Okay, fine. It was kind of overcast and a bit of fog had settled on the ground early this morning before burning away as the day went on. The humidity hadn’t exactly gone with it, but I didn’t care. Nothing could put a damper on my good mood at the moment.
Not Renata’s pout.
Not the humidity turning my ponytail into a fluffy ball at the back of my head.
Not the additional texts and calls from my parents that I’d woken up to.
They could get bent for the time being, and not even that thought was enough to put a dent in my smile.
“Look.” Renata pulled me to a stop, carefully extracting herself from my grip. “I know exactly why you’re in a good mood and I’m happy for you, I really am. Hell, I’m even happy for that soulless bloodsucker. He already walked around campus like he owned it. But now he walks around without making anybody cower in his path.” She shook her head, lip quirking. “I actually saw him say ‘excuse me’ the other day when someone was in his way. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That was an awful lot of praise, especially coming from you. Why do I sense a but coming?”
She shrugged. “Because you’re a suspicious person who can’t mind her own business.”
“Are you still mad that I found your stash spot? If anything, I should still be pestering you about having a false cabinet built into your dresser just so you could hide extra alcohol inside it.”
Her hands lifted and she mimed a quick, messy strangulation. “It was for emergencies! I told you that and you still poured it down the drain!”
I kept my giggle trapped inside my chest, but it was a close thing. I remembered Erik saying there was a reason for her habit, but I didn’t believe anything was worth standing by while she continued on as usual.
She’d grown on me too much for that.
“No one needs emergency vodka,” I said. “That’s not even a thing.”
“I’d offer to trade lives with you and see if you still feel that way, but that’s a no go. The thought of bumping uglies with Ambrose LaCroix is enough to make my skin crawl.”
“Hey!” I pinched her arm and she smacked my hand away. “Be nice.”
Her smile was more a quick flash of teeth. “Sorry, no can do. I have a quota to meet and a reputation to uphold. Besides, being the meanest bitch on campus works in my favor.”
“Oh yeah?” I arched a brow. “How is that?”
Dark eyes gleamed. I almost had time to regret asking, but not quite.
“Because I can do this.” She brought her fingers to her lips and released an ear-piercing whistle that had everyone within range of it turning our way. Renata raised her voice. “First one to bring me a strawberry daiquiri before I get to my next class can consider one of their favors to the Tarots paid in full!”
My jaw dropped as people who’d been comfortably studying at tables or laying on the grass hopped to their feet and raced off in separate directions. Some of them left behind the things they’d been working on. Others who had the misfortune of going the same way as someone else were rudely shoved aside like this was some kind of deathmatch and not a request from an admittedly striking brunette.
I glanced at her, taking in the smug tilt to her lips.
She’d shown me the black and white rose stretched across her ribcage, confirming her involvement with the Tarots. Except she’d never seemed interested in involving herself in their affairs, so I found this a strange time to do so.
“Can you even do that?” I asked, frowning. “Waive one of their favors just because they did something for you?”
“I could,” she supplied with an easy smirk. “As High Priestess, I technically outrank each of them and can do whatever I damn well please. But we came to an agreement around the same time we went our separate ways. I stay out of their way and let Ambrose have complete control. In return, they’ve turned the entire campus into a domain beyond my dad’s reach.”
Making a show of swinging my head around the nearly empty space around us, I said, “This doesn’t look like staying out of it.”
“Not right now it doesn’t.” She started walking away. “But since I have no intention of being in that next class, good luck to anyone who tries to find me.”
I cupped my hand over my mouth. “You’re a total bitch, just FYI!”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way!” she called back, heels clicking as she calmly wandered off without a single care in the world for the havoc she’d just caused.
With a giddy smile, I pushed into the economics building and breathed in the smell of...fresh paint.
Alright, who was the wise guy who decided they were going to repaint these halls and ruin this moment for me?
I’d scoped the building out on my first day of campus. From that moment on, I’d crafted a grand fairy tale that involved me strolling inside, breathing in the aroma of freshly cooked food—bakery items, if I was lucky—and finding myself right at home surrounded by the other students and the stainless-steel appliances.
But the immaculate, off-white walls gave the space a sterile feel and bugged my sinuses.
Wiggling at the sleeve of my sweater so that it’d drop down, I held it over my nose and headed to my destination. I found the room with ease and peeked in to see at least the whole fantasy hadn’t been an illusion of grandeur.
Separate work stations were set up in neat rows, each one dripping with state of the art tools that shone and fit in perfectly with the steel ovens and fridges that lined the walls. I was a bit early, but people were already set up at their stations, watching me as I made my way to an empty area.
The grudging head nods I got from a few of them didn’t surprise me, neither did the silent animosity radiating from the rest. I’d never so much as considered that I’d come to this school and make oodles of friends and have the best four years of my life. There were some things I took for granted or didn’t understand, but the lives of the rich and semi-famous? I knew those people.
Knew how easily they’d stab you in the back.
Knew how quickly their allegiance could change when you had less than them.
Knew they were never going to accept me with open arms, doubly so after one of the largest forces on campus took an interest.
And what did I have to say to that?
Screw. Them.
They didn’t know me. They could make all the judgments they wanted to. At the moment, we were here for the same reason. The only thing I needed to be concerned with was being better than them.
Going straight from school to owning my own bakery was an impossible feat. This class wouldn’t be focused solely on baked goods in the first place. It was more of a gateway to see who’d actually be allowed into the culinary program when it started up.
I needed to learn the ropes and prove that I had what it takes to be a success. With any luck, I’d walk out of here in four years with a glowing recommendation that would open doors for me.
I smiled thinking about it. Already, I could picture myself wearing the white coat I’d decorate with cupcakes, flowers, and everything that made me happy.
Like...Ambrose.
No, bad brain. Stop that!
The door at the front of the room slammed shut and I shook those thoughts free as a tiny woman strode into the room in a cloud of precise fury.
Ambrose had warned me about Alyssa Stone ahead of time, so I made sure to fold my hands neatly in front of me, straighten my back, and face the front.
But not everyone present had gotten the heads-up about the kind of woman we’d be dealing with.
“You,” she snapped, managing to continue looking severe and terrifying while she pulled a band from her wrist and piled blonde hair on top of her head.
At the front of the class, a girl stood behind her station with her phone held in front of her, utterly oblivious to the wave of menace stepping closer. Alyssa slapped her hand down on the table and the girl shrieked, dropping her phone to the floor. I t
hink we all cringed when the sound of the screen shattering pierced the air.
“Ms. Stone.” The girl shook her head from side to side. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“Chef Stone!” barked the older woman as piercing, hazel eyes took the rest of us in. “While you’re in my class, you will not address me as Alyssa, Ms. Stone, ma’am, or any other versions you might consider. You will address me as Chef or Chef Stone, or you will not address me at all. Do I make myself clear?”
I’m going to bite Ambrose when I see him again. He said hardass when he meant to say dictator.
“Yes, Chef Stone!” I said at the same time as the other students, except for the girl still pinned beneath a heavy glare.
“Yes...Chef,” she said a moment later, voice barely audible.
Get it together, girl. This is not looking good for you.
The next words from our soon-to-be dictator and the woman who could decide our future didn’t surprise any of us.
“Get out of my class. Now.”
“But—”
Chef Stone silenced the girl with a glare. We watched quietly as she retrieved her shattered phone and her purse before fleeing from the room with a sob catching in her throat. None of us spoke up, and I wasn’t positive how I felt about that.
But what was there to say?
If you wanted to go somewhere in the culinary world, you didn’t risk getting on the bad side of a chef that had traveled to multiple countries and collected Michelin stars like they were candy.
Her achievements were legendary enough before the fact that she was a woman came into consideration. That just made it more impressive.
With more women like her around, maybe it wouldn’t take another hundred years for the other half of the population to realize women could handle more than sandwiches and kids’ meals.
Chef Stone returned to the front of the room and gave each of us a long, probing look. “So that there’s not any confusion here today, let me say this. I don’t care who your parents are. I don’t care how much they’ve donated to the school. I don’t care if you’ve been cooking since you were in diapers or if all your friends and family rave about how good you are.
“In here, you are nobody. You are nothing. Annoy me and I will throw you out at my leisure, and all the complaints mommy and daddy might file on your behalf will mean less than nothing. If you want to become something by the time you graduate, you will listen to exactly what I say. Many of you won’t make it through my program. This is to be expected. But as extreme as I may sound, I guarantee that if you follow my instructions, you will be formidable when you leave here. Is that easy enough for you all to follow, or should I say it again, slower?”
God, what have I gotten myself into?
She put her hands on her hips, and my instincts screamed at me to stay still.
The guy at the station to my left didn’t get the same warning. His hand started to creep up, and the flash of her eyes as her attention zeroed in on him made me think of a lion that had caught sight of its prey. Thankfully, he clued in before his hand was fully extended and dropped it to his side instead.
“Good.” Chef Stone nodded. “You’re all catching on quickly enough. Last year, I’d already lost half the class by this point.”
Sweet Jesus. She’s serious, isn’t she?
She checked her watch. “Now then, onto the first test to see if any of you will be worth the time I waste showing up here. If you look inside the cabinets beneath your stations”—there was a frantic rustling as each of us did just that—”you will find an assortment of ingredients you would need working the line at a local truck stop.”
“A truck stop?” someone muttered.
“I don’t like to hear my own voice,” Chef Stone bit out. “That counts for echoes as well, in case you were wondering. As I was saying, you will each make me a single dish that you think someone who has just driven across the country would like. But be warned, you only have a half-hour to get it done starting...now.”
Pushing the frenzy of activity around me into the background, I grabbed the ingredients and organized them on the table so I could see what I had. We weren’t lacking for options, that was for sure.
There were enough items arranged by the time I was done to make my head spin with possibilities, but I swiftly began narrowing them down.
Time was the key factor here. Anything that needed to be prepped ahead of time wasn’t going to work. Whatever I chose, it’d have to be something that could be made to order the moment the theoretical ticket came through the window. And right then, I was so damn happy I’d used the fake ID Carter got for me to spend some hours working the line at a mom-and-pop shop.
Sucking in a deep breath, I grabbed batter, eggs, bacon, and a griddle to set about making what might very well be the most basic ass breakfast in the entire country.
About halfway through, Chef Stone began walking up and down the aisles, stopping at each station for a minute or two at a time to observe our work. When she got to me, I have to admit that I channeled Ambrose. He knew how to be cool and reserved under pressure, not giving any hint to his state of mind. It was a calm I desperately needed beneath her appraisal.
She didn’t say anything.
She barely blinked.
She just stood there, hands folded behind her back, watching my every move before grunting and moving to the next station and eventually taking her seat at the front of the room.
With five minutes to spare, I was the first to start plating and I could only hope I hadn’t made a mistake that was going to come back and bite me in the ass. That fear grew a decent bit stronger after I said a quick prayer and began carrying my plate to the front. It was impossible not to look around and see what other people had made, and I could admit to being impressed.
There were steaks covered in gravy. Sandwiches that surely belonged on a commercial from how perfect they looked. More than a few of my fellow chefs in the making had gone so far as to put a regional spin on the classics.
Meanwhile, I had pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Oh, and syrup. How could I forget about the syrup?
I am so fucked.
And that exact so fucked feeling doubled when I got to her desk and got ready to put my plate down. She held up a hand to stop me, took one look at the plate, and pointed me to the edge of her desk. Heart pounding against my ribs in an erratic rhythm that made me regret not doing more cardio, I did as I was told and kept my lips sealed. It was for the best that I didn’t make any noise whatsoever.
I couldn’t decide what would be worse. Getting thrown out of class for making a noise. Or getting thrown out because I’d whimpered like a beaten dog.
Both were equally as displeasing.
Keeping my chin up through sheer will, I waited as the others lined up beside me.
Chef Stone stood up and walked down the line, taking each item in with a critical eye. I noticed a stray drop of syrup on the edge of the plate and had enough time to wonder if I could swipe it with my thumb before she’d stopped in front of me. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear she gave that single drop a pointed look before hazel eyes focused on me.
So, no one was more surprised than me when she said, “Assuming this doesn’t taste like absolute garbage, you’ll be our winner for the day, Ms. Brennan.”
She knows who I am?
“No one gets randomly assigned to my class,” she said, stopping my heart.
Had I said that out loud?
Her head tilted as she grabbed the plate. “When you’re not cooking, you wear every single thing you’re thinking on your face.”
Chef Stone sat down again, slicing into the pancake first and popping a small bite into her mouth. She chewed for what seemed like an abnormal amount of time while my panic increased and a cold sweat settled at the base of my spine.
Did I use too much flour? Are they dry? Does she have a hard time chewing around the serrated teeth she’s been hiding until now?
The other students
glared at me—a complete waste of time. They were ants who’d found a laser pointer when I was doing my best not to be incinerated in the face of the sun.
She scooped up a pile of eggs then took a single, crunchy bite of bacon before pushing the plate away and closing her eyes. I didn’t breathe again until they opened.
“Texture could use some work,” she said, taking a butcher’s knife to my heart and carving a slice out of it. “The eggs weren’t hot enough.”
The tips of my ears burned, and it was just my fucking luck that she’d notice.
Another of those not-nice smiles curled her lips.
“I told you that you had a half-hour,” she pointed out. “If you hadn’t finished early, the eggs would’ve been at the perfect temperature when you brought them up. Either way, the bacon was at least passable. You win.”
Wait...I win? I win! Hell yeah!
Mentally, I screamed at the top of my lungs.
In reality, I inclined my head and said, “Thank you, Chef.”
“Mmm. The rest of you, feel free to dispose of your...creations.”
“But you didn’t even—” one girl started before being cut off by a steely glance.
“Taste them?” Chef Stone stood. “I didn’t need to. The assignment was simple. Make something that a trucker would want after a long haul on the open road. But many of you decided you were going to try and impress me instead of the customer. Do you know what a person wants when they’ve been traveling? Because it’s not a fancy dish they’d find at a five-star restaurant, I’ll tell you that right now. They want something comforting. They want something that’ll remind them of home. Since Ms. Brennan is the only one that grasped this idea, the rest of this food is nothing more than a waste. Get rid of it.”
I was back on cloud nine, grinning from ear to ear as the rest of the students grabbed their dishes and returned to their stations. Too bad I wasn’t going to be able to stay that way much longer.
“You have promise,” Chef Stone said, staring me down. “It’s almost a shame you won’t be able to explore its depths here.”
My smile slipped away, sand through an hourglass that had a hole at the bottom. “I’m sorry?”
Defiant Prince: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Black Rose University Book 1) Page 28