Becoming Remington

She should have known life wouldn’t let her enjoy a croissant in peace.

The late May sunshine warmed her shoulders as she navigated the bustling Manhattan sidewalk, dodging tourists and harried locals alike. Her backpack bumped against her back with each step, thirty-eight minutes until the interview at Belle Amie’s, and she needed every one of them.

Elmwood’s door chimed her arrival. The upscale coffee bar was packed with its usual crowd of suits making deals over designer coffees, but there—phew!—the back corner table was empty. The one tucked away from the chaos, where she could breathe, decompress, and refocus.

The comforting scent of freshly ground beans and buttery pastries enveloped her, easing some of the anxiety. Ambient jazz music played softly beneath the hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine. This place screamed money, the kind where coffee cost more than her internship’s hourly wage.

But desperate times (and a Belle Amie’s interview) called for desperate measures. Some people meditated before big interviews. She preferred hemorrhaging money on Elmwood’s chocolate croissants while pretending she wasn’t stress eating.

She threw down her things to claim the table and sat, psyching herself up for the impending interview. She was officially done with college and ready to make my mark on the world.

Her and her closest friends from culinary school had celebrated their graduation at Eleven Madison Park last week, months of saving blown on one perfect meal. Time to trade student debt for long hours on her feet, slogging through dirty dishes—all while dreaming of a best-selling cookbook and a someday restaurant with her name on it.

It was a lofty goal, but one she was up for. At twenty-three, life hadn’t had much of a chance to beat her down. She just wanted to cook, not convince strangers that she could. But so far, the job hunt had felt like its own form of hazing. Welcome to professional purgatory.

She had just taken a deep breath to center herself when a waiter, Evan, according to his name tag, appeared, looking about twelve and terrified.

“Hi! What can I—” He stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening at where she was sitting. “Oh. Uhm. Did someone…seat you here?” His face went through several expressions in rapid succession: customer service smile, confusion, barely suppressed panic.

“I seated myself.” She gestured to the packed cafe. “Every other seat was taken.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. Then nodded. “What can I get you?” He fidgeted with his order pad, eyes darting to the wall behind her.

“A Cortado and chocolate croissant, please.” Weird energy, but whatever.

He scribbled frantically on his pad. “I’ll—I’ll get that right away.”

She had just pulled out the copy of her resume when a shadow fell across the table.

“You’re in my seat.”

Startled, she looked up into piercing blue eyes. They were bright and cold, like a winter sky reflected on steel. Eyes that assessed everything and found most things wanting.

Her brain struggled to catch up with the intrusion. Blue screen. Complete shutdown. Full system reset.

One moment she’d been reading through her cover letter, the next she was being glared at by a man who looked like he’d stepped out of Heaven and into a luxury watch advertisement.

“I-I’m sorry…?” She stammered.

He wasn’t just ridiculously handsome; he was catastrophic. Six-foot-two of perfectly controlled power in a custom suit that loved every line of his lean, muscular frame.

His hair was the color of 85% cacao dark chocolate, longer on top and styled with such precision it suggested he rarely had bad hair days. It was the kind of hair that made your fingers itch to ruin it, just to see what he looked like when he lost control.

His face was all aristocratic angles—architectural cheekbones, a nose that belonged on a Roman statue, and a jaw that made you understand why sculptors bothered with marble.

But it was his mouth that caused cartwheels in her stomach. Full lips that he had to know were obscene, currently curved in a way that suggested he’d never met a person he couldn’t ruin.

Good-looking enough to make you forget your own name, your principles, and possibly how to breathe. She suddenly understood why every woman in the coffee shop was staring. They were all just collateral damage in the vicinity of whatever genetic lottery he’d won.

“I said, ’You’re in my seat,’” he repeated, like maybe I’d missed it the first time due to lagging brain function. His voice carried the kind of impatience usually reserved for explaining physics to toddlers.

He checked his watch. It was sleek and smug, and didn’t tell time so much as announce it. He tapped his Italian leather shoe in an impatient staccato against the hardwood floor. Everything about him suggested a man who viewed waiting as a personal insult.

“Your seat?” She blinked, glancing around. “I didn’t see your name on it.”

Something flickered in those arctic eyes. Surprise at finding resistance where he’d expected immediate compliance? His mouth twitched (barely) before he raised an eyebrow. “Turn around.”

Her brows furrowed.

He slightly lifted his chin. “Behind you…on the wall. It’s not hard to miss. Usually.”

She turned. There was a burnished brass plaque that somehow managed to look both elegant and obnoxious:

RESERVED FOR L. PRESCOTT

She shrank a little. How did I miss that? She’d been so relieved to snag the last seat in the house that she didn’t pay any attention.

Oh.

No…

Shit!

“Prescott,” She said slowly, turning back to face him, recognition dawning.

There it was—the moment she realized. He’d seen that flicker of recognition a hundred times before. Usually, it came with fawning. Not this time.

“As in…” Luxury hotel royalty. Trust fund baby. Filthy, generational, buy-your-own-island rich.

“As in, you’re in my seat.” He unbuttoned his navy suit jacket with long, slender fingers that had no business being that elegant, then loosened his tie like he had all the time in the world. The movement was fluid, practiced, unconsciously graceful.

The jacket fell open to reveal a crisp white dress shirt that stretched across his chest, suggesting he had hobbies beyond making money and ruining people’s mornings.

He sat down across from her without invitation, his movements precise and practiced, like he knew exactly how much space he occupied and expected everyone else to adjust accordingly.

Still, his knee bumped hers under the small table, and she scooted back like she’d been burned. The contact lasted a fraction of a second, but a jolt coursed through her body. He didn’t seem to notice, already pulling out his phone and scrolling through it.

He kept his legs stretched out under the table, taking up space, radiating heat she could feel across the few inches between us. She pressed her knees together and tried to make herself smaller. The table suddenly felt like a cracker box.

“There weren’t any—I mean, I wouldn’t have sat here if I didn’t see your name—I should…” She hated how exasperated she sounded.“Look, it was the only place to sit,” She pointed out after letting her pulse slow.

“Not my problem,” he responded, not looking up from his phone, typing something furiously.

Of course it wasn’t. Why would it be? Men like him didn’t have problems; they caused them. Surprise quickly shifted to irritation, though something traitorous fluttered in her stomach—a feeling she didn’t want to examine too closely. Who did he think he was? There was something magnetic about his confidence, an absolute certainty with which he moved through the world. She had never encountered anyone like him. “Do you—do you charm everyone you encounter like this?”

“Would you prefer I have you removed? I’m sure Evan would be thrilled to assist. He tried to warn you, but you seemed quite determined to claim what wasn’t yours.”

She felt heat bloom across her cheeks. “It’s just a table,” she groused.

Evan rushed over, nearly tripping in his haste. Both cups wobbled precariously in his hands. “Here’s your half-almond, half-oat milk latte with two stevias, light foam, one hundred fifty-five degrees, Mr. Prescott. And your cortado, miss. I’ll be back with your pastries.”

The snort escaped before she could stop it. High maintenance suited him. Like a starched chef’s coat. She recognized his behavior: the type who thought specificity equaled importance.

His eyes flew to hers, pinning her in place. “Something amusing about my coffee preferences?” he asked, his voice razor-sharp. Then, softer, mocking: “You laugh easily for someone who’s trespassing.”

The intensity made her bristle. You’ve faced worse. Chef instructors had glared at me harder than this over improperly brunoised vegetables. Instead of shrinking, she straightened her spine.

“Half-almond, half-oat milk?” She said before stopping herself. “That’s not coffee, that’s pasta juice with commitment issues. And the exact temperature? Seriously?”

His eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across his face for a moment before he schooled it away.

Evan returned a moment later and set our pastries down in front of us. He hovered like he’d been debating this moment for several painful seconds. “Sir?” he asked, voice tight, eyes flicking between us. Perspiration glowed on his forehead in the light. “Should I call security?”

She glared at him. She had every right to be there, just as much as this guy. Suddenly, the coffee bar felt like hostile territory.

Lucas’s jaw flexed. The easy thing would be to nod, end the interruption, restore order. But something about her refusal to back down…

“No, Evan,” his voice was measured, a warning wrapped in silk. “She’s fine. I’m handling her.” He gave her a once-over that was meant to dismiss, but lingered a beat too long. “Nothing I haven’t handled before.”

Handling me? Please. A flash of indignation surged through her. Curiosity? Defiance? The perverse desire to see just how far this would go? She lifted her chin, refusing to squirm under that gaze. If he thought she’d wilt like everyone else, he’d picked the wrong girl.

“Of course, Mr. Prescott. As always, if there is anything I can do for you, and I mean anything, you let me know.” Evan did a half-bow and hurried off.

She wanted to gag. Everyone catered to him with the same practiced deference.

He must have seen it on her face because he arched an eyebrow, questioning.

“That was gross.”

“Gross…?”

“You heard me.”

Not him—but everyone else's submission. Fair enough. “Most people call it respect.”

“Most people have low standards.”

He paused, then gave the faintest hum of approval. “Touché.” He lifted his cup in a quiet toast before taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers.

She noticed the way he held it—delicately, between thumb and forefinger, like it might shatter if handled too firmly. Not the grip of someone who worked with his hands. Her gaze drifted to his mouth again. He didn’t slurp or gulp like most people; he assessed the coffee first with a slight inhale, then tasted it with care. Despite his ridiculous order, he knew how to appreciate what he was drinking.

He cleared his throat. Their eyes met, and she realized he’d caught her analyzing him. She felt heat bloom across her cheeks. A flicker of amusement passed in his eyes.

“Interesting choice of reading material.” He nodded at the culinary magazine peeking from beneath her résumé.

“Continuing education,” she said, straightening the papers. “Some of us don’t inherit our careers.”

Instead of taking offense, he laughed—a sound that transformed his face from handsome to dangerous. “Bold assumption. What makes you think I inherited anything?”

“The watch. The suit. Your last name.” She gestured at the room. “The fact that you have a permanently reserved table in a coffee shop like you’re some kind of caffeine royalty. Either you inherited it, or you’re compensating for something.”

He blinked once. Then a corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, not yet, but the idea of one. A recalibration. “Careful, Ms...?”

“Steele.”

Her name landed between them like a challenge, and for a split second his gaze flicked to the resume in front of him—her full name printed in crisp, black type—before sliding back to her. He could have verbally called her out on it but his look said it all.

“Ms. Steele. Assumptions make for poor strategy. Especially before interviews.”

It should have felt like a reprimand, but instead it wrapped around her like velvet when his voice dipped. There was warmth beneath the professionalism. A dare wearing a suit.

“Do you always give strange women who sit at your table a hard time?”

For the first time, amusement twitched on his lips. He took another sip of his pretentious coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. “I like to know who’s trespassing on my territory,” he said. “Besides, it’s what you need.”

Remy narrowed her eyes. “How do you know what I need?”

He leaned back, broad shoulders settling into the chair like a man who never had to justify himself. “Where are you interviewing?” He smoothly redirected.

“Belle Amie’s. It’s a great restaurant. I’ve always wanted to work there.”

He smirked. “Bold choice.”

“So, Prescott—as in hotels?”

“The sign says who I am.” His smile sharpened, the corners curling, Cheshire Cat-like.

“I can read,” she shot back. Irritation replacing initial shock. The entitlement radiating from him was palpable. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“First, answer mine.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Your name?”

Why does he care? So he can blacklist me from every restaurant in the city? She met his eyes and held them for a few moments before responding, “Remington. But I go by Remy.”

“Remington.” He tested the name, rolling it on his tongue as though tasting it. Approval flickered across his face. “Like the cognac, though clearly not as refined. Yet.” A pause. Then, casually, “Besides being COO for the Prescott Group, I dabble in real estate, investments…restaurants.” His eyes sparkled again.

“Restaurants?” Her curiosity spiked, despite herself.

“Several. Including Belle Amie’s.”

Her eyes widened. “You own Belle Amie’s?”

“Among others.” His smile was slow, satisfied. Predatory. “Still confident about your strategy of antagonizing strangers?”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Relax.” His tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “Chef Hayes handles the hiring decisions. I just own the building and hold a controlling interest.”

“And that’s supposed to be reassuring?”

He shrugged, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Hayes hates foam of any kind. If that is part of your presentation, I’d reconsider.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Professional courtesy.” He paused, then smirked. “Or maybe I like the look playing out on your face.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“You’ll find out, won’t you?” He drained his coffee and set it down with precision. “Tell me about your restaurant. The one you want to open someday.”

She hesitated. “How do you know about that?”

“Every culinary grad dreams of one. What’s your concept?”

She wasn’t sure why, but she found herself answering. “Farm-to-table with international influences. Not fusion,” she said slowly. “More… intentional combinations. Comfort food meets fine dining. No pretensions.”

“Ambitious,” he said. “And vague.”

She bristled. “The food will speak for itself.”

“To about twelve food critics and zero accountants.” He leaned back, assessing her like a business proposal. “You’re thinking like a chef, not an owner. The best food in the world won’t save a restaurant with no identity, no marketing angle, no clear demographic. Every restaurant needs more than ‘I cook well.’"

She flinched. “More specific than”—she lifted her fingers in air quotes—“‘I own restaurants?’”

He chuckled again. “Fair point, Ms. Steele. Though I learned something interesting building my portfolio—the concept doesn’t matter nearly as much as the drive behind it.”

He paused, studying her. “Everyone thinks they can’t be bought. But find the right number, the right dream to dangle? There’s always a price.”

The words escaped before she could stop them. “What’s your price?”

The moment the words were voiced, she immediately regretted them. They sounded flirtatious, which wasn’t what she meant.

His blue eyes locked onto hers, penetrating and assessing. He studied her face: the unruly, wild waves of hair, her freckled nose, the smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth that she wasn’t aware of. His gaze settled on her generous lips for a moment that lingered too long.

“Careful, love,” he said, his voice dipping in restrained control, “you’re asking questions far above your pay grade.”

He’s trying to intimidate me. And oddly, that was familiar territory. She’d survived culinary school; she could survive a stare-down with an arrogant hotel heir.

His phone buzzed loudly on the table, decisively bringing their time to an end. “Well, duty calls.” He pushed himself back from the table, stood, and buttoned his suit jacket with practiced ease. The movement was smooth, habitual—the gesture of someone who wore suits as easily as she wore chef’s whites. His watch caught the light—a Rolex, the crown gleaming. Remy noticed how the other patrons stole glances as he rose, like watching royalty descend from its throne.

He hesitated, eyes locking with hers one last time. “More than someone like you could ever afford.” His gaze flicked to her resume. “Good luck with your interview, Chef Steele. The service industry is always looking for...new talent.”

He left before she could respond, leaving behind the lingering scent of his dark cologne—and the unsettling sense that her perfectly ordered morning had been knocked off its axis.

Remy released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her interview notes lay forgotten as she tried to process what had just happened. Lucas Prescott had upended her morning as easily as he apparently commandeered everything else in his life.

Gathering her papers, she tried to refocus on the interview ahead—but his intense gaze kept intruding on her thoughts. She would never see him again, which was for the best. Men like him didn’t exist in her world.

Evan appeared at her elbow. “Stay as long as you like. Mr. Prescott has covered everything.”

“Thank you, but I have to get going.” Remy stood, sliding her portfolio into her backpack. “Does he come here often?”

Evan gave her a knowing look. “Most mornings at 8:30. Same table, same order.” He hesitated, then added, “He’s never shared it before.”

Her cheeks warmed as she made her way to the door. She had fifteen minutes to clear Lucas Prescott from her mind before the most important interview of her life.

But she was still thinking about him when she walked through the doors of Belle Amie’s ten minutes later.

***

Lucas settled into his leather chair, his expansive corner office affording him panoramic views of the Manhattan skyline. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the polished surface of his desk as he reached for his phone. His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before he tapped the contact for Belle Amie’s.

“Belle Amie’s, this is Chef Hayes speaking.”

“Hayes, it’s Prescott.” Lucas leaned back, swiveling toward the window. “How did the interviews go today? Specifically with Remington Steele.”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a surprised chuckle. “Funny you should ask about her specifically. She was the standout of the day.”

Lucas’ interest sharpened. “Was she?”

“Yes, absolutely. Her technique was impeccable. She handled the knife skills test like she was born with a blade in her hand. But it was her flavor combinations that really impressed me. Bold and gutsy, but with the structure to back it up.” Hayes’ voice warmed with excitement. “She did this variation on a classic bearnaise that incorporated yuzu. Bright, complex. Unexpectedly perfect.”

Lucas said nothing, just stared out over the city. Perfect… of course she was.

"That young woman is going to be something special. Raw talent like hers doesn’t walk through our doors often.”

Lucas swiveled back towards his desk, the leather of his chair creaking as he resituated. He traced a finger along the edge of his desk. “So you’d hire her?”

“In a heartbeat. I was just putting together an offer for her and was about to call her. She’d be perfect for—”

“Then don’t.”

A pause. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t hire her. Don’t call her back.”

Hayes blinked through the line. “With all due respect, Mr. Prescott, she’d elevate our kitchen. You said yourself we needed someone who could—”

“I know what I said,” Lucas replied evenly. “And I know what I’m asking.”

He shouldn’t interfere…but the thought of her buried in someone else’s kitchen made his jaw tick.

“Is there something I should know about her?” Hayes asked. “Something disqualifying?”

“No. Nothing like that. Quite the opposite.” Lucas stood, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Let’s just say I have other plans, and they’d be complicated by her being at Belle Amie’s.”

“Plans…? For the restaurant or for—?”

“I appreciate your input, Hayes, but my decision is final. Hire someone else. The second-best will do fine.”

“Yes, sir.” The disappointment in Haye’s voice was audible.

“One more thing: if she reaches out to you, make it very clear this was my decision, not yours. I’ll be in touch next week about the new seasonal menu launch. Good night.” Lucas ended the call before Hayes could respond.

He slid the phone into his pocket and stared out over the city as twilight settled in. He told himself this was business—but it wasn’t. It was personal. And that was dangerous.

She had stuck in his mind all day. Not because she was stunning—though she was, in a flushed, frazzled kind of way—but because she hadn’t played the game. She’d been real. Fresh. Sharp. Slightly chaotic. And genuine. She didn’t know the depth of who he was. Didn’t care. And that made him notice her.

Most people tried to impress him. Remington Steele had tried to survive him.

He hadn’t meant to intervene. Not really. But something about the idea of her being absorbed by the Belle Amie machine, taking orders from some sous-chef who didn’t understand her, grated at him.

If she went there, she’d disappear. Someone else would take the credit for her ideas. And that béarnaise. Hell, that kind of instinct didn’t come around often.

He shouldn’t care. But Hayes’s words—bold and gutsy, perfect—replayed in his head, tangled with the memory of her defiance at Elmwood.

Letting her go would’ve been the logical thing to do. But Lucas Prescott hadn’t gotten to where he was by always following logic when his gut told him otherwise.

If she found her way to him, he’d offer her something better: a blank slate, her own kitchen, a position answering to no one but him.

He wasn’t going to chase her. But he’d left the door wide open. If his instincts were right, she’d be perfect.

Perfect for the position.

Perfect for his needs.