I tried to explain. “It’s not just one post. I can’t delete the whole blog. I have a commitment.”

“You have a commitment.”

The scorn in his voice lashed heat to my face. My temper flared. “Yes. To my readers. To my advertisers.”

“What about your commitment to me?”

A moment of electric stillness, charged with emotion, swirling with the bitter echoes of every argument I’d ever had with Trey. I would not give myself up to be with him.

“What commitment? We hooked up. We had sex. I’m your booty call.”

He went very still. “You work for me.”

He didn’t contradict me, I noticed. “We had sex. I’m your booty call.” Not, We made love. Not, I love you. Never that.

Not that I wanted that. My pulse throbbed in my head. “Maybe I should quit.”

“Fine.” His voice was a near-growl. “Walk off. Walk away four hours before service.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” It was the cardinal sin of the kitchen, to call out without a substitute. “I’ll give you two weeks’ notice.”

He said something in guttural German. “I don’t want your fucking two weeks’ notice.”

“Don’t you swear at me,” I said.

“Swear at you? I’d like to . . .” He broke off, glaring. “Go. Just go. You’re right. This situation—you working for me—I knew it would be a problem.”

My vision blurred. My headache was blinding me. “Yes, Chef.”

I fumbled for the locker, my jacket, my knives. Pulling myself together to face the fire outside. To get back on the line.

Eat,” Constanza said, handing me a generous slice of flan. “You’ll feel better.”

If I ate anything, I’d throw up. “I’m good, thanks.”

“I saw your review of Earl’s,” Lucas said. “Man, that was brutal. What does a guy have to do to get a good review from you?”

Frank snickered. “Ask Chef.”

At least they weren’t mad at me. They clustered around, curious and sympathetic. Suffocating.

Ray’s face folded like a wet towel. “All right, back to work. All of you.” His gaze flicked to me. “You good to go?”

“Go. Just go.”

Out of his face? Or out of his kitchen? I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t walk off the line, leaving the kitchen short-staffed a few hours before service. “What about your commitment to me?”

“I’m fine.” I was furious. Shattered.

“I want you on batch work today,” Ray said.

I nodded. The assignment—making the vinaigrettes and aiolis the whole kitchen would use over the next two days—was a mark of his confidence in my ability to follow a recipe. Or maybe he just wanted to keep me out of Eric’s way.

Smart move.

I blew my nose and washed my hands. Focusing on the ingredients, chopping and measuring, helped keep my mind off the fight in Eric’s office. And if occasionally my eyes watered, hey, I blamed it on the onions. Anyway, I made it through the afternoon somehow without cutting myself or stabbing anybody with a kitchen knife.