Alexsandr Kallus had been in his same classes in culinary school, until it became clear he didn’t have the creative talents necessary to be a true chef.  Last Zeb had heard, he’d been working as maître d’ at some fancy place downtown, which let him use his theoretically much-more-developed people skills to manage the place.

Theoretically.  Zeb had never found him all that pleasant, especially when they vied for the same scholarships and internships.

“Kallus,” he said blandly, trying not to let his disdain show.

The man turned around, one of his trademark pompous expressions on his face.  Upon seeing Zeb, however, his face morphed into abject disappointment.  “Orrelios.”

Hera pushed past Zeb, standing between the two of them.  She gave them a stern look, one she usually saved for Ezra.  “I trust that both of you are adults and professionals and won’t have a problem working together?  I’ll be here when I can, but you’re still going to have to play nice when I’m not.”  Looking at Zeb, she asked, “Got that?”

“Got it,” Zeb said grudgingly.  He looked at Kallus, noticing that even though he’d combed it back, some of his blond hair had escaped and hung loose.  “As long as you don’t mess with my fuckin’ kitchen or my fuckin’ menu.”

“I understood Fántasma needed managerial help,” Kallus said.  “Or was I misinformed?”

“Alexsandr,” Hera said.  “Fántasma runs fairly smoothly already.  I need to know that’s going to continue while I’m away.  I trust the two of you to make this a well-oiled machine.”

“Of course,” Kallus said, backing down immediately, though Zeb could just imagine him filing away that ‘fairly smoothly’ for later abuse.

Turning his back on the other two, Zeb put his things in the small lockers, using the top one that only he could reach, usually.  It wasn’t that he had anything to hide.  The other kitchen staff were simply shorties, compared to him, and he always let them all use the lower lockers.  Pretending Kallus wasn’t there, he spoke to Hera.  “I want to use that shrimp you brought in yesterday, so I was thinking a sorta jambalaya using orzo instead of rice.  Some olives, too.  How does that sound?”

“Like a mess,” said Kallus.

Zeb tensed, fighting every urge in his body to turn around and deck the man.  In my kitchen…

“Sounds like the sort of thing everyone loves from you, Zeb,” Hera said.

Wondering if Hera was regretting hiring Kallus yet, Zeb acted as if he hadn’t heard him and smiled.  “Good.  That’s what we’ll do, then.  I left some shrimp and sausage marinating; I’ll whip up a roux and see what you think.”

Turning around, Zeb saw the sour look on Kallus’s face turn to a smile when Hera glanced his way.