I addressed him like I would anyone working in my kitchen. “Chef?”
Round, stone blue eyes focused on me. “Oh, shit! Hey, Chef!” His whole attractive, smug face took on an incandescent glow, lit from within at seeing me. This shift in him was certainly . . . strange. “It’s so cool that you’re here! I thought you didn’t know this place.”
My lips twitched. “Surprise.”
“Wait,” Harlan lowered his voice, “are you stalking me, Chef?”
My teeth clamped together. “No! I have much better things to do than follow you around.”
He chuckled and trailed behind me to stand at the front table. He pointed to my knife roll. “Ooh, what kinda knives you got? Let me see.”
I laid my roll on the counter and untied it. Harlan looked them over with a critical eye.
“Miyabi?” he asked, pulling one of the handles to examine the brand on the blade.
“Global, actually.”
“Wait, the budget brand?” He looked aghast.
I pursed my lips and nodded. “They’re better than most people think. Still a Japanese knife.”
“Wow. Okay.” He leaned a hip against the counter and crossed one foot over the other, swiping a hand through his hair. “I think it’s so cool that you’re taking a class too. It’s really awesome that you’re trying to improve yourself. This one might be out of my league though if you’re taking it.”
I held back a chuckle again. He had no idea what my role was in this room. “I take it you’re the new guy tonight.”
“Yeah. Gosh, what a small world. Never imagined Chef Emma would be at culinary school.” He settled in like he was ready for a long and leisurely conversation.
It was time to end this charade. “Chef, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get class started.”
I rounded the counter and stood so I faced the class. I clicked on the camera above my workstation. “Good evening, everyone. Tonight, we’re going to be working on our knife skills.”
Harlan hadn’t moved, standing there gobsmacked. He jumped into action and flipped through the notebook that contained the course material. He raised his hand. “What if we weren’t here last week? Should I do that material instead?”
I heaved a sigh, but tried letting it out gently. “Chef Royce, everyone else here is ready for knife skills. If you require some remedial training, see me after class.”
“No, Chef. I mean, yes, Chef. To seeing you after class.” Mischievous eyes peeked out from under a lock of hair that fell across his forehead. “Chef.”
I blinked hard to reset and turned my attention back to the room in front of me. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s begin.”
I’d never seena student chop with such precision. Suchslowprecision. Royce was in an almost zen-like state, eyes softly focused on the turnip in his grip.
“How am I doing?” he asked, glancing up for a moment.
“How am I doing, Chef?” I corrected.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Your slices are inconsistent from top to bottom,” I started.
“Yes, Chef.” He tightened his lips.
“And you’re going to work on your pace, Chef.”
“I can’t afford to cut my fingers, Chef,” he objected, punctuating my title with a little attitude.
“Then why are you here?” I asked. “Surely you knew I taught this class. Areyoustalkingme?”
His jaw feathered but mirth quickly entered his expression. “I think it’s ‘are you stalking me,Chef?’”