Of course he’d said no. And then punished me anyway, for daring to ask.

I didn’t mind doing the sous chef’s dirty work. But there was no way I could accept his decision.

I thwacked the head off another sardine.

The back door burst open on a blast of cold air from the loading dock, and Chef blew in, his big voice booming, electrifying the air. He moved down the line, greeting everyone from the sous chef, Ray, to Julio, the morning dishwasher, clapping shoulders, shaking hands, shaping us into a team. “Ray, my man, ¿va bien? Hey, Constanza, how’s your little girl? Julio, ¿que onda?”

The replies echoed back. “All good, Chef.” “Much better, Chef.” “¿Todo bien contigo? Gracias, jefe.”

In the kitchen, his authority was absolute. He was always jefe, “Chef,” never dude or dawg or bro. With his Michelin-star-studded résumé and James Beard Award, he could have been a consultant or celebrity chef anywhere. Paris. London. The Food Network. But here he still made food, cooking almost every day by choice. Gusto was his livelihood. His life. His mission.

Which made what I was about to do really stupid.

I wiped my hands on my apron, fingering the outline of my phone in my pocket. I hadn’t had a text from Meg in over an hour. “Chef?”

He looked over from his discussion with the sous, one eyebrow lifting. A big, dark-skinned man closer to forty than thirty, totally in command of himself and his kitchen.

My heart hammered under my white coat. “Could I talk to you a minute?”

Ray, the sous, scowled.

But, “Sure,” Chef said easily. “I’ve got the squab,” he said to Ray. “Get Lucas on the tagliatelle while you do the pork belly, yeah?”

“Yes, Chef.”

He approached, his keen gaze sweeping my bloody station. “What’s this?” he asked, indicating the flat stainless pan filled with the heads and bones of decapitated fish.

“I’m prepping the sardines. With the carrot fennel slaw? I thought I’d make a fish stock later,” I added, proud of my initiative.

Chef shook his head slowly, almost sadly. “Snapper and bass, March. Halibut, okay, or cod. But not sardines. Nothing dark or oily. Not for fumet.”

His voice was kind, his rebuke audible throughout the kitchen.

My face burned. I should have known. I should have tossed the scraps to the skinny black cat that lurked around the Dumpster outside. Ray smirked.

Bite me, Ray, I thought.

“Yes, Chef,” I said.

“Was there anything else?” he asked gently.

From across the kitchen, Lucas, one of the line cooks, shot me a sympathetic glance.

I should say no. I needed this job. Not so much for the pay. I could have made more as a dog walker in Manhattan or working front of house almost anywhere. Although, as an out-of-work writer, I didn’t have the looks or the moves to command the kind of tips the auditioning dancers and aspiring actors could earn. But I didn’t want to lose my front-row seat to the food show, my chance to learn from an award-winning chef who didn’t throw tantrums or knives in the kitchen.