The Chef's Choice by Kristin Hardy

sliver-thin parsley chiffonade over the lamb and risotto and sticking what looked suspiciously like fancy potato chips into the top of the mashed potatoes. He and Damon slid the plates across the counter to the pass.
    Less than a minute had elapsed.
    â€œAll right, table ten up,” Damon called. “Let’s go, people. Hands on hot food.” He clapped his hands. The runners swarmed in.
    Cady cleared her throat. “Chef?” she said.
    Damon turned from adding knobs of butter to two of his sauté pans. He started to flash a smile. Until he saw the plate in her hands. “What’s that?”
    â€œFois gras glazed tenderloin from table four.”
    â€œI can see that.” He flipped the veal. “The question is what is it doing back in the kitchen?”
    This was the delicate part, she thought. Little was more irritating to a chef than having to interrupt the complicated dance of getting orders out the door to redo a plate he’d thought was safely gone. And when that chef was Damon Hurst, almost anything could happen.
    â€œThe customer isn’t happy. He says it’s too dry. He wants a sauce.”
    Damon’s eyes narrowed. “Table four, that was medium well, right?”
    Cady nodded.
    â€œWell, yeah, it’s dry. It’s been cooked to death.”
    â€œI tried to suggest the rib eye, but he didn’t want to hear it.”
    â€œRoman, toss this one in the Frialator,” Damon directed, slapping a new piece of tenderloin onto a sizzle platter and sliding it down the counter as if he were playing kitchen shuffleboard. “Set phasers for medium well.”
    â€œAye, aye, Captain.” Roman grinned.
    Damon turned back to the stove to get the veal in the oven and add scallops to the other two sauté pans. “Now what’s his sauce issue?”
    â€œHe says when he saw glazed, he wasn’t expecting a crust,” Cady said.
    â€œDid you tell him that’s how the dish is made?”
    â€œHe didn’t want to listen to me.”
    â€œMaybe he’ll listen to me,” Damon said with an edge to his voice.
    The printer chattered. “Three lobster, one scallop, two tenderloin medium, one lamb rare,” Andy read.
    â€œI don’t really think—”
    â€œI’ve got to get some entrées plated,” Damon interrupted.
    â€œBut what do I tell him?” Cady asked desperately.
    â€œLeave it to me. I know how to handle these kinds of idiots. Now go take care of your tables.” He turned away, hands already moving in a blur.

Chapter Eight
    C ady went back out to the dining room, mind buzzing. On the positive side, he hadn’t actually gone ballistic. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? If he’d planned to kick them out, wouldn’t he have stormed into the dining room?
    Leave it to me. I know how to handle these kinds of idiots.
    He’d looked well and truly ticked. And no matter how she tried to respin what he’d said, it didn’t sound good. She’d seen it before on camera, seen that intensity flare into scorching temper.
    Well, it wasn’t going to happen here. Clamping her jaw tight, she headed for the kitchen just as Damon strode out. She moved to intercept him. “Don’t even think about it.”
    â€œThink about what?” he asked without stopping.
    â€œKicking him out.” Cady followed hot on his heels.
    â€œIt sounds to me like he’s got it coming.”
    â€œMy parents don’t.”
    â€œLeave this to me,” he told her. “I’ll deal with it.”
    That was what she was afraid of. With every minute Damon was out of the kitchen, the line fell further and further behind. He wouldn’t be in the dining room unless he was planning something.
    The part of her that had been predicting disaster should have felt unsurprised—vindicated, even—to see it all play out as she’d predicted. But, she suddenly realized, there was