Chapter Text
“Whose wedding is this again?” Sam asked as she delicately drizzled sauce onto the tray of tiny, perfect canapes, before sending the server on his way, white suit crisp and spotless as he pushed his shoulders back and waltzed out of the airy kitchen.
“An old friend from boarding school called in a favour for one of her prized employees,” Lena explained with a sigh, wiping her hands on her cloth hanging from her apron. “Half-price catering for their wedding gift.”
Sam let out a low whistle as she stopped another server, beckoning them over for her to eye the miniature quiches, while Lena leant against the counter, eyeing one of the kitchenhand’s grating truffles over slivers of pork so thin that they were almost translucent.
“That’s some wedding gift.”
“Mm,” Lena hummed in disconcerting agreement, “although, I have to lose out on half of a paycheck and still put in the same amount of effort.”
With a snort of laughter, her friend tossed a dirty cloth at Lena, hitting her in the side of her face before it fell to drape itself over her shoulder. Plucking the offending cloth off her person, Lena gave Sam a stern look, tired circles ringing her eyes.
“Oh please , we both know you don’t do this for the money. If you wanted to be making the big bucks, you wouldn’t have become a world-famous chef.”
“Ah, but being world-famous does bring in the big bucks.”
Nudging her with her elbow, Sam gave her a pointed look, “not as much as a military contract.”
“Yeah, well, designing weapons wasn’t creative enough for me, I guess,” Lena softly sighed, “I’ll leave that to my brother. In the meantime, I’ll be focusing on getting my next Michelin- hey! No, no, stop. You have to let it simmer first before you add the- you know what, I’ll do it myself. Take five.”
“Yes, chef,” the confused kitchenhand stirring something sinister at the stove said as he backed away, uniform splattered and untidy.
Lena bit back a sigh and forced herself to give him a grateful smile, warm and encouraging. She’d never seen the point in yelling until she was red in the face because someone had ruined the red wine jus, or the lamb shanks were slightly too tough. It didn’t fix the problem. She just sighed and quietly griped to Sam about it and they fixed it themselves. Ordinarily, she’d make the young apprentice watch, but it was a wedding, and they were only just sending out the canapes. There were three more courses and palate cleansers to ensure went smoothly, all of her careful preparation the night before paying off.
Turning the heat down on the stove, she watched the blue flames die down and the thick sauce bubble, slowing down as she stirred it slowly. Adding lemon juice, she breathed in the fragrant smell and felt the raging heat wash over her, sticking her pristine uniform to her skin.
“Can you check on the tofu? Make sure they’re caramelising it, not roasting . God, I don’t know why I trust anyone else. Except you , of course. What would I even do without you?”
“Be stuck with these amateurs,” Sam murmured before they both laughed and she squeezed Lena’s arm on her way to check on the tofu.
She’d been with Lena from the very beginning of her culinary career. When Lena had decided she wanted to be a chef, her parents had grumbled and scoffed but handed her the money to open her first restaurant, because if she was going to do something, she may as well do it properly. Sam had been a single mother to a squirming toddler, looking for work in anything, and had begged Lena to hire her to wash dishes or peel carrots. Lena suspected she would have scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees if it meant she could cover rent and feed her kid.
Lena had made her first apprentice, back when she was opening her first restaurant. Within a year, it had three Michelin stars and was the most exclusive place in Metropolis. That was six years ago, and she’d since opened up restaurants in most major cities across Europe, a smattering across the states and had opened one in Tokyo just last year. At twenty-six, Lena was well on her way to becoming the most awarded Michelin Star chef in the world, her thirty just two shy of the all-time record.
Regardless of that, she, undoubtedly, was one of the greatest chefs in the world. There were book deals and pop-ups at other famous restaurants, TV show appearances and celebrity hangouts. Lena had taken her dream and her family’s fortune and turned it into a culinary empire, all before she’d even hit thirty. She was by no means a disappointment, and in her own way, a creative genius. Her dishes were coveted and prized, on the covers of culinary magazines and on TV, her chefs catered to the hottest parties and the most extravagant weddings, and Lena took in any waif and stray, much like her best friend, and turned them into visionaries who took her masterpieces and churned them out to perfection.
She loved her job. Lena could’ve parked herself in her penthouse in National City and left her team of chefs and kitchenhands, apprentices and dishwashers to run her restaurant empire for her, but she always preferred to be there herself. There was something about garnishing dishes as they went out to satisfied customers, or tasting sauces out of the dozen pots crowding the stoves, supervising the young hopefuls as they rolled out fresh pasta dough, perfected their knife skills and gave them tips as they slid thin cuts of seared salmon onto beds of lemon sauce, or nestled quail in amongst a dish of exotic mushrooms she’d gathered in Bulgaria and brought back with her.
It was exciting, a thrilling job, in the stuffy kitchen, a dozen smells mingling and fresh produce piling on the counters. Pickled peppers and olives and gherkins lined the shelves, dried herbs were tied together in bundles, and cuts of meat hung in the cool room, waiting for her to decide what to do with them. Things were always new and different, evolving as she had new ideas, new ways to spice up her recipes. She loved the invigorating confidence as she walked up and down the length of the massive kitchen, barking out orders while people scrambled to follow them out, a well-oiled team working together to the tempo of chopping knives, sizzling onions and cloves of garlic and butter browning in pans, the hurried whisking of egg whites, thick batters and rich sauces, the shouts back and forth and the dizzying whirl of dishes going out and coming back empty.
A wedding was no different. She had fifty guests mingling outside in the open space of her private function room, reserved for parties and weddings and galas. Her finest array of champagnes and wines and liqueurs had been brought out for the celebration, and they were all happily enjoying the canapes that were coming and going, full trays coming back empty. Soft music filled the cavernous room, tall windows letting in slants of sunlight to pool on the cedar flooring. The whole place had been decorated by events planners, full of flowers and centrepieces for the round tables provided by Lena. Things were going as smoothly as always, yet Lena couldn’t resist the urge to check herself, to catch a quick word with the brides and congratulate them.
“Sam? Take this off the heat in a minute, will you?” Lena called out.
“You got it, boss.”
Untying her apron and the dirty cloth, Lena smoothed her clean uniform and wound her way towards the swinging doors that led to the function room. Stepping through them, she scanned the room of guests dressed in the finery, snatching food from trays and swapping empty glasses for a fresh glass of champagne, lining the bar as bartenders whipped up cocktails with practised speed, adding flourishes. The hum of conversation cut through the gentle music and Lena felt herself relax slightly at the ambience, feeling a sense of satisfaction at how smooth everything was going.
And then a nearby voice ruined it.
“What is that?”
“Creamed kale crostini, miss,” the server replied, one gloved hand behind his back as he held the tray out before him.
“God, that’s awful.”
As Lena turned her attention towards the exchange, she watched as the blonde woman spat a mouthful of food into a napkin. Lena’s eyes widened in surprise as her eyebrows rose towards her hairline, an affronted look of shock on her face. Turning bodily towards the woman, Lena bristled and drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t much in comparison to the woman, who was naturally tall and made taller with the heels she was wearing.
Her nose was wrinkled with disgust and she wrapped the food up in the napkin and looked around helplessly for somewhere to deposit it. Blue eyes scanned back and forth before zoning in on Lena, who was standing nearby, arms clasped behind her back and an eyebrow arched.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh,” the blonde quietly exclaimed, “no, I- well, I just- it’s not very- I mean … I don’t like it.”
A stony look stiffened Lena’s face as she jerked her chin up slightly. “Oh. Is there something else I can get you?”
With a weak laugh and a sheepish smile, the woman shrugged, “I mean, do you have anything … normal?”
“Normal?”
“Yeah, like … this is great, I’m sure. I just don’t really like this kind of food.”
“And what kind would that be?” Lena stiffly asked, her lips barely moving as her eyes turned hard, flashing dangerously, although the woman seemed to be oblivious. “Michelin star dishes?”
Making a sound of amusement low at the back of her throat, a hesitant smile broke on the woman’s lips, “gosh, they give our prizes for anything these days, huh? Oh, wait, no, that’s not what I-”
“Perhaps you’d like to try some of the chicken tenders at the children’s table. They might be more to your liking,” Lena bluntly replied, muscles twitching in her jaw.
“There’s a kid’s ta- oh, you were kidding. Oh. I’ve offended you.”
“Not at all,” Lena brusquely replied, forcing a stiff smile onto her face that didn’t reach her eyes, “not everyone has … advanced enough tastebuds to appreciate quality. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and finish other such disgusting meals for the rest of the adults. But perhaps I can order you a happy meal from McDonald’s. My treat.”
She left the woman spluttering helplessly, mouth opening and closing as her cheeks flooded pink. Without a backwards glance, Lena strode back into the kitchen, shoulders tense and teeth grit, meeting Sam’s doe-eyed look of bewilderment, brown eyes full of questions as Lena prowled between the chrome benches and stood in front of a tray of canapes. Scanning the neat rows of rosebuds made from thin pieces of salmon, tiny stuffed peppers and olives and curls of cucumber resting on crostinis smothered in cream cheese, Lena singled out a tray of the kale ones and pulled it towards her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Apparently my canapes are awful,” Lena curtly replied, picking one up and taking a bite.
It tasted the same as always. The perfect blend of flavour, the richness of the cream cheese with the greener taste of the kale, cut through with pepper and mustard and half a dozen other herbs and spices that were so subtly crafted together that it made a delicate balance of flavour that burst on her tongue. It had made the list of the best recipes to try that summer in Saveur magazine two years ago. What did a nobody at a wedding know about fine cuisine?
“Well, not everyone likes kale,” Sam whispered, gingerly smiling as she gave Lena a wary look. “I told you, we should’ve picked something else.”
“It’s a superfood!” Lena hissed, pale cheeks flooded with colour.
With a faint sigh, Sam rolled her eyes, “it’s a wedding, Lena. People don’t want superfoods at a wedding. They want g-”
Her friend cut off mid-sentence, pressing her lips together in a flat line and Lena gave her a hard look, a haughtiness to her features as she arched an eyebrow. A faint smile played at the corners of her lips as she crossed her arms over the chest of her starched white chef jacket.
“No, please, continue.”
“I didn’t-” Sam winced, giving her an apologetic smile.
“Good food. They want good food.”
Quietly scoffing, Sam gently nudged her and gave her a sheepish look, “hey, you know I like your food. I thought they were great.”
Teeth clenched, Lena eyed the blonde who was helping herself to the sugary mountain of cake and fondant, which had already been cut, instead of her Michelin quality canapes, which Lena had spent all night and morning slaving over. She had barely gotten an hour of sleep, which admittedly was making Lena more irritable than usual, but she knew her food was good. Everyone knew it. She took pride in the fact that she catered for her own restaurant, instead of leaving it to the lower ranks of chefs she employed, and the brides had both been in agreement that they loved the samples of the dishes she’d prepared for their menu. Yet this nobody didn’t like one of her canapes and it had rankled Lena’s pride. Just a little.
Now, she was bristly and scowling, inspecting the dishes as they left the sparkling chrome kitchen full of dirty pots and pans and sharpened knives. The mains were already in
“Everyone likes my food,” Lena firmly replied, her voice a dark mutter as she snapped her fingers at a server to usher them out to the crowd of wedding guests.
“Then why does it matter if one person doesn’t?”
“It’s the principle of it!”
“Well … there’s not really anything you can do about it, is there?” Sam softly side, giving her a pat on the shoulder as she grimaced.
Lena made a noncommittal sound at the back of her throat, neither agreeing or disagreeing with her friend, but there was a spark of determination in her eyes as she straightened up. Ensuring that the white fitted cap was safely covering her hair, she gestured for an incoming server to take out another tray of readied canapes and then turned to the kitchen.
“Okay, who’s on entrees? Matthews, with me.”
“Yes, chef.”
She watched as he slung a dish towel over his shoulder and gave her a roguish smile. Lena just rolled her eyes and made her way over to one of the benches, where a row of bowls were neatly lined up, sparkling white and warm beneath the heat lamp.
“What are we serving?” she bluntly asked, knowing down to the smallest pinch of salt what was going to be used for their dishes.
It was a test, more than anything else. She liked to keep her chefs on their toes so that they didn’t grow lazy or too cocky. The latter was usually that case with Mike, but he was a good worker and a great chef, and Lena knew that his charms were harmless and had no effect on her at all. He could smile and bat his eyes all he wanted to, but all it earned him was a sigh and a shove towards the stoves to keep an eye on what was cooking. Lena would even consider him a friend - he’d been with her long enough, almost as long as Sam - but she knew she had to stay on his ass or he’d spend all of his time telling stories about his world travels, wooing the younger apprentices who couldn’t help but blush and stammer around him.
“We’re serving the option of lobster and artichoke soup, sweetbread with peanut sauce or oysters with raspberry prosecco vinegar.”
“Garnish three of them with kale,” Lena declared.
“Kale?”
Fixing him with a slight smirk, she gently nudged him with her elbow, “we have a fan of it amongst the guests.”
He made a small sound of intrigue and rose his eyebrows, a smile curling the corners of his mouth, “trying to impress someone, chef?”
With a tight smile, Lena arched an eyebrow, “not quite.”
“I’ve never known you to change the menu because of someone else’s palate. Maybe you’ve got a little crush,” he teased.
Rolling her eyes and scoffing quietly, Lena gestured towards the dishes, “just do what I said. They’ll be seated in fifteen minutes. Food goes out in twenty. There needs to be enough of each to cover fifty.”
“Yes, chef.”
She made to walk away and then paused for a moment, reaching out to touch his arm. When Mike looked up, she gave him a sharp smile, “maybe add extra kale for my crush - just in case.”
They both laughed and Lena nudged him again before she moved on to survey the sweetbreads being fried in large skillets, before tasting the soup and nodding in agreement. She rushed back and forth the kitchen, stopping before the ovens to peer into the yellow glow that highlighted the slow-roasting slabs of marinated venison turning inside, where they’d been since yesterday morning, under the watchful eye of a rotation of apprentices. Onto the oysters, which were being washed in clean water, all the dirt and sand already purged from them in vats of saltwater, and then to the little quails resting as they waited to be cooked for the main courses.
Everything was running perfectly, as smooth as a well-oiled engine, and soon enough the orders were coming in from the servers, shouts for two soups, three oysters and one sweetbread for table six. Four soups for table nine. Table eleven all wanted oysters.
Empty trays with the crumbs and grease stains from the canapes piled up in the sinks, dishwashers scrubbing at crusted pots and pans before they sent them through the dishwasher with practised speed, while someone stood at the other side, drying plates and putting pots back on the shelves, to be swiftly removed by the chefs in desperate need of something to whip up a quick sauce in.
“Why is Mike putting kale in a serving of oysters?”
Lena glanced away from the sweetbreads being scooped out of a sizzling pan and gave Sam an innocent look, trying her best to bite back a smile. “Special request.”
“Lena.”
“What?”
“Why are you letting this get to you?”
Scowling, Lena jutted her chin forward in a petulant manner, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest in a sulky imitation of a spoiled teenager who’d been told no for the first time. With a quiet huff, she fixed Sam with a hard look.
“I’m not letting it get to me , she was just- she was rude to my face.”
Quietly chuckling, Sam reached out to grip Lena’s shoulders and gave her a kind smile, “babe, it’s okay if people don’t like your food. You don’t have to please anyone. And this certainly won’t please her.”
“Well, perhaps she should aim to be a little politer next time, instead of telling me that my Michelin Stars were just given out as if by chance. I work hard for my reputation.”
“She clearly doesn’t know that, otherwise, I’m sure she’d be appreciative of all of your hard work.”
“Maybe she’ll be appreciative when she has to pick kale out of every dish.”
Sam just sighed heavily and shook her head, making a muttered comment about how it was Lena’s business and she could do what she liked with it, before going to check on one of the apprentices in charge of the rice for the main.
With a flicker of doubt, Lena paused for a moment, before drawing herself up to her full height, feeling vindicated. The woman had ordered the oysters, and they went out on a bed of wilted kale and with the vinaigrette drizzled around the shells cradling the fleshy meat in a splash of vivid pink. Lena stood with a smug smile on her face, arms crossed over her chest and a prickle of satisfaction as she watched the server carry the dish out.
There was no complaint, and when the mains were served, the caramelised quail went out on a bed of brown rice and yet more kale. A plate of seared duck foie gras had been dished up with kale too, on the off chance that the woman had ordered that, and Lena felt pleased with herself as she tampered with her recipes on accounts of her rankled pride. She wondered if the woman knew that she was the only one with kale shoved into her food, an act of petty revenge by the head chef, or if she thought that it was in everyones.
Lena hoped that she knew it was only her. A snide jab to make her meals as unsatisfying as possible, because if she was going to trash her culinary skills, Lena was going to make sure she didn’t enjoy a single bite of it. To drive her point home, to make it glaringly obvious, when a serve of the hazelnut and dark chocolate mousse went out, nestled inside a dome of translucent caramel and swimming in a caramel sauce to cut through the bitterness of the dark chocolate, Lena stopped the server so that she could garnish the top of the dome with a piece of kale.
Not a single word of complaint came back to the kitchen, and when coffee and nightcaps and candied almonds and cubes of Turkish delight covered in powdered sugar went out, she wearily set herself down on a stool and let the tension bleed out of her shoulders. The chefs were cleaning up their mess and the dishwashers were powering through the mountain of plates from the last course, and Lena felt her stomach rumble with hunger.
“Feel better? She’s one of the bridesmaids, you know. Maid of Honour, in fact,” Sam told her, a disapproving downturn to her lips, which made Lena laugh.
She shrugged indifferently; her ego was still bruised, but her petty revenge had soothed it slightly. Now, Lena was just tired, her single hour of sleep catching up with her as her eyes burned and she slumped at the polished surface of the counter, waiting for the wedding to end.
Sam tried to encourage her to go home, but Lena refused. After a catering event that she’d cooked for herself, she always liked to ensure that everything was clean and put away, that the function room was neat and tidy and the cutlery had been polished for the morning. Instead, she ushered her friend home to tuck her daughter into bed and waited out the long night, chefs disappearing as their shift came to an end, dishies half-soaked and sweating from the billowing clouds of steam as a fresh load came out of the dishwasher slowly dwindling down to one left as they got through their work.
Soon enough, it was just Lena left, alone in a spotless kitchen with a single load of plates left to go through the dishwasher. She had assured the young guy that she could do it herself; she was going to cook herself dinner before going home. All that was left now were the bartenders and few servers catering to the party guests milling about and cleaning up dirty glasses and empty coffee cups.
Alone, Lena climbed to her feet and started to pull out ingredients to make herself something to eat, enjoying the quietness of the large kitchen, all to herself to cook at her leisure. She loved to cook for herself, or her friends, without the pressure of making something new and exciting while people waited impatiently, expecting it in front of them in an instant. It was soothing and relaxing, and she wished that she was at home so she could enjoy a glass of wine while she cooked. Still, it was quiet and peaceful and she hummed to herself as she sprinkled spices into a large pot, peeled cloves and chucked them in whole and got started on the onions. And then her peace was disturbed.
“Excuse me.”
Lena glanced over her shoulder at the tentative voice, slurred slightly from alcohol, and her polite look of indifference quickly darkened to a scowl as she took in the bridesmaid swaying on her feet, cheek pink and blue eyes wide and innocent.
“I think you’re lost, miss. The party’s back the way you came.”
“The party’s nearly over,” the woman replied, “and … my name- my name’s Kara.”
“Well, Kara , the kitchen is off-limits to anyone who isn’t a chef in my restaurant. So if you’ll please turn yourself back around and leave, that would be splendid.”
With a heavy sigh and a pleading look, Kara took another step inside, making Lena pause at the sheer audacity of it. Blinking in surprise, Lena gave her a wary look. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor and Kara moved over to one of the steel benches, bracing herself against it with splayed hands as she gave Lena an earnest look.
“I’m sorry I- I offended you. Really.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” Lena muttered, her back to the woman again as she roughly chopped onions, the bench to her back as she worked on the far wall of the room.
There was a momentary pause of silence, and she knew that Kara was still there for lack of footsteps leaving, but Lena wasn’t inclined to acknowledge her any further. Scooping up the onions, she listened to them sizzle in the browning butter, the smell of garlic and paprika a heady aroma as it mingled at the bottom of the pot. Turning, Lena picked up a cherry red bell pepper and turned back to the cutting board, destemming it and scooping out the seeds, before it was haphazardly chopped and joined the onion. Still, Kara didn’t move.
“It’s a hazard to be in here without the proper clothing,” Lena flatly warned her after a few minutes.
“I just-”
She jumped back across the other side of the counter when Lena whirled around with a cleaver in her hand and slammed it down into the chicken carcass that had been resting on a board, smothered in herbs and splayed out, orange from the spices Lena had rubbed into its bare skin.
“You already apologised.”
“But I want you to accept my apology.”
With a snort of laughter, Lena sardonically arched a brow, “well, there’s no need for me to, is there? You didn’t like my food; it’s not a crime.”
“I think it might’ve off as rude though. It was actually quite nice. Dinner was-”
“Quite nice,” Lena bitingly replied, an incredulous look in her eyes as she finally looked up, cleaver clenched in her hand. “You do know that the worth of the food this evening was upwards of fifty-thousand-dollars, right? That quite nice dinner would’ve cost you eighty dollars to eat at my restaurant. Those truffles were handpicked in Bulgaria, by me. That venison was marinated for seventy-two hours and slow-roasted for twenty-four. I have thirty Michelin stars and my restaurants are ranked first in seven different countries. Yes, you could say it’s quite nice.”
“Ah, I’ve put my foot in it again.”
Lena scoffed and shook her head, dark hair spilling in her face as it came free from her ponytail. She quartered the chicken and gently laid it to rest in the bottom of the pan, where it sizzled in the mixture, and then Lena turned back around to eye the sheepish woman who seemed to be incapable of saying the right thing.
“Forget about it.”
At Lena’s muttered words of finality, a clear sign that Kara should leave her in peace to cook her dinner for herself without listening to her irritating attempts of apologising, which only seemed to dig her deeper as she backhandedly insulted her once more, Kara held her hands up in defence.
“Wait!” she exclaimed, her voice loud in the cold emptiness of the metal room, and her blue eyes glanced around wildly.
With a small sound of triumph, Kara’s eyes fell on a fresh bundle of kale sitting on the counter alongside the rest of the produce, and her hand darted out to pick it up. Brandishing it in one hand, she gave Lena an eager look, eyes bright and insistent, and tore a handful of the plant off the stem and crammed it into her mouth.
“I love kale,” Kara mumbled around a mouthful of it, tendons standing out in her neck as she chewed it resolutely, trying to look enthusiastic even as her mouth turned down at the corners in a faint grimace and she swallowed thickly, without relish. “See?”
“It’s not even cooked.”
Despite her thinly veiled look of disgust, and no small amount of concern for this stranger who barged into her kitchen and snatched up a bunch of kale to eat raw, Lena couldn’t help but bite back a smile of amusement. It was utterly ridiculous and didn’t do much to rectify the fact that Kara clearly hated kale, but she felt a laugh work its way up her throat and only just managed to keep it locked up inside, lips pressed together in a flat line.
She felt a warmth inside her chest and pointedly cleared her throat as she held a hand out, an expectant look on her face as she raised an eyebrow again. “That was for my dinner.”
“Oh! Sorry. Here we are.”
Kara handed over the bundle of kale and gave Lena a sheepish smile, their fingers gently brushing across the counter. Lena felt her stomach clench slightly at the simple contact, a rush of heat blazing through her before she snatched her hand back and turned, bowing her head as she chopped up the kale and felt a strange fluttering in her stomach as her cheeks reddened. She couldn’t say why she reacted like that, only she felt her annoyance with Kara softening slightly, a sort of bearable exasperation taking its place. Still standing in the kitchen with her, Kara made no further effort to leave, and Lena found that her presence wasn’t as irritating as she’d thought.
“It’s a superfood, you know,” Lena quietly said after a moment, picking up a handful of the greens and sprinkling them into the pot. “They’re one of the best foods you can eat. So many nutrients in it.”
“I get all mine from pizza,” Kara quipped in a half-hearted attempt at a joke, one side of her mouth curled up into an uncertain smile.
“And chicken tenders?”
Kara let out a snort of laughter and leant on the counter, watching Lena’s deft knife skills as she bruised stalks of lemongrass and tossed them into the pot. They descended into silence once more, and Lena glanced back over her shoulder to give her a bewildered look.
“Shouldn’t you be heading home?”
“Probably. I just- I wanted to say I’m sorry. I think … well, chocolate and kale don’t mix. So I- I thought, well, I thought I’d apologise.”
“Do you normally apologise this much, or is it the drink?”
With another laugh, cheeks pink and head ducked down, Kara ran a hand through her limp curls, shrugging sheepishly. “A bit of both, I think.”
“No harm, no foul,” Lena said with more tenderness than she’d expected, wondering just how tired she actually was. Chewing on her lip for a moment, she let out a nervous laugh and gave Kara a guilty smile. “I think perhaps I should apologise to you. For ruining your meals.”
“Oh, no, well, you actually made it easy for me to pick it out. So … thank you for that.”
With a scoff of laughter, Lena shook her head, “ah, well, that was probably my friend who thought I was being a bit harsh on you. She was probably trying to stop me from tanking my culinary career over wounded pride. You didn’t complain though.”
She cocked her head to the side and gave Kara a searching look, moving back over to the bench and picking up a Roma tomato, which was rapidly diced, along with a few more. “Why is that?”
“Believe it or not, I’m usually not one to complain about food.”
“Ah. So this was just some sort of misunderstanding?”
With an apologetic smile, Kara cupped her chin in her hand as she sank down onto a stool as if she’d been invited to stay. Surprisingly, Lena found that she didn’t actually want her to leave. She was pretty and funny and had humoured her dark mood, and there seemed to be an innocent air of naivety about her that wasn’t necessarily mean, but ditzier more than anything. Her fumbling apology and subsequent digging of a bigger hole was probably the product of that, and Lena had the startling realisation that she’d probably horribly misjudged her.
“Well, not exactly. I think kale is awful, no matter how you dress it up. But normally, I wouldn’t say it to the chef’s face.”
“Then perhaps I should be flattered.”
“Well, perhaps we can get dinner sometime and I can flatter you some more.”
The flirty tone that coloured her words made Lena pause as she cupped a handful of chopped tomatoes and looked at Kara. She felt her face flush with delight, cheeks rosy, and quickly turned around to hide the colour that had crept into her cheeks. With her back to Kara, Lena cleared her throat and tossed the handful of tomatoes into the pot, stirring it around and then gently turning the pieces of chicken.
Turning back around, she picked up a dish towel and wiped the juice from her hands, before fixing Kara with a look of surprise. “Are you asking me to cook for you so you can insult my food to my face again? I’m not sure that’s the way to a woman’s heart.”
“Oh! No, I- I didn’t mean you had to cook, and I wasn’t going to-”
“I’m kidding,” Lena said, her lips curling up into a smile. “But … maybe I can cook you dinner again. And if you don’t like it, you can tell me. Maybe your honesty will be a good dose of humility for me.”
Kara blinked in surprise, before a wide smile stretched across her face, almost goofy as her blue eyes went wide, making her look younger than she was. “Okay! Sure. I mean- yeah. Okay.”
“Sure,” Lena said with a small, mocking smile.
Setting the towel down, she held out a pale hand, stretching across the steel counter, and felt it enveloped in warmth as Kara reached across to shake her hand, her skin tanned and golden.
“My name’s Lena, by the way.”
“I know who you are,” Kara said with a quiet laugh. “You came highly recommended by my sister-in-law’s boss.”
“I guess you’ll find out why.”