Helion's Kitchen

It’s my first day, and I’m late!

I’ve not even gotten the damn job yet due to the week-long trials in place set to test us, and I’m already fucking it up before I’ve even started. Maybe if I sneak in toward the back they won’t notice?

Who am I kidding? Of course they’ll notice. If the email was correct, only five of us were invited to this thing, and if four are standing right in front of him, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that one is missing.

I’ve read about him, Chef Helion. He’s a legend in our field and a master in the kitchen. He’s a multiple-Michelin-Starred chef, and the chance to work under him is something I simply can’t help but try for.

Unfortunately, I’m probably going to be booted out before I can even pick up a spatula. I’ve heard he’s ruthless, and I wouldn’t blame him if he’s pissed off for my turning up late on the first day. Who does that?

Throwing myself from the taxi and into the street in front of the restaurant, I quickly pull my hair into a ponytail while walking through the shiny metal door.

No surprise, the place is empty, and I worm my way between the tables toward the kitchen in the hopes of somehow making it through this alive.

I can hear his voice before pushing through the double doors, and it’s deep and rough. It’s the kind of voice you expect when imagining the human embodiment of “sex on legs,” and when I walk in to face him, well, the voice is spot on.

The white jacket clings nicely to the muscles of his arms and chest, making his skin appear more golden from the contrast. Dark curly hair reaches his ears, and it’s styled to perfection, even if he is just here to work.

His beautiful, full lips press together in irritation when he notices my entrance. “Chef Darcy, I presume?” His dark chocolate eyes stare down into mine as if he’s testing the theory on whether looks can really kill.

“Yes, Chef. I’m sorry, Chef. My roommate stole my car.” I look toward the floor while speaking as a sign of submission that I hope will appeal to him.

The roommate in question now has thirty days to get the fuck out of my apartment, and if my car isn’t returned by this evening, I’m pressing charges.

I don’t care if her boyfriend needed a lift to the airport; this is the most important trial of my life, and she’s possibly messed it up already.

“My office, now,” he says to me, then looks at the other four. “The rest of you, start prepping, and I’ll be back shortly.” His voice echoes around the room.

My heart sinks, and I drag my feet following him. I want to just skip past the scolding and firing that’s about to come. But, can I be fired if I’m not technically hired yet? That somehow makes this all worse.

I busted my ass in the interview process and researched every single restaurant he’s ever owned (and there are a lot!), all for it to end here without him even trying my cooking.

He closes the door behind us as I enter, and I take in the leather seats, large desk, and low lighting. His office is swanky and stylish, not something I expected in the back of a restaurant near a kitchen. Sticky floors and grease stains come to mind.

“If what you claim is true, I’m willing to offer you a chance to stay, but you probably won’t like it,” he says.

If I’m not mistaken, there’s a devilish glint in his eyes, but I don’t care. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to stay. “I’ll take it! I’ll do anything, Chef!” I plead, and his grin widens as if he’s possessed by the Cheshire cat itself.

He gestures to the chair in front of the desk while moving to his side and opening up a drawer. I sit on the leather-covered seat and feel the cool surface through my pants.

“I’m going to offer you a taste of something, and I want you to correctly identify it. Fail, and you’re out. Pass, and you’re free to continue.”

After inspecting the drawer for a second, he pulls out a silk tie and offers it over to me across the desk. It’s soft against my fingertips, and it smells strongly like expensive cologne. Something my ex could never afford.

“No cheating, or you’re out. Now cover your eyes and open your mouth.” His authoritative tone goes straight through my body and down to my toes.

I hesitate for only a second, then pull the tie over my eyes with trembling hands and try to think of what he could have in here for such a test.

It can’t be fresh, it can’t be perishable, and surely it’s commonly used.

“Are you ready?” His mouth is close to my ear now, and I didn’t even hear him move to this side of the desk.

I hope he mistakes my shiver for surprise, or this could get even more embarrassing. “I’m ready,” I speak the words no louder than a whisper.

I hold my mouth open and wait for the spoon—or other utensil—to enter. I have no idea what to do with my tongue, but after a few seconds of nothing happening, I start to wonder if I somehow misheard his instructions.

My thoughts are interrupted when his finger enters my mouth and caresses the surface of my tongue. I don’t know why, but all of my instincts tell me to suck. So I do.