“Stick to the equipment,” I mutter. “Cold station’s over here. Prep tables, undercounter fridges. There’s a vacuum sealer and a cryo freeze unit if you know how to use them.”
“Do I know how to use it?” she scoffs. “I was flash freezing basil oil before it was cool.”
I glance back. She’s grinning, hands tucked into her back pockets, cocky in that sunbeam wrapped kind of way that makes my chest ache and my pulse tick faster than it should.
“Pastry corner is isolated, near the back wall. Temp stays consistent. Mixer, proofing drawers, double deck convection oven.”
She spins in a slow circle. “I love this. It’s like you designed it to be your own personal spaceship.”
I blink. “It’s a kitchen.”
She shrugs. “Same thing. Function over flash, all the toys in the right place. You even have a tilt skillet. Are you trying to seduce me with industrial-grade equipment?”
My pulse spikes, but I look at her flatly. “No.”
She grins wider.
We pass through the swinging doors into the dry storage area, all clean shelving and labeled bins. It smells like fresh wood, metal, and faint lemon oil.
“Dry storage is sorted by category. Top shelf is for backup stock, third shelf bulk spices, bottom shelf non-perishables.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Whoever stocked this has excellent handwriting. Was it you?”
“Yes.”
Her brows lift like I just admitted to baking cupcakes for orphans. “Impressive.”
Back through the kitchen again, I push open the heavy cooler door. “Walk-in. Cold zones are marked by shelf. Proteins low, dairy up top. Produce far right. Keep your mise clean, and no unlabeled containers. I don’t do chaos.”
“Let me guess,” she says, stepping inside ahead of me, “you alphabetize your spices and fold your socks with military precision.”
“No,” I say flatly. “But don’t test me.”
She smiles over her shoulder, breath fogging slightly in the chill. “You’re kind of terrifying, you know that?”
“Good.”
Another beat. Her expression softens. “But the kitchen? It’s beautiful, Knox. You can feel how much thought went into it. It’s efficient, exactly the sort of place I dreamed of working.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because something about hearing her say my name again, in this space I built from the ground up, knocks the wind out of me.
We step out, the door hissing closed behind us. The tension wraps back around us like a rope, pulling tight.
Josie clears her throat again, quieter this time. Her fingers trail along the edge of the prep table before she looks up, almost shy.
“I was wondering if…” she starts, then gives a small shrug, like she’s trying to play it off casual. “Would it be okay if I stayed a little while longer? I want to practice some of the menu recipes. I know service isn’t until next week, but I’d really like to get a feel for the space. The flow. Work out any kinks before go time.”
She says it like it’s nothing. Like she’s just another eager chef wanting to prove herself. But her eyes give her away, the faintest flicker of nerves, like she knows staying longer might push whatever this simmering thing between us is that much closer to boiling.
I should say no.
I should tell her this kitchen is closed for now. That I’ve got a schedule. Boundaries. A million reasons why she shouldn’t be here.
But instead, I hear myself say, “Fine.”
