By 9 a.m., I’ve seen the video six times.
By 10 a.m., it’s been forwarded to my phone twice.
By 11 a.m., Nova is watching the videoagainin my office, her boots propped on my desk like she pays the rent here.
She’s got a pencil stabbed through the braided crown of her platinum hair, her version of a war helmet, I guess, and she’s dressed like a human mood board. Clashing colors, oversized T-shirt with a giant sun on it, paint-smudged jeans. A couple of chunky rings flash as she taps the screen, black glasses slipping down her nose while her eyes track every second like a hawk on espresso.
“Play it again and I’m firing you,” I mutter, not looking up from the schedule I’m trying to finalize.
Nova snorts. “You say that every time, and yet, here I am.”
She presses play.
I grit my teeth as my own face fills the screen. There I am, charging in like a linebacker and catching Josie mid-fall, armsaround her, her body flush against mine like she literally fell from heaven, or from a surprise tackle by Tuck, but still…
Her hair’s caught in my shirt. Her mouth is open in that shocked little gasp. My hand is right there on her waist like I can’t get enough of touching her.
And then Eli’s stupid, smug voice over cuts in over the clip of the live footage:“Silver Peak’s hottest new chef and our mysterious NFL restaurateur? Looks like things are heating up at The Marrow.”
Nova wheezes. She’s laughing so hard she has to wipe her glasses.
“Man, this town has no chill. I love it here.”
“I don’t,” I say flatly, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s inappropriate. It’s unprofessional. It’s?—”
“Adorable?” she supplies, eyes twinkling.
I shoot her a glare sharp enough to carve a brisket.
“Mortifying, Nova. She works here. I don’t need my staff’s romantic entanglements being dissected in group chats.”
“You meanyourromantic entanglement.”
“There isnoentanglement.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she singsongs. “You were one forehead brush away from a full cinematic kiss.”
I slam the folder shut. “It’s not funny.”
Nova finally swings her legs down, sobering a little, though she’s still smiling like she’s trying not to.
“Look, I get it. But this isn’t LA, Knox. This is Silver Peak. People care. They gossip. They make videos with heart emojis and bad acoustic covers of Taylor Swift songs. It’s what they do. But it’s only in town. It’ll blow over.”
I grunt. “I came here to work. Not to be the leading man in someone’s TikTok romcom.”
“You also came here to open a restaurant,” she says pointedly, nudging the folder with the edge of her water bottle.“And newsflash: the ads I’ve run in the local paper are working. We’ve got reservations stacked for opening day, and you know why?”
I don’t answer.
“Because everyone is excited forThe Marrow.They need something new here. The concept is tight. And yeah, maybe also because the town thinks their local Gordon Ramsay has a thing for his head chef.”
I scrub a hand through my hair. “Unbelievable.”
Nova grins. “You’re welcome.”
Out in the kitchen, Josie is working. Focused. Smiling at the line staff, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair twisted up in some kind of chaotic, sunshiney bun. She hasn’t said a single word about the video. Hasn’t so much as flinched when someone brought up “the catch heard ’round town.”
And somehow that makes it worse.
