Chapter Two
“I'm so sorry, Kiara, I couldn't help it,” Paul tells me again. It's eight-thirty at night, the kitchen is slammed, and I'm rolling my sushi to order after losing two and a half hours of prep time to the delivery fiasco.
“Yes, I know you're sorry. But your apologies aren't getting my food plated. Either help me or get out of my way,” I tell him.
Robbs and I had picked up over half of the food order and returned to the kitchen at three o'clock. I'd expected Paul to be there, but he didn't arrive until almost five. We've been snapping at each other ever since.
“I'm sorry, you're right,” Paul mumbles as he takes a rolling mat and spreads it with Indian rice. “You handled the Lancing issue perfectly. You're going to make a great executive chef one day, Kiara. You think on your
