I catch a glimpse of one guy in a personalized Knightly cap with a custom shirt that says “Team Knightly.” He’s got a kidon his shoulders holding up a homemade sign like it’s a football game. The sign says, #CHEFLIFEKNIGHTLY.
I nearly drop the water glasses in my hand.
Because this isn’t Silver Peak anymore.
This is something else.
Something loud and bright and hungry. A spectacle.
A sideshow.
And Knox is the main attraction.
I squeeze through the pass with a tray and catch a snatch of conversation at table four.
“He used to beeverywhere, right? Commercials, magazine covers, talk shows. It’s wild to see him here.”
“Do you think he’s making a comeback? Or is this some small-town redemption arc?”
Redemption arc.
Like he’s a storyline.
Like we all are.
I feel the panic start to creep in. Painful and hot and rising.
Because I’m not made for this.
I don’t want to be a public interest piece. I don’t want to be gawked at, talked about, or whispered over in coffee shops. I don’t want strangers filming me while I drizzle aioli on a sandwich or asking if I’m“the girl.”
I just want to cook.
I want quiet.
I want home.
And right now? This place feels like the opposite of all of that.
The realization hits like a sucker punch: This is what his world used to be like. Constant. Demanding. Performed.
And I don’t think I can live in it.
Not even a little.
Not if he’s standing at the center of it, drawing me in with him.
My hands are trembling as I wipe down a table, and I catch Knox looking at me from across the kitchen, just for a second.
His expression softens.
It’s the only calm thing in this place.
But even that doesn't settle me anymore.
Because now I know: this might be his world, but it’s not mine. It never was.
So when Nova calls out, “Josie, you good to stay through dinner?” I force a smile and shake my head.
