

Chapter 1

Amelia

         Knife in one hand, I pause to look up from the carrots I am neatly slicing. This sort of task is the grunt work I’d normally give to one of the lower chefs, hardly worth the time of the restaurant’s head chef. Right now, though, I can’t even be bothered to delegate. It is a mindless job, but at least it gives me something calm and repetitive to focus on.

         I look around the busy kitchen, taking in the scene. Everyone is moving, working, active as always. But they don’t have the usual bounce in their step, and the room is almost deathly silent except for the occasional banging of cooking tools. To be honest, I have prepared food for funerals that were livelier than this.

         “We’ll be happy to give anyone who wants it a glowing recommendation.” Sophia breaks the quiet to speak, and her voice sounds loud for such a small, frail woman. It’s obvious she’s trying to keep her tone light, but I can hear the slight crack to know she is fighting back tears.

         It makes my heart ache for more reasons than I can count. I know it couldn’t have been easy for Sophia and Gerald to tell us they had decided to sell Enchante, the restaurant they had spent their lives building. The restaurant most of us had spent years of our professional careers helping them build.

         “This sucks,” Beth whispers in my ear. I just nod, focusing on the carrots again. I need to keep moving before I start screaming about the injustice of it all.

         Enchante has always been an almost magical place to work. Enchanted, one might even say. We are like a family here. Turnover is shockingly low compared to most other places in the stressful food service industry. Though I learned to cook growing up back in Italy, Sophia and Gerald had taken me in like a daughter to teach me everything I needed to know about being a chef.

         Until about fifteen minutes ago, I never really imagined working anywhere else. Sophia and Gerald are getting up in age, however, long past the point where many people would have retired to live off the restaurant’s success. I suppose it is silly of me to not have seen this coming. I guess a part of me felt like they were invincible. Even a hundred years from now, it seems hard to imagine them not here, still running Enchante.

         The final straw came for the couple when they learned Sophia needed a heart operation. I can’t fault her for that, of course. They had spent a lot of money renovating the restaurant a few months ago, so now they don’t have a ton of savings left to pay for the coming medical bills. Not only that, but there is no telling when Sophia will be able to return to work, if ever. Selling it and taking the money, along with reducing their stress, is a perfectly logical choice.

         But God, does it sting. I don’t dare say so, though. There is no reason to add to their guilt. Watching Sophia’s eyes water earlier as she made the announcement made it obvious she already felt bad enough.

         Sophia excuses herself to the office, where Gerald is already digging through a life’s worth of their belongings. Soon, the management team of La Premier will take over and wipe away any trace of Sophia and Gerald, anyway. It’s hard to think about.

         As soon as she leaves, the murmuring begins.

         “Well, I bet La Premier’s happy. They’ve been trying to buy this building for nearly a year,” John mutters bitterly.

         I don’t bother to correct him, even though I know it has actually been closer to two. Sophia and Gerald have had no shortage of offers, but they typically refrain from saying too much in front of the staff. We have a steady customer base and are set in a prime location in Vegas. Everyone wants to buy us.

         Until a couple weeks ago, Sophia and Gerald laughed at the offers. They were never going to sell. They were supposed to live forever. We had all decided. I suppose sometimes the fates just feel the need to put us back in our place, resenting our smugness.

         “We might as well get recommendations while we can,” Beth chimes in next, her shoulders slumping. “The CEO of La Premier is going to fire us all within a week, mark my words.”

         “He will not.” I try to make my voice sound more confident than I feel.

         “Yes, he will,” Beth insists. “Have you heard about this Jones Langley guy? I mean, he’s like a bajillionaire. And it’s not by accident, either. He’s cutthroat.”

         “You’re all good at your jobs,” I counter. “It costs money to replace staff and he wouldn’t find anyone better, anyway. Not to mention the time he’s going to lose while hiring a whole new kitchen crew.”

         Beth shakes her head, determined to wallow in her misery and bring everyone else down with her. I am suddenly half tempted to throw a carrot at her just to quiet her down, but I resist the impulse.

         “Not new staff,” she argues. “New to here. He’s going to bring in people he’s worked with in his other restaurants. People who already know exactly what he likes and how to do it. He’s going to give them our jobs because he doesn’t have to train an entire kitchen to do things his way. Sure, he’ll have to hire a new person here and there to fill the gaps left. But it’s easier to train one new guy in thirty restaurants than it is to fix our entire staff.”

         I swallow down the lump in my throat, trying to ignore the sensibility of her words. They are honest and pragmatic, and quite possibly true, but they are not helpful. What can we do about it, anyway?

         “I’m not going to let that happen,” I answer firmly, staring around the kitchen. Everyone is so busy working that almost no one returns my gaze. We still have a restaurant to run. For now, anyway.

         The gesture feels hollow, less comforting than I hoped. In a movie, everyone would have rallied at my words, buoyed with hope for the future. Instead, I just see a sea of depressed, timid faces, rushing back and forth to get their work done as they try not to think about what tomorrow will bring.

         Inwardly, I steel myself. Even if no one believes me, I mean my words. I will do whatever I can to save these people’s jobs.

         God willing, I won’t have to. It isn’t like we have actually met this Jones Langley yet. In our business, we all know of him, of course. Who doesn’t?

         But reputation is a funny thing. Just because the rumors swirl about what a hard ass he is, it doesn’t mean they are true. With any luck, it’s all an exaggeration. Someone as rich and powerful as him has to have some enemies, some disgruntled employees eager to speak badly of him.

         We can still hope he is a perfectly reasonable man. Maybe we have nothing to worry about.

         The little gnawing pit in my stomach wants to disagree. I pretend not to notice. I wave Beth over to finish my prep work and turn to the stove. Our current, pervasive aura of depression is starting to put us behind schedule.

         I bark out a few orders to my crew, trying to get back on track. It stings to do it, and I try to temper my tone to hit somewhere between too permissive and too demoralizing. We’ve all suffered enough for today.

         It seems the fates disagree once again, as the house manager, Ella, flies frantically through the swinging doors that separate the kitchen from the dining area. “Jones Langley is here,” she gasps, eyes wild.

         “What?” I snap, my heart clenching in my chest as I process the words. I must have misunderstood.

         “In the dining room,” she explains. “He’s here for a meal.”

         Shit. He obviously is here to scope out his most recent purchase. And, of course, he’s just in time to catch us at our absolute lowest. What kind of a man comes in to judge his new employees fifteen minutes after they realized they might be getting fired soon?

         “Well, get out there and give him a complimentary glass of wine or something,” I practically wail. So much for my cool and confident leader routine.

         Ella turns to do as instructed. I cast my eyes helplessly around the kitchen, which is entirely not in a state fit to make a good impression. All we can do is serve him excellent food, fast, and hope he gets the hell out of there.

         I begin to bark orders, no longer worried about my tone. The kitchen crew, already on edge, does their best to follow them. But in about fifteen seconds, it is clear they are dissolving into chaos before my very eyes.

Shit. Forget saving their jobs. From the looks of this, I’m going to be the first one fired.