“What?” she says around a bite of jam toast. “You said it yourself, you need something new. And maybe this job is that. A fresh start. No more culinary school, no city chaos, only you and your knives in a really expensive kitchen.”
Mom sits down across from me, folding her hands like she’s about to lead us in prayer. “Sweetheart. You are talented. You’re brave. And you’re ready. This restaurant, whatever it turns out to be, is lucky to have you.”
The lump in my throat is sudden and traitorous.
I nod, forcing a smile, because I want to believe that. I want this to be a new beginning. A real one.
The screen door creaks again, and Dale Rucker leans in with a wave, smelling like sawdust and stubbornness. “Betty, you make enough for an army in here?”
Mom’s already up, bustling toward the door with a warm smile and a spatula like it’s her badge of honor. “Always, Dale.”
Dee lifts her brows at me and mouths,You’ve got this.
I wish I was as sure.
I push up from the table, set my mug in the sink, and square my shoulders.
Time to meet the mystery man behindThe Marrow.
I head upstairs to get dressed, heart knocking around my ribs like a warning bell.
No big deal, Josie. It’s just your first day at the most secretive, probably high-pressure kitchen this town has ever seen. No pressure at all.
I stare into the mirror, trying to figure out how to lookcool and capable, like I’m not inwardly spiraling. Eventually, I settle on my go-to chef staples. Black jeans, a soft gray T-shirt, and my favorite broken-in boots. Hair up in a twist, no makeup besides a swipe of mascara and lip balm. Professional, but not trying too hard. Competent. Calm.
Or at least, that’s what I’m pretending.
I throw my bag over my shoulder, press a palm to Moose’s big blocky head, and head out the door to meet whatever this job has waiting for me.
The walk toThe Marrowtakes me through the quieter side of downtown Silver Peak. It’s early, so the air still carries that crisp bite of mountain morning, mixed with the faintest hint of chimney smoke and pine. I pass shuttered storefronts and hanging flower baskets, my nerves ramping up with every step.
When I finally round the corner andseethe building, my feet actually slow.
It’s stunning.
Modern, but rooted. All dark wood and matte black metal, with tall windows that reflect the morning light like mirrors. The kind of place that doesn’taskfor attention, itcommandsit.
There's no sign out front. No welcome mat. Just a single brass “M” embedded into the sleek black doorframe.
M forMarrow, obviously.
M forMystery.
M formaybe I’ve made a huge mistake.
I take a deep breath and push open the door.
Inside, it’s quiet.
Dim, moody lighting filters through overhead fixtures suspended from exposed beams. There’s a long, dramatic bar made of rich oak, and plush banquettes lining the far wall like a photo out of a design magazine. The open kitchen sits at the back, a bright temple of brushed steel and stone.
My boots echo softly on the polished concrete as I step inside, soaking in the clean lines, the perfection of it all.
And then I seehim.
Standing dead center in the kitchen, arms crossed over his broad chest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.Mplastered on his T-shirt across his chest.
What the actual hell?
