Under Her Clothes. Louisa Edwards

cooler and heaved them into an empty place on the well-organized wire rack. Taking advantage of the short space of alone time, she whipped the compact mirror out of her pants pocket and took stock.

      The eyebrows she’d waxed into more of a slash than their usual arch were scrunched into an anxious frown. The thin skin over her sharp cheekbones was pink with the effort and exertion of prepping for an intense dinner service. She thinned her lips and narrowed her eyes, jutting her jaw determinedly at her own reflection.

      Could she really carry off this act for two full weeks?

      Okay, realistically...maybe not. But she was sure as hell going to give it her best shot. And if—when—she was found out, at the very least she would have made her point about the stupid, bass-ackward blindness of the culinary world when it came to women in professional kitchens.

      She’d hold her own against the other chef wannabes, and show the world she wasn’t the best “female chef” in Manhattan—she was one of the best chefs, period.

      By the time prep was done and the first dinner ticket came in, Colby was starting to hit her stride. She’d assessed her competitors over the course of the afternoon, and only one of them, a grimly silent Asian guy who’d staged under the same Michelin-starred French chef who’d trained Dominic Fevre, stood out.

      John Qui was worth keeping an eye on. He was a lifer who’d learned on the job, working his way up to cook from dishwasher, same as Colby. The other three were spit-shined culinary school grads without a single burn mark between them. They’d started the day cocky and smirking, but their starch was wilting before the dinner rush even got going.

      “Behind, hot,” a tight voice spat out. Colby tucked her elbows in and spared a quick, exasperated glance for the cook hustling down the line with a steaming saucepan of hot milk. Bryce Manning was the culinary school grad who’d hung in the longest, through a combo of what seemed like grit and spite, but he was clearly starting to crack under the pressure of his station. He’d been designated saucier tonight, a tricky, persnickety station that required focus, organization and attention to detail.

      “Watch it,” Colby hissed as hot milk splattered the toes of her battered kitchen clogs.

      “Just stay out of my way,” Manning snarled back, face purple with heat and embarrassment.

      Colby rolled her eyes and turned back to the grill station where she was marking off beautifully marbled steaks to order. Manning might be one to watch, too, if only because he seemed like the kind of guy who’d sabotage her if he got the chance.

      Swearing under his breath, Manning made it back to his sauces while all around them, the kitchen swirled along with an eerily silent clockwork precision that was nothing like the loud, chaotic kitchens Colby was used to.

      All day long, it had been quiet like this, the Maison regulars working silently side by side with the five auditioning chefs. She thought once service started, it would devolve into the usual fiery rush of clattering pans and shouted orders...but the atmosphere had stayed military tight. Only the auditioning chefs occasionally wrecked the forced calm as they fumbled their way through the unfamiliar kitchen.

      Besides turning out amazingly consistent and immaculate food, the regimented perfection of the crew made any mistakes stick out like a fly in a bowl of cream.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Antonio making a brief note on his ever-present flip pad. The sous chef was Dominic Fevre’s eyes, ears and sometimes his voice here in the kitchen. After looming uncomfortably in the corner for a while watching the action, Chef Fevre had disappeared into the back office down the hall on the other side of the kitchen from the dining room.

      Colby had to admit, she hadn’t managed to relax until he was gone. Every moment in his presence sent tingles of interest rushing over her skin, lifting every hair and keeping her on edge.

      Now, even as she plated up four steaks, their perfect grill marks at a precise forty-five-degree angle, and winged them over to the runner who was waiting to take them up to the pass, the now-familiar tingle swept down Colby’s spine once more. Without even turning, she knew Chef Fevre was on the floor.

      She didn’t need to turn to confirm what she already knew, but somehow she couldn’t help herself. Colby glanced from the next round of tickets she’d already memorized and looked over her shoulder to see Dominic Fevre standing straight-backed and grim at Antonio’s side.

      Wincing, Colby refocused on her station and hoped like hell that whatever updates Antonio was murmuring to the intense head chef, there was nothing in there about Colby getting into it with Manning.

      Every inch of her skin was alive to the presence of the huge, scowling French guy behind her. His stare was like an itch between her shoulder blades, impossible to scratch and just as impossible to ignore.

      Losing herself in the swift flow of orders, temperatures, and pick-ups had never been so hard, but she couldn’t afford to screw up. Especially not with Chef Fevre watching.