ASHTON

I pack my chef uniform in my backpack instead of wearing it out of the house. It's a miracle my dad let me go to this school in the first place, and with Clocul being the shining gem in this turd of a town, shoving this preppy uniform in a college dropout's face is just asking for trouble. I know there's resentment.

The locker room is empty when I rush in. I change fast and smooth out the wrinkles as best I can. Fortunately, since we only have to wear the uniform in the kitchen, the days where we start off with theory classes won't have to be like this. I catch up with the others right as they're filing into the kitchen, eager hands ready to get cooking.

We had the safety class in here yesterday, but it'll take me a while to get used to. It's a blur of stainless steel and top quality industrial equipment, everything you could need to cook whatever you want. Taking it all in makes a buzz of anticipation go through me.

"How fuckin' boss is this, guys?" Ryan, new in town, sidles in next to me and Nick. Shortly followed by Diego, another new one. They were both tailing after us yesterday like little ducklings. Well, I wouldn't call Ryan little. He's big and red-faced and blonde. Already clear he talks a lot of blustering bullshit too. Probably crazy fun to party with, though. 

I half-listen to Ryan and the others while I look around. Charlie's chatting to that new girl, Crystal. It's weird seeing Charlie in the uniform. Usually around seventy percent of her skin is exposed, even in winter. Her curls are pulled back into a low ponytail, a rule the girls have to follow so their hair stays out of the way while they cook. That's also weird to see on her.

The only times I've seen her hair out of her face before was when I was the one pulling it back.

She smiles when she catches me looking, Crystal following her gaze and dragging hungry eyes over me. Summer did exactly the same yesterday.

My eye contact breaks when Lola and Summer pass by me. Of course she'd gravitate to Lola. She's safe. A kind, cool-tempered person who shares those qualities just by association. The perfect friend for creating an illusion of being composed. That spitfire can only be stifled for so long. I give it till the end of the week until sweet little cupcake shows her true colors to the class.

Chef Kent enters the kitchen and hushes everyone down. On the demonstration table in the front, there's already multiple heaped crates with fresh vegetables. I'm mentally running through what recipes we're going to be using them in, my hands itching to do something cool.

"Today I'll be teaching you cutting techniques!"

A collective sigh of disappointment flies through the class as everyone seems to have their hopes crushed, but she raises her hands like she was waiting for that reaction.

"Yes, yes. I know you all want to jump right into complex recipes. Well it won't happen instantly; you have to start with the fundamentals before we move on," she explains, trying to ease our grumbles. "Now everyone choose a workstation before we begin, and make sure you're happy where you are. Your places are permanent for the year."

The rectangle workstations are in the center of the kitchen. Eight stations split into two well-spaced rows, each designed for a pair to work at. A stainless steel surface with a stove for one person, the same on the opposite side for the other. Nick and I claim our turf at the back, eagerly checking out all the equipment.

"Uh-uh, no. Don't think so, boys." Chef Kent interrupts our chatter, wagging her finger between us. "I can already tell this is going to be trouble."

"What is?"

"You two working across from each other."

I roll my eyes. "You don't even know us."

"I don't need to know you to see that you're friends, especially after your screwing around yesterday with the knife sharpening rods."

Maybe sword fighting each other with sharpening rods in the safety class wasn't a smart move, but at least we didn't almost cut our damn fingers off with a knife like Ryan.

Kent shifts her narrowed eyes on me when we don't answer. "And I get the impression you like stirring up trouble, Mr. Banks."

An age-old assumption, always directed at me. I mean, not entirely off base. Truth is, without me by his side, Nick would have a clean as a whistle image. He's naturally soft-spoken, polite, and admittedly the rational half of our friendship. 

While I race over the line, he gets close but never crosses it. Nick would barely get into a lick of trouble if we weren't friends, and that's the main reason his parents hate me. And the main reason Kent has pinned me down in one day. I initiate, I don't follow.

"Well, I'm a good student." I counter.

"And I'm not convinced." She twists around to look at the station in front of us, then turns back. "Ashton switch with Summer, please. You can work at Lola's station."

I glance at them staring at us with saucers for eyes. "I'm not switching with anyone."

"I don't mind switching." Nick shrugs.

"What the hell, man?" We briefly argue under our breath. Nick's agreement with Chef Kent pisses me off to no end, and the thought of him switching is building up my agitation by the second, because it means that Summer would be right across from me. My distracting view for the rest of the year.

The attempt to convince him is cut short when he pulls a classic Nick and shoots me the look that lets me know the argument is done. The 'shut up and suck it up' look.

"Good. Nick switches with Summer, then." Kent gestures for them to move, and then walks along the other row to check on the rest of the class.

Being partnered with my best friend might have been slightly distracting, but at least I don't have conflicting thoughts about getting into my best friend's pants and simultaneously disliking the privilege he exudes. That role belongs to the girl setting down her knife bag and glaring at me like I'm scum of the earth.

"Looks like I'm stuck with you, Cupcake."

Summer turns up her pert nose, the gold of the studs in her ears catching the light. "Working at the same station doesn't mean we have to talk. Just stay out of my way and we're good, all right?"

I'm about to take her head-on until I remember those are my own words I'd used yesterday. "If I wanted to listen to an annoying little parrot, I would have gone to veterinary school."

"Well it's never too late. You'd certainly fit in with the asses, wouldn't you?"

Did this girl really just throw a donkey insult at me? She's quicker than I'd expected.

"And don't call me Cupcake," she adds. "It makes me sound like a child."

"You wear cupcake pajamas like a child, no?"

She ignores me, tying her apron around her waist.

"But fine, I won't call you that."

"Thank you." She grinds out.

I roll open my knife bag. "No problem... Cupcake."

❖❖❖

When Chef Kent said we were only learning to cut today, she really meant it. We're not even cooking what we cut, it'll be stored away or given to another class to use. I keep my head down as I go, like not acknowledging the girl right in front of me will make her evaporate. Kent periodically walks down the rows to see if anyone needs help. She stops at our station and observes.

"Wait, see how your cuts are uneven?" she says to Summer. I watch in my periphery. "The rock chopping technique should be faster, and try to get the motion of—"

A shriek from the other row tears through the kitchen.

"Chef Kent! The knife slipped, I—" A girl with pastel blue hair clutches her hand, a line of blood running down her palm.

"Okay calm down, this is why we have a first-aid kit." Kent rushes to help, turning back as an after-thought. "Ashton, help her with the technique please."

Summer's brow furrows. "It's fine, you don't have to."

I set my knife down, crossing over to her side with gritted teeth. Her green eyes skip across my three full bowls of vegetable cuts, overwhelming her single half-filled one.

"All right, show me," I mumble.

Her hands are slightly unsteady as she picks up her knife again, and I wonder if it's because I'm standing too close. I get the feeling she doesn't do well under pressure, so I take a step back and watch her let out a breath. She brings the knife down in short, jagged motions. Slow and cautious enough to make me cringe.

"Stop. Jesus, have you never chopped anything before?"

She drops the knife on top of the half-cut carrot. "Ugh, forget it. I'll just wait for Chef Kent."

"C'mon, it's easy. If you took home ec then—"

"I didn't take home ec."

"Seriously?"

"I wasn't al—" She cuts herself off. "Whatever. I didn't take it and I suck at chopping. Happy?"

Without thinking, I stand behind her and take her hands, guiding her to pick up the knife and hold the carrot in place with the other. Her body tenses against my chest.

"First, you gotta tuck your fingers in on whatever you're chopping, all right? Otherwise you'll be losing fingertips when your speed is consistent. Make sure you're moving your hand down as you go. The knife—" I squeeze her petite hand over the handle, trying to ignore how soft her skin is under mine "—needs to move in a rolling motion, with the heel of the blade doing the work. The tip stays still. Also, use the back of the knife to scrape your board when you clear it, the blade won't dull as fast."

As I control her hands to demonstrate the technique, it's physically impossible not to notice how close we are. Close enough to spot the hidden freckle on the base of her neck, smell the scent of cinnamon radiating from her skin, and see each thread of silky hair flowing under her chef hat. If I'm in this position for much longer, my chest pressing against her won't be the only thing she feels.

"Got it?"

She nods, and I let go, crossing back to my side with burning hands.

How in the fuck am I going to survive this year?

A/N: please remember to tap the ★ and vote!