Chess Not Checkers Newsletter Bonus Scene

Note from Annah: Thank you for reading Chess Not Checkers and signing up for my newsletter! I hope you enjoy seeing Jasmine finally become a chef. Happy reading, AC <3

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Jasmine Kingsley 

Seven years after Chess Not Checkers

How do you de-stress when your usual method is the very thing causing you stress? 

I draw in a shaky breath as I wipe the edge of a white dinner plate with the cloth I drape over my shoulder. The plate before me is essentially perfect, but I keep finding specks to wipe away along the edges. 

“Jasmine?” One of the servers at Farm to Table, Lynn, walks into the kitchen with a tentative smile. “They’re ready for the next course when you are.”

I think my anxiety has made all of the staff cautious around me. It’s hard to maintain a calm front when I’m cooking for a world-renowned chef who’s gauging my skills to see if I’m worthy of being head chef at her newest location. 

“Yes, the dishes are ready. Thank you, Lynn,” I say as I gesture to the plates arranged on the stainless steel counter. 

Four plates. One for Sophie St. James, executive chef, owner, and decider of my future. One for Sophie’s husband, Bennett, and the remaining plates for two other head chefs that Sophie trusts. One of which I’ve been working under as a sous chef for the last year. Chef Hayden is a brute of a man, with a kind heart and an eye for detail. He taught me a lot and brought my name up for this position during one of our “family dinners” before opening.

Sophie said she would let me cook for her to prove myself. Though it’s nerve-racking to do this, I’m grateful that she didn’t give me the position just because she’s close with MJ and Bash. I want to know I’ve earned it. 

“They look amazing,” Lynn encourages as she grabs each of the plates and places them on a tray.

“Thank you.” I give a tight smile. 

No one has told me anything about how the previous dishes have been received. So, I have to hope that the first three courses have gone well and that this course of coffee-crusted lamb over white bean puree will be equally enjoyed too. 

When Lynn leaves the kitchen, I pull out my phone and press play on the voice memo Shepherd sent me this morning. After being married for two years and together for over seven now, he knows me well enough to know when I need encouragement. 

“Take a deep breath for me, Chef.” His deep voice echoes through the kitchen. I draw in a long, slow breath and close my eyes. “You’re going to do amazing today. You’ve worked hard for this moment. Don’t get caught up in the what could go wrong mentality. Embrace the fact that you’re walking in what you were called to do. I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight. I love you.”

The memo cuts off. I blink open my eyes and nod to myself. My husband believes in me. My family believes in me. And I’ve got the evidence of my hard work to prove that I deserve to be here. 

“You can do this,” I murmur. “One more course.”

I pull out the tiramisu elements I prepped earlier. It’s a traditional take on the silky dessert, but I’ve taken the time to make a box out of chocolate for it to rest inside. The box is complete with a lid and carefully sculpted bow so the whole thing will look like a present. If nothing goes wrong.

I layer the ladyfingers soaked in espresso, then top with the mascarpone filling, alternating inside the chocolate box until I get to the top. Then I sprinkle with Dutch cocoa powder, add a dainty mint leaf in the center, and cover the whole thing with my chocolate lid. The chocolate is glossy, with no cracks to be seen. I take out a small container of edible gold dust and flick it onto the dessert with a fan brush; then I carefully set it back in the walk-in fridge so the chocolate doesn’t melt in the warm kitchen. And then I pace. I’ve significantly increased my step count by the time Lynn returns, this time with another server, Colin. 

“They’re ready?” I ask, and Lynn nods. 

I help Colin and Lynn with the dessert to ensure that nothing goes wrong. They disappear out of the kitchen, and my stomach swirls with nausea. 

What if the lamb didn’t pair well with the wine they chose?

Was the appetizer too heavy? 

Is it synchronous to have coffee in the main course and the dessert, or is it too much?

I hang my head over the countertop. Shepherd’s words fight with the endless worries in my mind. My phone buzzes in the pocket of my apron, so I pull it out. 

Shepherd: Just got out of practice. I’ll be waiting outside the restaurant to celebrate with you. I know you’re doing amazing, and I’m jealous of everyone getting to eat your food. 

I let out a little laugh, my eyes stinging with tears. We’ve gone through so much in the past seven years. From giving our all to school and sports, to Shepherd getting drafted and moving to New York before I graduated. Long distance was so hard, and it’s still difficult when he travels and I don’t get to go because of work. But it’s all worth it. He’s worth it. 

Jasmine: They just took out the last course. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous in my life. Not even when you went into overtime during the championship. 

Shepherd: This is your championship, and you’re leaving with a ring! Or, I guess it would be a chef hat. 

I shake my head, a smile blooming on my lips. Only Shepherd could make me smile in the midst of a life-altering event. Though I have chef in my sous chef title, I told Shepherd it doesn’t count until I’m the head chef. 

Jasmine: We’ll see.

Shepherd: We will. You’ve got this. I love you, Chef. 

Jasmine: Not a chef.

Shepherd: Yet.

The door to the kitchen opens, and I quickly deposit my phone back into my apron before I can add that I love him, too. My smile falls as my nervousness kicks up ten notches.

“Chef St. James requests your presence at the table,” Colin says in a controlled monotone.

Words fail me. My mouth goes dry. All I can do is nod and follow him out. I wind my way through the New York location of Farm to Table. I know this building well after having worked here as a sous chef. It’s become a second home, but it won’t be any longer if I get this position. I’ll be helping open Sophie’s latest concept, a family-style restaurant called Kin. It’s exactly the kind of restaurant I hoped to open myself one day, with hearty portions and elevated tasting menus. A dream. That’s what this would be, fulfilling a dream.

I step to the side of a polished leather booth. Plates have been cleared, so I have no evidence of their enjoyment to assess. Nothing but Sophie and Bennett’s smiling faces. They both tend to smile a lot, though, so that doesn’t mean I’m in the clear yet.

“You prepared a lovely menu,” Sophie says, and the rest of the table nods. 

My heart picks up speed in my chest.

“Thank you,” I manage to stutter out. “It was an honor to cook for all of you.”

“Over the course of our incredible meal, Hayden sang your praises,” Sophie says. My eyes skip to Hayden, who’s as stone-faced as ever. “He spoke highly of your work ethic and innovative flavors. Those aspects come through in each of the dishes you presented.”

I link my hands behind my back to avoid visibly fidgeting. A line of sweat flows between my shoulder blades.

“With his recommendation and your beautiful menu, I’ve decided that you would be a great fit for Kin. Welcome to the team, Chef Jasmine.”

My breath catches in my throat. I freeze in place. Is this really happening? Did I fall asleep in the kitchen and dream everything she just said?

“Congratulations,” Hayden’s gruff voice rings out, furthering the belief that I must be dreaming. “You’ll be missed in my kitchen.”

“I—” I squeak, and clear my throat. “I’m speechless. Thank you. All of you. I’m beyond grateful and will work hard to be deserving of this position.”

Sophie nods, a gentle smile on her lips. “I know you will. Now, go celebrate. I think I saw your husband peek inside the doors a minute ago.”

I laugh and look toward the front of the restaurant. Through the tinted glass, I can see Shepherd watching me. 

“Thank you again,” I say as I head toward the front door. 

More congratulations ring out on my way to my husband. I open the door, and he faces me with a grin. 

“I got the job!” I run and leap into his arms. Shepherd swings me around, holding me tight.

“I knew you would. My wife, Chef Jasmine Kingsley,” he says into my ear.

I giggle. “It feels weird not to argue with you about calling me chef.”

He sets me down and looks into my eyes. “I only called you by that nickname because I knew one day it would be real.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Thank you for believing in me.”

He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Always.”