lifted her hand to the side of her head, watching as the boyish reflection copied the motion, fingertips brushing across the soft bristles of buzzed hair. Colby had intended to shave off every single strand, but Grant had flatly refused. Once he quit trying to talk Colby out of this stunt, he’d argued that leaving a fall of dark gold across the top of her head would be enough to change her look from feminine to androgynous—and since she was never going to pass for übermasculine, androgyny was her best bet. Hence, the tousled fall of longer blond hair along the crest of her skull.
Because nothing said “take me and my kick-ass knife skills seriously” like a Mohawk.
Grinning at the young guy mirrored in the window, Colby straightened her shoulders and took off for the restaurant. The sound of her best friend’s voice in her head reminded her to butch up her walk. Confidence was key.
One thing Colby had never lacked was confidence. Supporting herself independently since the age of sixteen would do that for a girl. And she’d been practicing for this daring social experiment of professional cross-dressing practically her entire adult life.
A woman in a high-end restaurant kitchen worked hard to be “one of the guys,” or she didn’t work at all. Colby was lucky—she was tall and lean, without any of those distracting curves at the bust and hips that would’ve made it even harder for her to blend in with the other chefs on the line. She’d despaired over her flat chest as a preteen, but now she was grateful not to have to bind her breasts like some ingenue in a Shakespeare play.
Just go in there and show Chef Fevre what you’ve got. In one hour, you’ll have the proof you need to make restaurateurs finally take you seriously as head chef material.
Colby’s steps hitched briefly at her first peek of the elegant town house at Seventy-Seventh and Park. Smaller than the mansions and skyscrapers around it, Maison de Ville still commanded its corner of Manhattan’s ritziest neighborhood. Creamy white awnings shaded large, sparkling windows, a larger one covering the crimson carpet that led to the restaurant’s main entrance.
Swallowing down nerves and hitching the strap of her knife roll higher on her shoulder, Colby marched up the white stone steps and shoved her way into the dim cool silence of the restaurant’s foyer.
A giant floral arrangement bristled from an antique entrance table under the cool glitter of an unlit crystal chandelier. The air was heavy with the scent of fresh-cut roses, but when Colby inhaled the perfume into her lungs, she caught a deep, savory note underneath. Following her nose, she stepped around the entry table and past an unattended hostess stand toward the empty dining room. Large comfortable chairs, plenty of space between tables—this place was all old-school elegance and luxury, a bastion of wealth and high society where the city’s elite came to see and be seen...and to eat some of the most consistently perfect classical French cuisine available anywhere outside of Paris.
Colby stepped lightly across the plush navy-and-gold carpet, almost afraid to breathe too loudly. It was like being in church. If she wasn’t running late already, she’d stop and genuflect.
A door swished open at the back of the spacious dining room, hidden from view behind a discreet partial wall. For an electrifying moment, the silence of the restaurant was shattered by the industrious bustle of a kitchen hard at work. Heartbeat quickening, Colby hurried toward the comforting clatter of pans and the rap of sharp knives against cutting boards just as a man stepped out from behind the partition.
Tall, was all she could think for a moment as recognition seared through her. Colby’s gaze traveled up...and up to meet a pair of piercing, ice-blue eyes. She was five foot eleven. She topped most guys she knew by an inch at least; if she got lucky, she’d generally be eye to eye with her boss rather than towering over him. This man? Had a good half a foot on her, along with fifty pounds of broad, sinewy muscle.
“Arriving later than five minutes early is arriving late.”
His voice rolled through her like thunder, dark and menacing. The barest hint of an earthy French accent grounded the words, making Colby shiver.
Scrambling for a legit excuse that wasn’t “I couldn’t decide how many socks to stuff in my jock,” Colby was lucky she remembered at the last second to pitch her tone low and a little husky. “Oui, chef. I’ll remember that.”
Screw making excuses or whining that she wasn’t actually late. She’d never justified herself or asked for special treatment as a female chef, and she wasn’t going to start now.
Colby did her best to meet the man’s glittering, pale gaze and felt a thrill that shook her down to her bones. Because this huge, imposing man with the stern jaw and the shoulders of a linebacker was Dominic Fevre. The executive chef of Maison de Ville, which was the crown jewel in Eva Jansen’s tiara.
There’d been a profile in the New York Times about Eva Jansen, the city’s most successful restaurateur, and the coup she and her most famous chef had pulled off by reinvigorating a landmark classic like La Maison. There were photos, an online slideshow that Colby had pored over when Grant first mentioned this interview.
None of those images had done Dominic Fevre justice.
In pictures, he looked exactly like his reputation: a hard-ass, no-nonsense, totally old-school chef. And she had no doubt that’s exactly what he was. But pictures didn’t capture the soulful slash of dark brows over those unearthly light blue-gray eyes, or the pure, angular perfection of his wide mouth. The pictures of Fevre had cemented her determination to pull off the craziest scheme she’d ever come up with.
The living, breathing reality of Fevre made Colby squeeze her thighs together to stifle the sudden surge of aching heat.
Fevre didn’t smile, but the tightness at the corners of his eyes eased. Maybe that was as close as he got to a smile. “Bien. And you are...?”
“St. James. Colby St. James.”
“Ah yes. The late addition to my list. How nice to have influential friends.” Those impressive dark brows lowered slightly. “I would not normally take on a candidate based purely on a recommendation, but apparently Grant Holloway has some sway with my boss. Ms. Jansen asked that I include you, and of course, I agreed. But do not think for a moment that you will be exempt from the rigorous examination I would give to any other applicant.”
Colby stood up as straight as she could and met his gaze straight on. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, chef. Thank you for the opportunity.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Welcome, Mr. St. James. Please join the others in the kitchen. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
He strode past her, close enough that she could feel the warmth pouring off that big body. As Colby wobbled toward the kitchen door, she told herself the weakness in her knees was relief that he’d seen what he expected to see—a young male chef—and that meant her disguise was workable. She was so busy clamping down on the ridiculously inconvenient surge of lust at first sight, she almost missed everything else Dominic Fevre had said.
But when she pushed open the serving doors and entered the white, sterile brightness of the cleanest, most streamlined kitchen she’d ever seen, her gaze fell instantly on the spit-polished crowd of young chefs milling nervously between two stainless-steel work tables in the center of the room. Everyone around them moved with a purpose, intent on various culinary missions like prepping vegetables for stock and breaking down large cuts of meat into smaller portions.
So who the
