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In his kitchen, rules matter—until she breaks every one.

Claudia

I didn’t come to Las Vegas to be intimidated.
I came to cook, to prove myself, and to finally stop living in the shadow of other people’s expectations.

Sebastian McConnell was never part of the plan.

He’s arrogant, controlling, and thinks he owns everything—including me.
Every look is a challenge. Every conversation a power struggle.
And the worst part? I refuse to back down.

I won’t let him break me.
I won’t let him distract me.
Even if the fire between us is impossible to ignore.


Sebastian

My restaurant is my empire.
I don’t take risks, and I don’t let emotions into my kitchen.

Then Claudia Granger walks in and turns everything upside down.

She challenges my authority, questions my decisions, and refuses to be intimidated.
She’s talented. Stubborn. Dangerous.
And every time she looks at me, I lose a little more control.

I should shut this down before it ruins us both.
But some battles are worth losing—
especially when walking away feels worse than surrender.

Chapter One

SEBASTIAN
Few things brought me more satisfaction than stepping into the kitchen before dawn—my kitchen, my restaurant, every detail tailored to my exacting standards. This was my world, my sanctuary. The only place I ever truly felt like myself. The king of my castle, soaking in the familiar aromas of recipes painstakingly developed or refactored, recipes that had built my reputation in a town—and an industry—notorious for breaking all but those with the strongest spirit. I hadn’t been broken.

I had, however, been forced to bend. Hence, the tight set of my jaw the morning my crew and I were set to meet our newest addition. “We need her.” My business manager’s persistent, chiding voice rang out in my mind like a song I couldn’t get rid of. Playing on repeat, ringing out the moment I opened my eyes in the week since Felix had laid bare in front of me the facts of the situation. “We need a name. We need a face people recognize.”

A sideshow. That was what my brand was going to turn into. After all these years, it was no longer about the recipes, the familiarity, or the sense of dining with family. It was about who could land a famous name to work in their kitchen—celebrity chefs—what a fucking joke. I had come up in their dawning age when cooking competitions had gotten their start and turned nobodies into overnight celebrities. The idea of a food blogger being given their own show on a major cable network still blew my mind. It was all viewed as entertainment ratings. Nobody was in it for the food, the tradition.

The clock had barely struck five when I unlocked the door and flipped on the lights, and as usual, I was the first to arrive. The kitchen gleamed, spotless after last night’s service wrapped up. Lazy, half-assed behavior was not tolerated in my kitchen. I might not have gone to culinary school, but I’d made it my business to haunt the kitchens of chefs whose work I respected and whose reputations I wished to emulate. I had soaked up every drop of wisdom, staging in their kitchens as a sort of intern, getting my training on the job. There wasn’t a smudge on any of the stainless-steel prep tables or a scuff mark on the tiled floor.

To walk in on such perfection was satisfying, knowing it would be destroyed by the end of the night but would be reset again for the morning.

Today was special. A different sort of destruction loomed ahead of me, not that it had to be so damn dramatic, but it felt that way as I entered my small office off the large pantry. By the time I’d put on a large pot of coffee for the crew and powered up my laptop to review last night’s numbers, the sound of shuffling feet reached me. One by one, the kitchen staff members wandered in, some looking and sounding half asleep, carrying paper cups of coffee, yawning loudly, greeting each other once they left their things in their lockers. There was good-natured joking, along with the musical sound of pots and pans being removed from their hooks and shelves in preparation for the day’s use. It was like a symphony playing out every day, starting at exactly this time.

It was a symphony about to be knocked out of sync thanks to a new musician stepping on stage.

I had to stop grinding my teeth if I didn’t want to visit the dentist anytime soon. Claudia Granger. The fucking flash-in-the-pan winner of a televised cooking competition, somebody who believed she had any place in my kitchen. It was a fucking insult, plain and simple. My restaurant routinely made it to the top ten lists of favorite Vegas locations. We were praised for modern takes on classic dishes, providing consistently excellent food and service. Nobody around here was trying to reinvent the wheel, something our longtime patrons appreciated.

At least, they used to.

There went my teeth again, grinding together as I stepped out of my office and silently observed some of the activity going on as vegetables were chopped, butter clarified, and vegetable scraps being roasted for stock. My kitchen, my team. The delicate balance they had achieved was about to be destroyed.

My sous chef turned to me, opening one of the oven doors to stir the vegetable scraps roasting along with the bones that would eventually become an intensely flavorful reduction. “So what’s the news?” Lucas asked, then returned to his checklist of items to be prepped. “When does the TV star get here?”

I had to fight back the reply that bubbled up in me. As far as I was concerned, she didn’t have to arrive for her first day. I’d secretly hoped she wouldn’t. Not that I wanted to fail, but it would have meant an excuse not to keep her here. There had to be a reason the girl couldn’t get a job in New York, of all places. Why did she have to come way out here to find work when one couldn’t swing a dead cat in Manhattan without hitting ten restaurants?

“Soon,” I promised, my experienced eye moving over the prep stations. “Let’s all give her time to adjust. I know none of you are a big fan of having her here.” Allie, one of the line cooks, turned my way in the middle of slicing a mountain of onions. “Speak for yourself, boss. I’ll be glad to get a little more estrogen up in this place.”

“Oh, please,” Lucas groaned, elbowing Allie on his way past. “I remember you saying you recorded all the episodes the season she was on because you knew from the beginning she was gonna win. Superfan alert.”

“Whatever. I’m just trying to be a team player. You could take a lesson,” she added, sticking her tongue out at him.

I had also watched the show. I made it my business after learning I was being forced to bring her in. Allie made a point—the girl was a star, somebody with charisma and talent combined. According to my internet search, she had been the fan favorite early on in the season, and her fame had only grown as the weeks went on.

A girl like her didn’t belong here.

It wasn’t the first time I had to remind myself not to use her behavior on the show as an indicator of how she would be in real life, always trying to put her special touch on tried-and-true recipes. She wanted to innovate and set herself apart. It was a cute idea that would not get her far around here. I knew what worked, and I’d built a brand on it.

If it worked, why do you have to bring her in?

I turned away from the team, scrubbing a hand over my dark hair. There was no turning away from the chiding, berating voice in my skull. “Let’s give her a chance,” I called out over my shoulder as the back door swung open, and a petite blonde walked in.

Never in my thirty-three years had I been taken aback so completely. Immediately, my brain refused to
accept what was in front of me. She couldn’t have been
more than five feet tall, wearing a button-down shirt,
leggings, and thick-rimmed glasses, which made her
bright blue eyes appear larger, almost putting them out
of balance with the rest of her delicate face. Her golden
blonde hair was clipped neatly at the nape of her neck,
and from her shoulders hung the straps of a backpack
roughly half her size. She could have been a kid on her
way to school. If I had seen her from a distance, that’s
exactly what I would have assumed.

Her voice was strong, full of energy and confidence as she approached with one small hand outstretched. “Sebastian Kennedy, I take it?”

At first, I was too gobsmacked to respond. She looked bigger on television. Did they give her a box to stand on? Get it together, asshole. “That’s me. And you must be Claudia Granger.”

“That’s right.” She flashed the winning smile I had gazed down on while studying her portfolio put together by the PR genius, Sienna Black, back in New York. Claudia wasn’t nearly as polished in person, but her smile was the same—brash, confident. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she offered. “I’m looking forward to the opportunity to work together.”

Meanwhile, the symphony that had been taking place behind me softened to near silence. If I had eyes in the back of my head, I would have no doubt found the crew watching while pretending not to. “We are also glad to have you here,” I lied. The strangled snicker behind me developed into a soft chorus of barely stifled laughter.

In other words, this was going beautifully. If she noticed the awkwardness, she ignored it, her smile remaining firmly in place as she took in our surroundings. “What a gorgeous kitchen. Would you like to show me around first, or should we sit down and discuss your expectations? I’ve brought a binder
full of my recipes and photos. I would be so happy to work with you to put together a dessert menu that compliments your entrées.”

Hitting the ground running. I couldn’t hold it against her, though I was not in the habit of letting others dictate my process. I hadn’t intended to jump in with both feet moments after her arrival. Standing in front of her, I had to wonder if she could hack it in a large, fast-paced kitchen like this one. The people standing behind me were hardened veterans, while she looked barely strong enough to lift the bowl of an industrial-size mixer.

“Please, let’s go to my office,” I offered, sweeping my arm in that direction. “I generally like to chat with potential new employees before hiring them, so you see I’m already a step behind in all this.”

“It has been a little awkward, hasn’t it?” She was doing her best to be cheerful, bright, and sunny like the persona she’d put across in a dozen talk show appearances since her win when she’d been crowned America’s Best Baker. Absolutely fucking ridiculous, meaningless, a so-called honor. For some reason, people took that sort of shit seriously. Hence, her
presence.

This isn’t all about you. It was about my employees, my legacy. There was a hell of a lot riding on this, and I couldn’t afford to let my ego get in the way, or so I’d been told by Felix. It was easy for him to say.

“Between you and me, I have so looked forward to sitting down with you and picking your brain.” She stood in the doorway to my cramped office. I didn’t notice until I sat at my desk how uncertain she looked.

“Is there a problem?” I asked, gesturing toward a small, padded chair near mine.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she released a soft chuckle. “I’m sorry. I expected something… bigger.That sounds all wrong, doesn’t it?” Yes, my office probably seemed downright miniature compared to the offices of major network producers.

“I would rather have as much space as possible devoted to work outside this room,” I explained while she took a seat, immediately setting her backpack on the floor and unzipping it to pull out a binder stuffed with pages. Neon-colored Post-it notes stuck out here and there. It looked like she’d spilled coffee on it at one point, some of the pages discolored and wavy at the edges.

“I get the feeling we’re going to get along just fine,”
she assured me with a soft laugh. “I would be the same way. It’s just, with a reputation like yours, I imagined
you would splurge on a larger office. Goes to show how
much I know, right?”

It went to show how little experience she had in a real, working kitchen. “Well, I imagine you’re used to working in cramped spaces too. TV cameras and lighting rigs must take up a lot of room.”

Her blue eyes flicked away from my framed certificates and awards on the wall behind me, her brows drawing together over the rims of those ridiculous glasses. “Pardon me?”

“I’m just saying. TV sets. I’m sure there can’t be much room when you have all that equipment around you.”

She crossed her legs, balanced the open binder across them, then folded her arms. “I’ve done much more than that.” The bright, sunny voice had gone flat. If anything, it was an improvement. Who was genuinely that chipper at six in the morning? “Exactly how much do you know about me?”

I sat up straighter, matching her energy, noting the twitching in the apple of her cheek. It didn’t take much to set her off, though she was doing all she could to conceal it. “Sienna provided a thorough portfolio covering your training and experience,” I explained, now more cordial to counter her iciness.

“So you realize I trained in France? Not to mention the year I spent in New York before the competition?”

Inclining my head, I murmured, “I’m well aware
and impressed.”

“I didn’t ask,” she muttered, clamping her mouth
shut over eyes that widened like she hadn’t meant to
let that slip.

This conversation was going nowhere, and every word I said only made it worse. The entire situation wasn’t my style, which was probably a large part of the problem—kissing ass, playing nice, layering lies between us for the sake of making it work. I prided myself on being upfront, sometimes almost brutally honest. There was no room for ass-kissing in this industry.

Rather than continue the charade a minute longer, I decided to lay my cards on the table. “Claudia, let’s clear the air. I had no desire to hire you because I don’t think a famous name aligns with the brand I’ve worked so hard to build over the past decade. As far as I’m concerned, this is a charade intended to—”

“Refresh the brand you’ve worked so hard to build over the past decade?” she suggested while looking me up and down, almost like it was for the first time. “Sebastian, from where I’m sitting, your brand is in danger. Your reservation book is not as full as it used to be, and your waiting list? It’s practically nonexistent. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Before I could force a word out of my mouth, she added, “Sienna was very thorough when it came to researching you, as well. I don’t walk into situations I’m unaware of,” she explained, her fingertips tapping the first page in her binder in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “We both know what this is about. You need me, and I need work. Why don’t we skip the part where we blow smoke up each other’s asses and express our undying gratitude and get right to work. I have a lot to do.”

My pride reared, demanding satisfaction. “Exactly why couldn’t you find work in New York?” I asked, noting the way her face fell slightly. “I mean, with a sparkling personality like the one you’ve displayed so far, I’d think restaurant owners would be beating down your door.”

“That’s my business,” she replied, practically looking down her nose at me.

“Working with a brand you so blithely disparaged? That’s your business?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, it is. I not only needed work, I needed a new start. That’s all I’m going to say.”

Fair enough.

But if she thought I would kiss her feet for deigning to work with me, she had another thing coming.

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