A forearm bands around my waist and I’m yanked back and up against a solid chest. The breath knocks out of me as the shelf gives up and crashes down where I was. The sound of pans hitting the tile echoes in the room. Somebody swears. The fryer keeps humming.
“You okay?” Chase’s voice is rough in my ear.
For a half beat I can’t answer because all of my blood seems to have decided to rush in the direction of his hands. One issplayed low on my stomach. The other is braced on the prep table beside us, boxing me in.
He smells like cinnamon and coffee and clean sweat. His heartbeat is a steady thud against my back, and my body—traitor it is—molds to every muscle of his pressed into me.
“I’m fine,” I manage, a little breathless. “Thanks to you.”
He’s still close enough that I can feel the word rumble through him when he says, “You shouldn’t stand under that shelf. It’s been loose for a week. I told Dylan to fix it.”
“I will add it to my list of Things Not To Stand Under,” I say, trying to cover the fact that all of my senses are heightened.
Particularly where it concerns him.
He lets me go and pulls back, as if he’s just realized he’s holding me and touching me has burned his skin.
He crouches to pick up the mess around us. I kneel to help.
“Don’t,” he says, too sharp.
I raise a brow. “I can pick up lids, Chef.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I know you can pick up lids. I’m saying you almost got clocked by a sheet pan.”
“I almost got clocked by a sheet pan,” I repeat, “and then I got rescued by a heroic chef. Thank you.”
He glances up, mouth flattening like he wants to refuse the compliment on principle. “Heroic is a stretch.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
His eyes flick briefly to my mouth. My pulse does a circus trick.
“We get teenagers in here who think top shelves are gravity-free zones,” he says, standing with an armful of paper towels. “I know what to expect.”
“Well,” I say, standing too, smoothing my apron that suddenly feels like a costume from a romance novel, “I appreciate your reflexes.”
Something softens at the edge of his expression. It’s there and gone in an instant, replaced by the chef face. “We’ll go over your setup after close,” he says briskly, pitching the mangled bracket into the trash. “Station map, par levels, how to route your line so you don’t cross mine.”
“Yes, Chef,” I murmur, because I can’t help myself.
His eyes flash—annoyance, I decide, not heat. Definitely not heat. I focus on stacking the lids. Don’t look at his hands. Don’t look at his shoulders.
The bell at the window jingles; the world starts again. We fall back into the easy choreography of a kitchen that knows what it’s doing.
The second rush hits and we ride it. Chase calls tickets and slices pies. I fry, fill, and charm. We make a whole bunch of people happy.
By late afternoon the sun slides toward the ridge and the light turns that particular Alaskan honey. The line thins. Crew members pull off aprons and switch to sweeping.
Chase checks the closing list, tapping boxes with the end of his pen.
“Your station’s clean,” he says without looking up. “You passed my first test.”
“I live to be graded,” I say. “A girl likes to know where she stands.”
He finally looks at me. For the first time since I walked in this morning, the irritation in his eyes eases enough to let something else out—respect, maybe. There’s definitely curiosity.
“Let’s meet out at the picnic tables at seven,” he says. “We’ll sit and plan tomorrow. Crowd’s thinner. Less distraction.”
