she’d finished scouring the grill top and was at the wash sink, lathering up her hands with soap. He felt just the faintest twinge of shame at the sight of her. She had streaks of black grease smudged not only on her pants and the hem of her nice white shirt but also tattooed across the back of her arms. When she turned around, drying her hands on a towel, he noted her outfit was ruined from the cleaning tasks he’d assigned. Her blond hair had come loose from its ponytail and fell in thick strands across her cheeks. She looked in need of a hot shower and large glass of wine. And he thought, just for the length of a breath, about placing his palms on her shoulders and massaging away the tension riding the ridge of her back.
He frowned at the idea and determined not to let guilt get the better of him. This was the harpy, after all. She deserved none of his sympathy. He told himself he was doing this for every restaurateur who had suffered an unjust review from some ego-inflated critic.
Still, the way Harper’s shoulders sagged when she caught sight of him tugged at his conscience. He decided to ease up, but only a little.
“If you’re finished here, why don’t you iron the linen napkins?” he suggested. “The laundry is back that way—” he pointed behind him “—and there’s an ironing board and iron in there, as well.”
She gave a curt nod and tossed aside the towel before heading toward the back room.
Rafael had carried in a bin of dishes just in time to witness Connor’s instructions. He placed the plastic tub beside the sink and frowned in his boss’s direction. “She hasn’t complained once, boss. Not even while cleaning the grease trap. Don’t you think you’re coming down a little hard on her?”
Connor shrugged. “What’s that saying? If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen?”
“But shouldn’t you be preparing her to start serving? Erin may have picked up the slack this week but what about next week? You need to put Harper out on the floor.”
“In time,” Connor replied. “But I think it’s best to find out if she’s committed first, don’t you?”
Rafael didn’t meet Connor’s eyes. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
Connor sensed Rafael’s disapproval and felt another pinch of shame. But Rafael only knew the recently humbled Harper. He was unfamiliar with the self-important critic who’d destroyed Connor’s business.
“I wouldn’t worry about her if I were you, Rafael. She’s the type of woman who doesn’t stay down for long.”
When Rafael didn’t reply, Connor felt a ripple of irritation. Was he the only one who knew Harper for what she really was?
DURING HER FIRST week at the Rusty Anchor, Harper learned to bite her tongue each time Connor asked her to do something. She became adept at offering him a forced grin and going about the most odious chores he assigned, determined that he would have nothing to complain about regarding her work. If he was looking for a reason to fire her as payback for that long-ago review, she’d give him none. And if he thought piling on the cleaning duties would cause her to give up, he clearly didn’t know her that well.
She did everything he required to the best of her ability.
The bathrooms sparkled. The floors were soon spotless. The stainless-steel counters and sink in the kitchen positively gleamed. She dusted, she scrubbed, she polished. She did the laundry and even ironed the linen napkins without being asked. And eventually, at the end of that first week, Connor ran out of chores.
“Have you cleaned the bathrooms?”
“Done.”
“Disinfected the waste bins?”
“Finished.”
“There were some dishes—”
“Scrubbed, dried and put away.”
He finally looked up from where he’d been studying an order form on his desk.
“The flatware?”
“Polished and the place settings laid.”
He opened his mouth, but she continued before he could speak.
“The napkins are ironed, the glasses are shining, the trash cans are empty, the floors are mopped, the salt and pepper shakers are filled, everything is stocked and I disinfected all the menus. Rafael and I finished cleaning the oven hood, and we organized the storage room like you wanted. I even helped Erin prep ingredients for the dinner crowd.”
Connor closed his mouth, and she felt a surge of triumph.
“Will there be anything else?” She knew her voice was a touch too syrupy by the way Connor’s eyes narrowed.
“All right, then,” he said grudgingly. “I suppose it’s time to teach you the menu.”
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Harper surveyed the multitude of dishes spread across the stainless-steel counter in the Rusty Anchor’s kitchen. Connor stood on the counter’s opposite side, sporting his chef whites with his arms crossed over his chest in what Harper could only label a defensive posture. She was more nervous than she’d thought she’d be, now that she was faced with learning the restaurant’s menu.
“So, we’re just tasting the dishes?”
Connor’s expression remained flat. “I’ll explain a dish, then you’ll taste it so you can make the appropriate recommendations to customers.”
She swallowed. “Okay. Where should we start?”
He pointed at the plate nearest to her. “Let’s begin with the fish. Pecan-crusted seared salmon with wilted greens and a maple balsamic glaze. Sides are either the wild-rice pilaf or sweet-potato pancakes, which is what I’ve plated here.”
Harper used her fork to flake into the fish. The salmon’s color was beautiful with a pale pink center. She scooped up a bite and popped into her mouth, all too aware of Connor’s eyes on her. The fish was cooked well, and the pecans lent a nice crunch. She wasn’t impressed by the maple glaze, which was a bit too sugary for her palate. She chewed and swallowed, trying to avoid Connor’s gaze as she twirled one of the wilted greens around her fork tines. Clearing her throat, she reached for a glass of water to wash down the flavors before cutting into the sweet-potato pancake. Still not looking toward Connor, she popped it into her mouth and was pleased with the crispy exterior followed by a meltingly creamy interior studded with bits of pancetta and the faint flavors of herbs. While she’d expected more of the sweetness she’d encountered in the rest of the dish, the pancakes were perfectly balanced with savory ingredients against the sweeter vegetable.
She swallowed and kept her expression neutral as she finally looked at Connor. She found him watching her expectantly.
“Okay, now what?”
He made a face. “Describe it to me. As if I were a customer.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”
“Really. And don’t forget, in the kitchen, the proper way to address me is Chef.”
Harper felt a flicker of annoyance. “Fine, Chef.” She cleared her throat a second time. “Pecan-crusted seared salmon, cooked to perfection but a touch heavy on the maple glaze. The nuts add a nice crunch but would be better if they had been toasted longer before being ground for the crust, in order to balance out the sweetness. I can’t recommend the wilted greens, given their soggy, overly saccharine taste, but the sweet-potato pancakes are deliciously crisp with a satisfying marriage of salty pancetta and the licorice touch of fennel.”
“Soggy? Overly saccharine?”
“It was like eating moss drizzled with honey.”
His