A Dash of Love. Liz Isaacson

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      Paul Delucci took a bite of the cassoulet and cringed. He’d followed the recipe exactly, the same way he always did. But the pork barely tasted like anything, and the white beans simply felt like mush in his mouth. Not exactly pleasing.

      It was no wonder the kitchen had been slow for a couple of months now—maybe longer. If he could just get Holly to listen…

      But Paul wasn’t extraordinarily gifted at getting the other adults in his life to listen to him. His own rift with his parents proved that, and no matter how many times he’d tried to explain to his father that he didn’t have a superiority complex, his dad still thought he did.

      The three other chefs in the kitchen went about their business, washing tomatoes, prepping desserts, and putting up appetizers.

      The sound of Holly’s four-inch heels clicking on the tile alerted Paul, and he stepped around the counter to intercept her. “Holly, a moment.”

      She complied, though she certainly wasn’t happy about it. Brushing back her brown hair highlighted with blonde, Holly glared at him with her sharp, hazel eyes. “What now?”

      “The cassoulet,” he said, squinting at her. She remained blank-faced, as if he hadn’t mentioned this to her last night.

      He backed up a step and folded his arms, ready to get into the fray with her again. “Look, Holly, all I’m saying is that you need to try it. The recipe needs to be tweaked.”

      She stared at him, and if he hadn’t been working with her for five years, he might have backed down. Lots of other chefs had come and gone over the time he’d been at Holly Hanson’s, but he’d stayed.

      “I don’t need to try it,” she said. “It’s my recipe.”

      “I understand what you’re saying. I’m just a little confused.” He sighed. The banging of dishes and the hiss from the stove behind him mirrored how he felt inside. “Look, all I’m saying is that we need to come up with a solution to the problem.”

      “And what is the problem?”

      Paul could name any number of things. The empty tables. The waitresses complaining that they weren’t making enough to pay their bills. The mysterious, late-night meetings Holly had with her investors.

      He chose to go with, “The cassoulet. Have you tried it?” He’d asked her to please just taste it. If it was going to sit at the top of their menu as their chef’s special, it should be the most outstanding dish leaving the kitchen. In Paul’s opinion, it was one of the worst. But he wasn’t Holly Hanson. It wasn’t his name on the door or the paychecks. If he wanted to change a recipe, he needed her permission.

      But he couldn’t even get her to see the problem.

      She rocked back on her heels. “I know what it tastes like.”

      “I don’t think that you do. Because the recipe is bland.” There, he’d said it.

      She scoffed, her mind completely closed. “Bland?”

      “Yeah.”

      She gritted her teeth, and her mouth barely moved when she said, “Perhaps the problem lies with my executive chef, who is unable to execute my recipe properly.”

      He kept his arms cinched across his black chef’s jacket, a frustrated chuckle leaving his lips. “Well, your executive chef respectfully disagrees.” Honestly, talking to her felt exactly like trying to explain to his father that while baking was a wonderful thing, Paul wanted to do more than make bread and cookies.

      Why didn’t anyone hear him? He was speaking English, wasn’t he?

      Holly’s head bounced as she gave him a bit of attitude. “I believe my name is on the front door. So would you please stop arguing with me and do as I say?”

      Paul pressed his mouth into a thin line and dropped his gaze to the floor. He wasn’t going to get her to admit anything, not right now—maybe not ever. He nodded once, his anger rising to the top of his head, where he released it. No sense in being upset about something he couldn’t control.

      “Are we good?” Holly asked.

      He flicked his eyes toward hers. “Yes, Chef,” he said in a loud voice.

      “Thank you,” she whispered before striding away—as much as her high heels and sleek pencil skirt would allow her to stride.

      Paul went back to overseeing the kitchen, which ran without a hitch. The cassoulet just needed…something to make it sparkle again. If it were up to him, he’d add more garlic—maybe another whole clove—and a splash of heat. Maybe not Tabasco sauce, but perhaps sriracha would give the dish the oomph it needed.

      Oh, and he’d cook it longer to get the ragout flavors really deep before adding the beans. But it would take a miracle to get Holly to listen to him.