𝐅𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓; G. Ramsay

Chapter Eleven

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SWEAT STARTS FORMING at my temple. Now I understand why the cooks are always so irritable at night. It's hot as shit back here!

A few stray hairs stick to my skin as I stir up a hot pan on the stove. Gordon stands beside me, watching my movements.

"Beautifully done," he remarks. "Your timing is perfect."

I smile at his comment, and focus on my food. I flip the meat on the stovetop, and turn down the pan beside me.

I'm working three different stations at once, by myself. Gordon seems impressed.

He taught me how to use everything, with the help of some of the cooks. It's been hours since I've clocked in this morning, and I've gotten the hang of things pretty well since then.

"Uhh, a couple more minutes on this sauce?" I second guess myself, looking it over. It sits in a deep pan, and smells amazing.

Gordon leans over and inspects it. "No, it should be done now. Go ahead and take it off."

I nod, reaching to turn off the stovetop. Throwing in a couple more spices, I then top the creamy Alfredo with a few pieces of fresh basil.
The chicken should be done now, a reminder in the back of my head speaks to me.

Gordon stands there watching with his arms crossed. He looks pretty deep in thought.

The cut chicken in the pan gives off a rich scent of garlic and herb, soon being placed together with the Alfredo.

"Smells amazing, darling." Gordon takes a step beside me and grabs a fork.

Taking a small chunk of the chicken, he dips in in the sauce and takes a bite.

My heart is racing. It better taste as good as it smells.

"Perfectly timed sauce, and the garlic from the chicken breaks through nicely. Well done." He smiles.

I let my head fall in relief as a nervous laugh escapes my lips. "Thank you, chef."

This is unbelievable. This wasn't even what we had called Gordon to do here for us— and yet, here I am in the back of the kitchen getting my own private lesson from the one and only.

I feel like I'm dreaming.

"I was freaking out over that." A nervous laugh escapes me, and I wish I hadn't blurted that out.

"What do you mean? Why are you nervous?" He asks, furrowing a brow at me.

I shrug awkwardly, wiping my forehead with my wrist. "I don't know, it's just . . you."

"You have nothing to be nervous about. Have you not cooked before? Because you really seem to know what you're doing here." He takes a step back again, hands on his apron.

I shake my head. "Not professionally, no." I glance at him. "My family is Italian, so we're always doing something in the kitchen— whether it's baking, or cooking for nine plates." A soft laugh escapes my lips.

"Who taught you to cook? Your mother?" He asks.

"My grandmother taught my mother and I. My mom, at a much younger age, haha." I feel the lightness in my face as I smile. It feels so easy to talk to him now.

I wish he'd never leave.

"They must be good, if you can make this taste beautifully." He mentioned, turning to grab a plate.