I glance between them, watching Dee tuck her hair behind her ear like it’s an accident,it’s not, and Nova casually adjusts the sleeve of her blazer like she hasn’t just been momentarily struck by chemistry. And listen, I might be in a professional tailspin, but even I can see a spark when it practically hums in the air.
I clear my throat, the tiniest bit of a smile tugging at my lips. “Well. I should, uh, go inside and start prepping. You two gonna be okay out here?”
Nova’s eyes flick to Dee. “I think we’ll manage.”
Dee gives me a wink that’s probably meant to be subtle but lands somewhere between smug and scandalous.
What the hell is happening?
Inside, the scent of roasted tomatoes and fresh herbs hits me like a warm welcome, and for a second, I let myself breathe.
Today’s a new day.
The internet may have turned me into a hashtag, and my boss may speak in growls and smolders, but this kitchen isminenow.
And I’m not going down without a fight. Or at the very least, a killer lunch service.
By the time we shut down for the night, I’m sweating, exhausted, and about five percent tomato sauce. I’m scrubbing down my station when I hear that familiar low voice behind me.
“You did good today.”
I glance over my shoulder. Knox is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, brow furrowed, but not in the“you’ve failed me”kind of way. More like“I’m thinking complicated thoughts, and I don’t know how to human.”
I smile. “Thanks. I didn’t even hide in the walk-in once.”
He grunts, which I’ve learned is probably a compliment.
Then he says, “We need more staff. Back of house. Maybe front, too. Can’t find anyone else good. We have Wes and Toni, obviously. And a guy called Marc was supposed to come in, but I’ve seen no sign of him.”
I blink. “Oh. Uh, yeah, it’s a tough market right now.”
He nods like he hates that fact personally. “You know anyone who can help us out? Even temporarily, until we work out exactly how busy we’re going to be all the time?
Actually, I do.
I wipe my hands on a towel and turn to him, nervous but hopeful. “My friend Gracie is looking. I went to culinary school with her. We both trained under Chef Adela Vaughn. She’d love it here. Maybe even permanently.”
His brows rise. “She cooks well?”
“Oh yeah, she’s the best. And she’s amazing under pressure. Like, she once made crème brûlée with a lighter during a power outage.”
He pauses, considering. Then gives the smallest, almost reluctant nod. “All right. Tell her to come in.”
And okay, I know it’s not a grand romantic gesture. I know it’s just staffing and logistics and his eternal need to plan three moves ahead.
But he trusted me.
With his kitchen.
With his team.
And maybe I should be able to take it at face value and say thanks like a normal person.
Instead, I blurt, “She also knows not to get her hair stuck on your shirt, so we’re already ahead of the game.”
His mouth twitches. Twitches.
And if that’s not the closest thing to a smile I’ll get today, I’ll eat Bea’s entire lemon bar tray.
