She perks up immediately, and damn if her excitement doesn’t gut me a little.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” she adds quickly. “Just a few hours, max.”
“You won’t be in my way,” I mutter.
She beams. “Okay. Great. I brought a few of my notes and some of my spice blends. I thought I might try…”
She trails off, like she’s suddenly aware she’s talking too much.
But I don’t mind. Listening to her talk about food is like watching someone come alive.
“You do whatever you need,” I say, grabbing a clean towel and tossing it to her. “You’ve got the space.”
Her fingers brush mine as she catches it. Just a second. But long enough.
Too long.
“Thanks, boss,” she says, soft and smug all at once.
She turns to wash her hands, and I try to remind myself of every rule I’ve made.
Every line I shouldn’t cross.
But with Josie Dawson still standing in my kitchen I’ve got a feeling I’m about to break every damn one.
I tell myself I’m going to get shit done today.
Finish final walkthrough notes. Approve linen samples. Talk to Martin about the bar height. I still think it looks off by half an inch.
Anything,anything, to keep my eyes off the woman currently perched on a stool at the prep counter, tapping a pen against her lips and scribbling notes like the fate of the free world depends on getting the balance of garlic to rosemary exactly right.
Josie’s hair is twisted up into some kind of bun that’s already coming loose, dark strands falling around her neck. She’s wearing a black apron with that damn T-shirt underneath. There’s flour smudged on her cheek. A little on the tip of her nose.
She looks like a mess.
She looks dangerous.
I try not to stare. I try like hell.
But I still notice she hums while she works. Still notice her handwriting is a chaotic mix of cursive and print. Still notice the way her tongue slips out and touches her bottom lip when she’s thinking.
I adjust the settings on the induction burner for no reason at all and force myself to focus on my own notes. The space smells like burnt sage and roasted tomatoes. She’s working through the dinner concept today. Testing pairings. Flavor profiles.
And I’m standing here, a grown ass man with a multimillion dollar investment on the line, and I can’t stop glancing up to watch her.
Pathetic.
The kitchen door swings open, and thank fuck, it’s Nova.
My assistant is carrying three folders, a phone in one hand, and an iced matcha in the other. Her oversized sunglasses are still on despite the fact that we’re indoors, and she looks like she walked off the set of a very expensive reality show. And probably did.
“Okay,” she announces, dropping the folders with a satisfying slap onto the counter. “Licensing updates, staffing schedules, and your itinerary for the week, which includes your long overdue deep tissue appointment at Boulder & Bloom. You're welcome.”
I grunt. “You booked it?”
“Yep. Dr. Jameson said it was that or more PT,” she says sweetly, not bothering to hide the smirk pulling at her lips. “You’ll thank me after you’ve been pummeled by an Estonian woman named Alina who speaks only in grunts and firm pressure.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Looking forward to it.”
