Sparks and a Girl (Rewritten to publish)

4. Dinner and a show

Damn. No gloss? He was definitely not having a good night.

Roger gave the tray a little extra shove, right into Jeisa's bruised ribs. Jeisa struggled to hide her wince and keep down the grunt of pain that was mountain climbing up her windpipe.

"Now." he said.

"Sure, Roger." Jeisa said through her teeth. She had never done the 'Yes Chef!' thing in all the six years she'd professionally worked here, and she knew that it got to him. From the look on his reddening face, it annoyed him just a teeny bit more tonight. She was pretty sure, though, that the smirk she attempted to put on her face looked more like a grimace, which kind of watered down the whole victory look she was going for.

Jeisa gingerly touched the right side of her tunic where her bruised ribs were on fire. It hadn't just been the situation with the police captain that had pulled her focus away from her training. She also hadn't been able to keep her mind off Cass stripping down to her underwear at the edge of that pool the night before. That and the amazing time they'd had together. This was going to hurt so much more than she'd thought, and it scared her a little that she was ready to ratchet it up a few notches between them – to torture herself even more.

She took in a deep breath and looked down at the softly perfumed shallot bulbs on the tray. She smiled. Ninjitsu training couldn't hold a candle to the kitchen! A couple of nights a week as sous-chef slash culinary protege made post-apocalyptic Mars missions while fighting venomous tentacled aliens seem like a nice peaceful hobby you could do on the side. And with Roger in a super funky mood, this night promised to wipe out the image of that smooth flat stomach, that sinfully seductive gold, belly button stud and the start of that softly defined V that dipped down from the edges of her hips to disappear into those simple black bikini briefs.

Jeisa shook her head.

She needed to start peeling shallots right now!

*

It was finally closing time. Jeisa wiped down the chef's knife and placed it into the last slot of her custom made, hand crafted, earth brown, leather knife bag. She rolled the bag closed and pulled it against her, ready to leave this crazy back of house.

"Jeisa, you're needed." called out Tom, one of the interns. After being awarded its third Michelin Star, the restaurant had opened its doors to young, vagabond, self-taught, world-travelled chefs like Tom. Roger liked their head strong and fiercely open-minded innovative streak. It added a much-appreciated depth to the restaurant experience. "Table ten."

Jeisa sighed. Sometimes this happened. The chef was called out to the floor to either be scolded for letting the award-winning, foreign-named, slab of beef on the plate get a touch too close to medium or to be showered with praise for combining bacon and chocolate in a way that wasn't totally disgusting. Jeisa straightened her tunic, rubbing at a spot of hollandaise sauce on her sleeve, then she pushed some escapee hair strands back under her chef's hat.

The occupant of Table ten explained Roger's horrid mood that night. It was Claudia, the restaurant owner and all around acrimonious human being.

"Jeisa!" Claudia called out upon seeing her.

The woman had been hitting on Jeisa for years. The first time Jeisa had met her was on her eighteenth birthday. Ever since then, the woman would insist on calling Jeisa from the kitchen when she visited. Roger had stopped telling Jeisa when the woman visited because it completely messed Jeisa's focus in the kitchen.

"Hello, Claudia," Jeisa said, hoping the smile on her face was convincing. "How's the husband? And Mercy must be eight by now. How is she?"

The woman laughed and began to speak, but Jeisa zoned out, as always.