She’s half buried in a stack of Peak Provisions boxes, balancing two trays of fresh herbs with the precision of a surgeon and the expression of someone who’s definitely apologized to inanimate objects before. Tiny, wide-eyed, and focused like a sniper, she doesn’t notice me standing there until I clear my throat.
She startles so hard she drops a bag of rosemary.
“Oh! Sorry… sorry!” she blurts, crouching to scoop it up like she’s committed a felony against produce.
I raise a brow but say nothing, stepping forward to take one of the heavier trays from her. She looks like a strong breeze could knock her into next week, and we’re in the middle of a prep delivery zone that might as well be the kitchen’s version of a highway.
“You Gracie?” I ask.
“Yes! I mean. That’s me.” Her voice is soft, nervous. She’s got that new kid in class energy that makes me want to look aroundfor the mean girls. “Josie said I could come early to help unload. I hope that’s okay.”
“More than okay. If she’s happy to have you here, I am too,” I say, nodding toward the back. “Cold storage’s prepped. You can stage those by the walk-in. Get yourself acquainted with the place.”
She brightens a little at that and disappears like she’s memorized the floor plan already.
Josie was right. Gracie moves like someone who’s worked in real kitchens. No flailing, no fuss, just efficient, thoughtful motion. Not loud. Not trying to prove anything. Just working.
Josie’s got good taste. In flavors. In people.
If I were the kind of man who let himself think beyond that, I’d probably have a lot more to say about what else Josie has good taste in. But I’m not. Because I made itvery clearthat what’s happening here is business only.
I’m the one who said it.
I’m the one who laid down the line like it’s etched in granite.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from watching the way she moves in the kitchen like it’s her own personal dance floor.
She works fast, clean, precise. Calls out orders with confidence. Jokes with the line cooks. Somehow keeps Gracie steady while also managing to make Queen Bea laugh loud enough to startle Dale Rucker in the next room.
She’s everywhere and nowhere all at once, just…there. And I can’t stop noticing.
The day moves fast. Too fast.
Lunch rush bleeds into early dinner. The kitchen is hot, loud, perfect.
I smile.
This isgood.
There’s no press hounding me here. No agents. No calls from my former team or therapists reminding me to “find purpose.”No one waiting for me to mess up. No schedule packed with appearances I didn’t ask for.
Just food. Just the work. Just…this.
It’s almost like I can breathe again.
Josie passes by me with a basket of warm focaccia and a smudge of oil on her cheek. I watch her go, jaw tight. She doesn’t look my way.
Business only.
Right.
I need to keep my eyes to myself, that’s all.
The restaurant finally quiets. Chairs are stacked, lights low. The crew’s gone, Gracie included, off to text Josie about sauce pairings or cat memes or whatever sweet, quiet chefs do after a long shift.
I should leave too. Should head upstairs, shower, maybe read something boring until my brain shuts off. But the lights in the test kitchen are still on.
And so is she.
