"Order up!"

The crackle of a soufflé flame bursts beside my ear. A pan filled with charred salmon remains is thrown into a sink of soapy water—the suds pillowing into the air. Pits of amber colored grease scream when breaded calamari and asparagus logs get tossed together. They drown in the pool of bubbling oils before being strained out and carefully stacked across white porcelain plates.

One of those plates is slid across the metal counter towards me. My hands, small but able, grab the dish before it can skitter to the floor (where my head would surely be rolling if I was to drop a precious order). Pastry brush in hand, I swipe a delicate smear of Chef Dupont's famous pesto around the rim of the dish. I pluck and place the garnish leaves to the music of a deafening kitchen. The noises of metal against metal and flames whirling towards the vents are all but drowned out by our chef's unrelenting screams. None of the dozen staffers blink twice at his intense tone.

"Where the fuck are my risotto 'shrooms?" Chef Dupont wails. I hear the familiar pounding of his boots against the linoleum floor. Momentarily my breath hitches as I imagine he's coming for me. I'm already preparing for a verbal smack-down before seeing Dupont stop at the side of one of the sous chefs. Snatching the bowl from the young man's hand, Dupont's throat lets out an unpleasant growl. "What the fucking hell is this?"

"It's—it's the béchamel for table twelve, Chef."

Dupont dunks two meaty fingers into the bowl of white sauce. The kitchen seems to have quieted. Everyone, from the dishwasher girl to the men delivering today's fresh catch, pauses to see what Dupont will do next.

The popping noise that comes from Dupont sucking on his fingers has me cringing. I avert my eyes as his young, naked-shaved face is overtaken by a snarl.

"Béchamel? It tastes like you fucked your girlfriend and put the goddamn mess into this bowl," Dupont screams. He turns and chucks the sauce—the bowl included—into the open trash. "That is not my béchamel. Do it again, and do it fucking right!"

Pity for the poor fool makes my stomach weak. The sous chef, a meek ginger named Finn, avoids looking away from the stovetop into anyone's face. He scurries to remake the sauce for a third time now. I've been watching him from my prep station in the corner.

Biting down on my lower lip, I see that Dupont is making for the door. He storms out into the dining hall before quickly collecting himself on the other side. Through the steam clouded window I see him smiling charismatically at two very wealthy customers. His hand lingers on the small of the woman's back as he helps her into a seat.

"Hey, Katie?"

The blonde woman a few feet to my right doesn't turn her head, but she hums to acknowledge the beckoning.

I reach down to tighten the big white bow of my apron. "You good here for a minute?"

Katie, now intrigued by what I've said, tilts her head my way. "What are you going to do now, Sadie?"

I smirk. Shrugging with feigned innocence, I begin to back away from our crowded corner. "Don't worry 'bout it. I'll be back in five minutes, tops."

Katie's lips part far enough for her to let a little huff of air through. "You're going to get yourself fired one of these days, girl." She goes back to plating the dishes before sliding them onto the hot shelf. She doesn't pay me any attention now; probably assuming that what I'm doing will get me in trouble.

"Well, it's a damn good thing I'm not getting paid then," I mutter to myself. Swiping my hands down the front of my apron, I make my way towards Finn.

I layer my sweaty palm on the shivering sous chef's shoulder. The man, only four years older than me (making him 27, I believe), widens his eyes when I appear at his side. I gently pry the carton of heavy cream from his grasp before he can mistakenly pour too much of it this time.

"You're doubting yourself," I tell him gently. I flash a comforting smile while guiding his hand to slow the pace of the mixing spoon.

Finn scoffs. "Kind of hard not to when you've got Chef Hitler screaming in your face."

I shrug, glancing over my shoulder to make sure that the cook we speak of is nowhere around. "Don't let him get into your head, Finn. You know how to do this. You're a good chef whether he believes it or not." I reach for the salt bowl, flicking a bit over my shoulder before sprinkling some of the crystals into the pan. "Don't salt it again. You've been over-seasoning. If it doesn't taste right, add more roux. And if it gets too thin, use flour—not cornstarch. Cornstarch is for losers."

A lopsided yet grateful grin tugs at Finn's lip. "Thanks, Sadie."

I shoot the young man a wink, clapping his back before turning away from the stovetop. I nearly gasp when I'm chest to chest with a big, burly brute in a beard cap. The bread baker, Chef Moreau, blocks my escape back to the prep counter with his folded arms. The black and red tattoos running up his body are hardly noticed by me now. I've spent far too many working hours with this big hunk of meat to be frightened at the sight of his rough face and scarred upper cheek.

"Oh hey Mo," I greet. I smile up at him cheekily—having to crane my neck back in order to make proper eye contact. I push my ruby red glasses up farther. There's a glare in one corner of my vision.

Moreau's gaze darts from me to Finn's dish and then to me again. He settles his stare on my face before snatching my elbow. I yelp as he tugs me away.

"What did I tell you about keeping your head down, Pupoce?" he questions rhetorically using the French nickname meaning "little flea". I think he's picked it for me because I tend to bug him a lot and I've got quite a small size in addition to my jumpy, energetic nature.

I roll my eyes, making Moreau grunt unhappily. I jerk my elbow out of his grasp—or at least attempt to. Lifting all those sacks of flour has made him ungodly strong. I'm no match at my dainty height and petite build. I can hardly shoulder the weight of my wild raven curls.

"I was just helping," I defend myself.

"If Chef catches you out of your corner, he'll kick you out." Moreau gives me a gentle shove towards my prep station.

I pout. "I'm not a child; he can't keep me in time out forever."

"It's called a job," Katie snickers.

"Internship, technically," I correct her with a pointed finger. "I'm not even getting paid!"

Moreau shakes his bald head. His beard from beneath the hairnet sways like a fluffy grey tree. "You've managed to land yourself an internship at the most acclaimed French restaurant in all of New York. I just don't want to see you lose it."

One of the waiters, a tall lanky fellow named Chris, chuckles as he passes with a tray of dirty dishes. "Yeah—you'd hate to blow your chances of working here with Dupont for the rest of your life," he sarcastically interjects.

My arms cross firmly at my puffed out chest. "I'm sure as hell not working here. As soon as I get the credits for this internship, I'm out." My head shakes side to side. I point to where Moreau has twelve loaves baking in the ovens. "That's what I should be doing, Moro. I should be baking. I should be doing what I'm good at—not smearing shit on plates and picking out rotten parsley leaves."

By now I've caused a bit of a scene. Realizing this, Moreau grunts and takes me by the arm once more. He drags me behind him into the walk-in freezer. I'm mumbling incoherent profanities until he has the door closed behind us. Our breath hangs in the air, reminding me of the winter weather outside.

"Listen here, Pupoce," Moreau sighs—French accent thick. "I know you are frustrated. Anyone in your position would be. Six years of professional training to end up on the end of an assembly line." He stops when my enthusiastic nodding becomes distracting. His large hand envelopes my shoulder as he tries to keep me still. The big gorilla purses his lips, saying, "You've got more spitfire, passion, and intuition than half of those imbéciles out there," he jerks to the door with his head. "So I'm gonna help you out."

I beam ear-to-ear. Looking very much like a small child being presented candy, I perch on my tippy toes. "You will?!"

Sighing because he's probably regretting this decision already, Moreau nods. "Yeah," he chuckles as I begin to grin broader. "Under one condition, you hear?" I nod and then he goes on. "When you open that world-famous breakfast bakery of yours, I'm the first one you hire. Got it?" There's a sweet little twinkle in the big brute's eye that reminds me why I'd taken a liking to him so quickly in the first place—seeing him all those months back with that lopsided, yellowing grin. What can I say? I have a soft spot for the rough fellows. Especially the teddy bear types, all rugged and mean looking on the outside but positively fluffy within.

"Yes sir." I refrain from squealing. Keep it together, Schatz, I scold myself.

Moreau grins. "Alright, Pupoce. Here's what we'll do..."

The next day is supposed to be a morning off of work, destined for relaxation. But I've ditched that idea to stay hidden in Moreau's back kitchen where the breads and pastries get made. His crew of five welcomes me warmly just prior to sunup. I stay there all day long working alongside the bakers like I've dreamed to do for so long. It's not until Moreau himself arrives before the dinner rush though that I get to really have fun.

"Sadie," Moreau beckons for me in that hearty French accent.

Wiping my brow of flour and sweat, I arrive in front of him like a pet. "Yes, Chef?"

There's a grin that's threatening to appear on his usually stoic face. "You ever made a buche de noel before?"

I blink. "A yule log? Of course sir. Every year since I was twelve." I hear a few of the pastry chefs giggling knowingly behind me. I raise an eyebrow.

"Good," Moreau notes with a solemn nod. "Because you're going to be making one tonight."

My jaw slackens. I'm pretty sure that my chin has hit the floor. "I'm—I'm going to be making it... for the restaurant?"

Moreau nods.

"Tonight?"

Again, he nods.

"To be eaten... by customers?"

"Jesus Christ, child! Just get to it!" one of the women behind me jeers cheerfully. Laughter ensues.

"I—I don't know what to say..." I stutter uselessly. This is such an honor! A gargantuan responsibility! My big chance!

"I don't expect you to say anything at all," Moreau replies. "Just get your ass to work, Pupoce."

The giggling only grows as I lift an arm to salute the cook ahead of me. "Thank you, Chef."

By the time our evening rush arrives I've been reduced to a limp-limbed mess. Working 18 hours nonstop really tires a girl out, I've come to realize. Thank god for Katie—who promptly notices my wrecked state (probably assuming I was out partying last night, no doubt) and picks up my slack. But still I work hard. I'm not about to fall even more behind on the food chain here at La Poubelle.

It's nearing ten PM when Dupont shoves his way into the kitchen. I hardly have the energy to glance back over my shoulder at him. Thankfully, I don't have to. Why? Because he's not here looking for a lame prep station girl. He's a powerful man with big plans.

"Chef Moreau!" Dupont bellows for his peer. Technically, they're at the same stature here (although Moreau is much larger, physically speaking). A waitress exits the kitchen through the doors and for a moment I can hear wine glasses clashing and French flutes playing.

"Yes?" Moreau calls. He appears whitened with flour and looking just as tired as I feel. His hands are covered by red oven mitts. I imagine that if I were to wear that same pair, half of my arm would be swallowed up.

No one in the kitchen is paying the exchange between Dupont and Moreau any mind. All but me, that is. But as my mother always says, I'm a nosey little thing.

"There's a request to see you," Dupont notes. He doesn't seem terribly happy about this, but he doesn't appear bothered. He hates the attention dragged away from him, but he does adore a good kudos to the restaurant either way.

Moreau gestures for one of the cooks to come over. He passes off the mitts, asking Dupont, "Is it a menu question? Or is something wrong?"

"No complaints or questions," Dupont responds. He blinks his lame brown eyes a few times before going on. "It's a compliment, I believe. And a very important patron, so you may want to change your apron."

Moreau glances down to his attire. "I think I look fine."

I stifle a smirk, looking back to my plates and trying to focus on my own business.

"Well, no matter," Dupont sighs tiredly. "I'll lead you out."

"What's the dish?" I can vaguely hear Moreau asking as he turns away.

But Dupont's response is one I clearly receive, and will never forget:

"Tonight's buche de noel, Chef."

My whole body goes rigid. I nearly drop a plate of Bœuf bourguignon in the wake of my shock. Widened eyes skim to Katie, who cluelessly raises an eyebrow at my gob-smacked expression.

"Le buche, monsieur?" Moreau recedes into his old habit of speaking French at the surprise.

"Yes..." Dupont pauses in his trek out of the kitchen when he realizes Moreau has stopped following. He raises a dark eyebrow, looking around at the kitchen staff that now regards the scene. "Why? Is there something wrong?"

"Not at all," Moreau notes. I wonder if he can hear how loud my heart is pumping, too, as he chuckles breathily. "It's just that I wasn't the one to make the buche, Chef."

Dupont blinks incredulously. "You weren't?" he questions. He turns his scrawny body outwards, maybe trying to appear bigger as he props his hands onto his hips. "If not you, then who?"

Moreau wastes no time in grinning crookedly back at me with all those charming, rotten teeth. "Why, my little flea—that's who."

I think I'm gonna be sick.

Dupont appears as lost as a shark that's flopped up onto sand. "Pardon?" His left eyebrow kicks up.

Moreau comes to fetch me. Forcibly he drags me to the center of the kitchen where Dupont stands. "This creature."

"You?" Dupont huffs doubtfully.

"Me, Chef Sir." I smile but the gesture is strained.

"You were the one to make tonight's yule log? You?"

Oh no. My boss does not sound happy.

"Yes Chef."

Dupont crunches down slightly at the shoulders to meet my gaze. "Who the hell even are you?"

I manage not to look as offended as the sharp insult truly makes me feel. "An intern, Chef."

"A bloody intern..." Dupont grunts. He glares over my head at Moreau. The kitchen is nearly at a standstill around us outside of the sizzling pans and dinging timers. "You let an intern get her hands on our nightly patisserie? Our world-renowned specialty?"

"These hands you speak of are the very ones that crafted the pastry. I saw over her work. She did an excellent job," Moreau vouches for me. "Good enough for you to mistake it as my work, might I point out."

Dupont's brown orbs drop back down to my sheepish smile once more. He grunts, clearly unamused, before rolling his eyes and flipping his wrist. "Then I suppose you'll be the one to meet our guests."

I'm utterly shocked. Dupont leads the way out of the kitchen. I hesitate to follow—only being prompted forwards when Moreau gives me a soft shove. Behind our Chef's back the kitchen staff grins and silently cheers for my accomplishment. And for the first time in my career, I feel like I've done something right.

I don't believe I've ever walked through the dining hall during operating hours. My widened eyes take in the peaceful yet hectic scenery around me. Waiters whisper amongst one another at the sight of me, the friendly intern, outside the metallic confines of Dupont's hellish kitchen. I trail slightly behind my superior.

"Don't make me look bad," Dupont hisses over his shoulder at me. I'm slightly taken aback, nearly impressed, by how mean he can sound with a smug smile on his face to appease the customers around us. My response is to nod and avert my eyes away from the glistening white skin of his bald skull.

My hands run down the smock I wear. Nervously I begin to tuck strands of loose curls away from my face. I feel so out of place here where all the women are dressed in long satin skirts and their husbands with velvet bowties. Rehearsed laughter thick like smog wafts the air. Blossoming lavender buds join the bushels of ripe red roses in vases delicately placed all around the gold tiled room. Chandeliers like peaks of meringue atop a lemon pie hang upside down from the mirrored ceiling. I pass by a table that smells strongly of buttered salmon and rosemary.

"Table 32," Dupont notes to me in a hushed tone. My eyes dart to the window where table 32 resides. The patrons here have the perfect viewing of the city below—a wonderful, glistening sight of flickering lights against powder white snow.

The woman who sits at the table in question notices us first. She's thin and blonde, reminding me immediately of my dearest friend Laurie. But this woman is older, probably in her thirties. She wears a long blouse and black satin heels that match the darkness of her eyes in the romantic lighting. When her smile lengthens, I immediately feel myself smile in response. She's rather friendly looking for being so beautiful. Usually attractive people intimidate me, but this woman radiates comfort—almost like a smoldering kindled fire on Christmas Eve. The glow comes from her grin.

"Oh look, Tony. Franco's back," the woman notes to the man beside her. She nudges his leg beneath the table with the sole of her heeled foot. I nearly laugh aloud at the use of our chef's first name. He'd slaughter me with one of his butcher knifes if I ever tried to call him anything less than "Sir", "Chef" or "Your Greatness".

Half-hooded eyes turn away from the window to regard Dupont, consequentially finding me. He's a long-faced fellow with a very prominent nose and noticeable greys in his dark facial hair. In his hand he holds a glass of wine—nearly empty—from the bottle at the center of the table. My eyes widen as I get a glance at the familiar flagon. It's a bottle of French red; costing about $4,000 if I remember correctly.

"So this is our baker, Franco?" the man questions heartily. There's something strangely familiar about him but I'm not too good at remembering faces or names. Maybe he's been a customer before, I resort to believing.

"The very one," Chef Dupont responds in an unusually cheerful manner. Sensing my unsureness he discreetly tugs me by the long white smock sleeve.

The customer's eyes are heavy as they pick apart my face. I've yet to say a word. In fact, I've done little more than gawk.

"If I'm not mistaken, Franky boy, you said your pastry chef was a 53 year old Frenchmen." The customer takes a lengthy sip of wine while the woman grins. He points to me with a ringed finger. "You don't look like either of those things."

The air is silent for a few beats too long and that's how I realize it's my turn to speak. "That's because I'm not: not French, nor a man. And I'm not the pastry chef; that honor is reserved for Chef Moreau."

"Then who are you?" the man asks, seeming intrigued.

I deem it appropriate to hold a hand out to him. "Sadie Schatz, sir."

The man, grinning sideways, shakes my hand. He's got a firm grip, but not overbearing like I'd expect. "Tony Stark, Chef."

From within my head, I can hear my brain screaming TONY STARK TONY STARK TONY STARK...! Shaking my neck briefly, I drop my hand away. I'm hoping that the realization of who this man is has not been noticeable across my pale face. This man is Tony Stark; being Tony Stark means being the genius, Playboy, billionaire, philanthropist—the very same one that houses the Avenger's league in his high-rise building just down the block.

"Intern, technically," Dupont rudely interjects. I refrain from rolling my eyes, having to bite down on my cheek to keep from frowning.

The blonde, who has been watching me out of the corner of her eye, offers her hand now. "Pepper Potts. It's a pleasure to meet you," she says. Mid-shake, she looks to my boss. "You mean to tell me that this woman here isn't on your payroll?"

Dupont opens his mouth to speak, but Tony quickly talks over him.

"You know, I really hate dessert." I gulp. Tony brings a fork to his face, inspecting it closely before setting it down and shrugging. "But my darling Pepper here is quite a fan. So I broke down and got her some, and I must say Ms...." he falters in remembering my name, looking for Pepper for help.

"Schatz," Pepper aids.

"Schatz," Tony continues after winking gratitude to the blonde. Then he looks back to Dupont. "Ms. Schatz here changed my mind. This cake thing—whatever the hell it is—was the best damn thing I've ever eaten." He slinks back into his chair like he owns the place. And with as long as his list of investments has become, I wouldn't doubt that notion for a moment. "So I have the same confusions as Pepper here."

"Confusions?" Dupont repeats while I stand uselessly to his side.

"Yes," Tony repeats—seeming annoyed all of a sudden. "Confusions as to why you haven't hired this chef yet, Franky boy."

Dupont takes a visible swallow. Collecting himself, he shuffles from foot to foot. "She's hardly been here six months..."

Feeling brave, I decide to interject. "Ten months, actually." Eyes shift to me. My bravery is reduced to rubble under Dupont's hefty glare. "I mean, it's been ten months Chef Sir."

"Sounds like a long time to me," Tony notes with a shrug.

"Not long enough," Dupont argues.

Tony's face is twisted up by a humored frown. "Says who?"

This doesn't seem to be a statement that should elicit a response. Again, I have to bite my cheek to stay quiet as Dupont decides it best not to respond. I've never seen him with the lesser hand before—I fucking love it.

"So back to you, Schatz," Tony says. He turns slightly more towards me and props an arm to the back of his chair. "You really make this thing?" He nods to the eaten cake on the dirtied plate before him.

"Yes sir," I respond.

"Don't call me sir," Tony sighs but smiles at the same time. "Tony'll do."

I can't help but grin a bit. "Sure, Tony."

"You go to school?"

"I do," I answer with a nod.

"Where?"

"Northwest, firstly, then I transferred to the Institute at Hyde Park. I'm getting my masters at ICE now—all I need is a few more interning credits. It's why I'm here, actually."

Tony takes another drink. Beside him, Pepper chews on a bite of the cake I made. After Tony's swallowed, he badgers me some more. "What else can you make?"

I blink. "Umm..." Habitually, I stand up on my toes with nerves. "Almost anything, really. Outside of sushi rolling, if I'm being honest. I've never been very good at it..."

"But what are you good at?"

The straightforwardness of his question makes me uneasy, but I force myself to reply. "Pastries are where my heart really lies. Cakes, cookies, tartes, muffins, etcetera. But I'm trained in culinary arts, too. French faire is one of my specialties, but I'd like to think I've got a skillset that flows across all fields."

"Can you make eggs benedict?"

I raise an eyebrow. Quite odd, he is. But I respond nonetheless. "Yes. It's one of my mom's favorites. I make it all the time."

"So you make good breakfast?"

I smile fully now. "It's my dream to open a breakfast and bakery shop, so I truly hope so."

Chuckling, Pepper unfolds her napkin from her lap. "Where are you going with this, Tony?"

Tony, grinning, shrugs with feigned innocence. Pepper rolls her eyes before sipping wine.

"Last question—this one's for Franky boy," Tony says. He turns to my boss, and then asks, "Are you gonna offer this girl a job?"

I'm afraid to look into Chef's face. So I keep my eyes trained on the white linen table top, not noticing how Pepper regards me with quiet interest.

"Umm, yes," Dupont decides in this very instant. "I am. I believe you're right, Tony. It's about time I offer her a paid position."

My excitement is short lived, because then I'm being distracted by Tony Stark's proposition.

"Good, because I'm offering her one, too."

My eyes snap up to find Tony's bearded face. He wears a smug grin and a cocky head tilt.

"You—what?" I splutter.

"I'm on the market for a personal chef," Tony explains.

Pepper laughs, "Since when?"

Tony shrugs. "Since now," he waves a hand. Looking to me, he adds, "And whatever he's willing to pay you here, I'll double it. Hell, if you make this cake thing again, I'll consider tripling it." He pauses to admire the shocked expression on Dupont's face before going on. "Housing's included, of course. I can't very well have a personal chef that isn't live-in." Maybe he mistakes my quietness for repulsion, or perhaps he's simply teasing me as he quirks an eyebrow and asks, "How does that sound, Schatz?"

My tongue feels like sandpaper. It grits across the roof of my mouth as a splutter a lame reply. "Y—yes sir. Tony! I mean Tony, sir. Yes, Tony. That—that'd be spectacular. I mean, are you sure?"

Tony's head falls back as he lets out a loud peal of laughter. Clutching his chest, he settles back down to smirk at me. "Yes. I'm sure. I'm growing tired of cold cereal and soggy toast, kid. And I think you're the perfect solution."

Dupont, who is beyond peeved at how this entire evening is playing out, steps closer to Tony's table. Smiling in a friendly sort of way, he nearly pushes me down with the back of an outstretched arm. "Mr. Stark, if it's a personal chef you seek, I have a number of names that you may like to see..."

"I don't need to see any names," Tony interjects. He's much less friendly than before. This must be the voice he uses in CEO meetings and Avengers wars.

"I'm simply suggesting you may want to look at your options before hiring a—a child, really," Dupont says aloud.

"I beg your pardon?" I snap—arms suddenly crossed.

Dupont raises a hand in the air, meaning to silence me. I'm so shocked by the audacity of the Chef to utter a response.

"Why? Is there something wrong with her, Franky? Is there something I'm missing?" Tony doesn't seem interested in the response, only in the fight.

"Yes, in fact." Dupont is the one to cross his arms now. He looks back to me with an upturned nose. "She completely disregarded the chain of command in my kitchen today. She had absolutely no authorization to produce any dishes. She's a prep counter girl, nothing more."

Tony, seeing the redness in my cheeks, looks back to Dupont with a crooked grin. "Well, Franky. I like her even more now."

Dupont opens his big mouth, but Pepper holds a finger in the air just beside his face. She's come to stand. "No more, Mr. Dupont. Thank you for everything this evening, but I believe we'd like our check."

"And our friend's things," Tony adds. He nearly laughs as Dupont turns and shuffles away. "Oh that was fun," he mutters to himself gleefully.

Pepper's hand touches my arm. "If you'd like the job, that is." Her eyes twinkle from the smile she wears on her glossed lips. "There's no pressure."

"Of course," I'm quick to reply. "I'd love the job. Thank you—thank you both so, so much..."

Tony waves a hand, promptly hushing my waves of gratitude. "Yeah, you're honored, I'm sure." He pulls out a wad of bills—hundreds, no less—and slaps them on the table. He makes a grunting noise as he comes to stand. He's not much taller than I am, maybe putting him at five and a half feet, while Pepper is almost six. "Here's my card," he says. I look down to where he holds a shiny finished business note to me. I take it, noticing how rough skinned his hands really are. "Call me tomorrow at noon and we'll make arrangements to get you started. Don't call any earlier because it's Sunday and I need my beauty sleep." He pauses, grey eyes taking in my eager expression. "Any questions?"

"No, sir." I curse myself lowly before retracting what I've just said. "Tony—I mean Tony."

"Good," Tony replies. He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. Pepper's already done the same. He hesitates, noticing the nearly full bottle of wine they'll be leaving behind. "Oh. You can go ahead and take that home with you tonight, kid. You've got a good excuse to celebrate." He chuckles at my wide eyed expression. Walking past, he calls out, "Goodnight, Chef."

Pepper squeezes my elbow as she passes, saying the same.

And long after they've gone, I'm standing at the big bay window with my heart in my throat and my head in the clouds: hands shaking and stomach churning.

"What the hell just happened?"

"I'll tell you what happened," the waiter called Chris talks from just beside my ear. He's leaned over to clear away Stark's empty plates. Not knowing I've spoken aloud, I'm slightly confused. "You just scored the best goddamn gig New York's ever seen."

My green eyes take in the glittery city outside the penthouse window. Not so far in the distance I see a big shimmering A stamped atop the Avenger's building—the building I'll soon be waltzing into.

"God fucking bless America," I sigh dreamily.

Chris only chuckles.