Perhaps the scene was laughable—huge Max and little Charlie, the undersized Korean cook who came no higher than his superior’s breastbone. They stood, glaring at each other, while both of them held a solid grip on a spinach casserole. It might have been laughable, Summer thought wearily, if the rest of the kitchen staff hadn’t already been choosing up sides while the luncheon orders were ignored.

“Inferior work,” Max retorted. He’d yet to forgive Charlie for being out sick three days running.

“Your casseroles are always inferior work. Mine are perfect.”

“Too much milk,” Max said solidly. “Not enough cheese.”

“Problem?” Summer stepped up, lining herself between them.

“This scrawny little man who masquerades as a cook is trying to pass this mass of soggy leaves off as a spinach casserole.” Max tried to tug the glass dish away and found that the scrawny little man was surprisingly strong.

“This big lump of dough who calls himself a chef is jealous because I know more about vegetables than he does.”

Summer bit down hard on her bottom lip. Damn it, it was funny, but the timing was all wrong. “Perhaps the rest of you might get back to work,” she began coolly, “before what clientele we have left in the dining room evacuates to the nearest golden arches for decent service. Now…” She turned back to the two opponents. Any moment, she decided, there’d be bared teeth and snarls. “This, I take it, is the casserole in question.”

“The dish is a casserole,” Max tossed back. “What’s in it is garbage.” He tugged again.

“Garbage!” The little cook squealed in outrage, then curled his lip. “Garbage is what you pass off as prime rib. The only thing edible on the plate is the tiny spring of parsley you part with.” He tugged back.

“Gentlemen, might I ask a question?” Without waiting for an answer, she touched a finger to the dish. It was still warm, but cooling fast. “Has anyone tasted the casserole?”

“I don’t taste poison.” Max gave the dish another yank. “I pour poison down the sink.”

“I wouldn’t have this—this ox taste one spoonful of my spinach.” Charlie yanked right back. “He’d contaminate it.”

“All right, children,” Summer said in sweet tones that had both men’s annoyance turning on her. “Why don’t I do the testing?”

Both men eyed each other warily. “Tell him to let go of my spinach,” Charlie insisted.

“Max—”

“He lets go first. I’m his superior.”

“Charlie—”

“The only thing superior is his weight.” And the tug-of-war began again.

Out of patience, Summer tossed up her hands. “All right, enough!”

It might have been the shock of having her raise her voice, something she’d never done in the kitchen—or it might have been that the dish itself was becoming slippery from so much handling. Either way, at her word, the dish fell out of both men’s hands with force. It struck the edge of the counter, shattering, so that glass flew even before the casserole and its contents hit the floor. In unison, Max and Charlie erupted with abuse and accusations.