“I think I’ve hit my limit.”
She studies me for a beat, then nods. “Go. We got this.”
I peel off my apron, every movement tight and careful, like any sudden shift might cause the rising anxiety in my chest to splinter. I don’t look back toward the kitchen. I can’t. If I see Knox’s face right now, I’ll lose my nerve. Or worse, he’ll catch the storm behind my eyes.
I slip through the side hallway toward the front, ducking my head and keeping close to the wall like some kind of escapee sneaking out of a too-bright dream.
Almost there.
But just as I near the front door, a girl in faux fur boots and oversized sunglasses blocks my path. She’s got a bejeweled phone case and a pink selfie stick clutched in her hand like a wand.
“Are you in line for a selfie with Hot Mountain Chef?” she asks, smiling like we’re in on the same secret.
I blink at her. My brain short-circuits for a second.
Hot Mountain Chef.
Oh wow.
I muster a dry smile. “No. I’m just leaving.”
She shrugs, turns back toward the table of girls she came in with, all of them dressed like they’re on a lifestyle vlog camping retreat.
I duck out the door before anyone else can stop me, the bell overhead jingling like a laugh.
Outside, the air hits my lungs too hard, too shocking. Like I’ve just surfaced from underwater.
And I keep thinking about Knox.
About the way he looked at me from across the kitchen. About how calm he tried to be in the middle of the storm.
But calm isn’t the same as peace.
I know he hates this. I know it.
And it kills me, because I want so badly to believe we can carve out a life here, something real and quiet and ours.
But maybe that’s not possible when the world won’t leave him alone.
And maybe… maybe loving him means living with that truth.
Even if I don’t know how.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Knox
The crowd is suffocating.
The kitchen’s packed wall to wall, steam rising, plates flying, orders piling up faster than we can get them out. There’s flour on the floor, syrup on the prep counter, and my patience is hanging by a thread.
One photo. One dumb video. That’s all it took.
Now, The Marrow’s crawling with influencers, foodies, sports bros, and women in old LA Knights jerseys like it’s game day again. They’ve got their phones out, filming, tagging, live streaming like this is content instead of my restaurant.
I hate it.
This place, this whole damn life, was supposed to be a reset. I walked away from all this noise. I chose quiet. Purpose. A kitchen where the food came first.
