SIMMER

The train doors whooshed behind me, the sticky autumn air blowing into my face as new passengers hobbled onto the crowded car.

I clutched a to-go cup of bad, diluted coffee in one hand and my cell in the other. Talking in a whisper-hiss, I did my best to ignore the irritated glances of other train-goers as I garbled on at eight in the morning.

"Mom," I said, keeping my eyes pinned forward on the passing, blindingly bright buildings of Chicago. "You shouldn't have told them that I could begin work immediately. I'm not entirely sure I want a job - and not one that's a forty-five-minute commute into the city. My classes aren't even finalized yet; I don't know if I have time for this."

My mother huffed. "Come on, you and I both know that if anyone can figure out the commute, it's you. This is cooking, Eve. Real cooking. It's what you want."

"Wanted. Past-tense."

Mom sighed. "Just give it a chance."

"But we talked about this. I went to Northwestern so that I could earn a degree in something that will lead to a career. Being a professional chef was never in the cards for me, Mom. Especially when I'm going to have a mountain of student debt after college."

"My friend whose son works there said that the chef is brilliant and looking for new talent. It's part-time, it pays well and you're good at cooking. How can it hurt to go see?"

I blew out a breath. My mother may have been optimistic to a fault, but she was also never one to give up. "Look, Mom. I'll go in for the interview. But that's all I'm going to promise for now."

She laughed in gleeful victory from over the phone. "I should have sent you across the country sooner. You're finally listening to me."

"Very funny. I'll talk to you later." Before she could rub it in my face that she had won, I hung up.

Of course, not even taking a look at the job was out of the question. At the end of the day, I had spent my four years of high school working myself to the bone so I could save up for the college tuition I hadn't been able to receive in scholarships and aid. Babysitting, sticky ice cream shops, waitressing at the local diner while old perverts leered from behind. I was a seasoned pro in the science of shitty part-time jobs by now, and while working at some snobbish restaurant in the city wasn't necessarily on my bucket list, it was a step up from my past gigs.

I would check it out. Mom was right - just taking a look wouldn't hurt.

The restaurant was called SPEZIA, its named scribbled in cursive across a royal blue awning on Michigan Avenue. Its exterior was marbled and cool, the letters printed in silver right above the flaunt-worthy address.

As I stepped through the revolving front door, I was met with a swoosh of cool air and a drift of quiet dining murmurs and classical music. Live flute and piano, it seemed. Pretentious, but not overly so.

Thoroughly impressed, I watched as a pair of waitresses in crisp white dress shirts sauntered by, carrying out pristine white plates of delectable food.

Raw tuna, edible candied honeysuckle. A glistening citric reduction, all over a bed of asparagus gratin. My mouth watered - I was utterly transfixed, trying to imagine the craftsmanship of something so simple yet exquisite.

"Miss Alcott, I presume?"

The voice startled me, yanking me straight out of my food daze as my eyes landed on a tall, svelte woman with sleek brown hair pulled tightly into a bun. She wore bright red lipstick and wide-rimmed glasses, and could have passed for a model, had she been wearing anything but her tailored navy business suit.

"Yes," I quickly said, and extended my hand.

She did not take it. "I'm Simone Winthrop, Spezia's hostess." She looked me up-and-down, her nose twitching at the sight of my dark jeans and halfway-wrinkled blouse. "You're late."

With that, she nodded her head toward the back of the restaurant, and all I could do was grimace to myself as I quickly followed after her, through a pair of silver doors. We entered a small passageway stocked with aprons and hairnets, and what appeared to be a set of lockers for the cooks.

"How old are you, Miss Alcott?" asked Simone, not bothering to look at me over her shoulder.

"Call me Eve," I said. "And I'll be nineteen in November."

"Young." She said the word like it was supposed to mean something to me. "What is your full-time occupation? School, I presume?"

"Yes. I just began my freshman year at Northwestern, actually."

She didn't respond, only halted in her steps, spun around, and gave me a businesslike little grin. "Should I be worried about the commute?"

I opened my mouth to assure her that should I be offered a job, I would make sure to plan well ahead so that I was always here on time, but I was interrupted by a door slamming across the kitchens, following by a bellowing voice.

"What the fuck is this? You call this ganache?"

My breath caught in my throat.

A poor cook - who had, indeed, burnt his chocolate ganache to a crisp while working on some other task - started blabbering in an attempt to salvage his job, but the man standing before him only looked like he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands.

I could barely think of his nearly-murderous rage, because this was possibly the most gorgeous human being I had ever seen in my life.

He was tall - probably six foot three - with cropped, golden-brown hair and dark blue eyes. And shit, if he wasn't ripped...the plain black T-shirt and jeans he wore clung to every corded muscle and toned edge of his body. He was somewhere in his late twenties, from what I could tell; his face was young, but his eyes were somehow older.

I furrowed my brows as the man continued to yell at the poor cook, demanding to know who had taught him to burn chocolate like a damned five-year-old.

"Who is that?" I wondered aloud.

Simone met my gaze. "That," she told me, "is Stephen Callahan. The Chef and founder here at Spezia."

"I see," I murmured.

She nodded. "And if you couldn't tell until now, it's going to take every ounce of effort you have not to get yourself fired before the job even begins. So if you have a penchant for tardiness, you can see yourself out."

I was so shocked by her curtness that I didn't even happen to notice that a tall presence was now lumbering before us, his eyes fixed intently on me from a mere two feet away.

"Chef Callahan," Simone said, the nerves evident in her tone. "It's nice to see you."

He didn't look over at Simone once. "Who is this?" In the few minutes since his outburst over ganache, he had become stunningly calm.

"This," she said, "is our new assistant cook."

I opened my mouth to say that I hadn't yet accepted the job, but Simone gave me a look so lethal that I wasn't so sure I would leave Spezia alive if I did anything but play along.

The Chef looked at me and nodded. "Good."

And then promptly walked away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I turned to her, my brows furrowed. "Why did you just" -

"Look," she said to me, her voice stiff. "I told Chef I would have someone by the end of last week. The time has passed, and I still don't have anyone."

"Ms. Withrop, I"-

"You will take this job if you know what's good for you. I need someone young and with time on their hands who can work long hours without cracking. You'll make forty dollars an hour, and"-

I practically choked on the air in my lungs. "Forty an hour? For being a cook's assistant?"

"Yes." It seemed as though I had offended her.

"I'll take the job," I told her before I could stop myself.

It was too good an offer to not accept. This job would keep me nicely out of any extra debt. Forty an hour was a good deal - almost three times better than what I had made back at the diner.

"Good," she said. "And if you couldn't tell before now, it's going to take every ounce of effort you have not to get yourself fired before you so much as pick up a knife. So get here on time, do exactly as you're told, and never speak to Chef unless he speaks to you. Don't ask him questions, don't engage, and do not make him angry." She made sure to lean in, her eyes widening as she emphasized, "Ever."

"Got it," I breathed, watching as the cook who had burnt his ganache fought tears and packed his cook's knives in disgrace, leaving his apron behind on the counter.

Stealing back my attention, Simone said, "I'm glad to have you working for us, Ms. Alcott. I'll see you tomorrow - five o'clock sharp."