"Oh, my God. Gingerbread?” Ray’s gaze zeroed in on the box in my hands.
“No. Chocolate chip.” Now I really wished I’d made the gingerbread bars.
“Even better.” Sophia, a woman who’d taken me under her wing when I’d started a few weeks ago, gave me a bright smile. “Let me taste.” She sounded so demanding but she really was the nicest person.
I opened the lid and set the container on the counter. Sophia took one as everyone else descended on the sweet treat.
She took one, bit into it, and her eyes widened. "Oh my god, these are incredibly good."
"Really?" I laughed nervously, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.
"Didn't know we had a baker among us," said one of the security guys, his imposing frame somehow less intimidating as he delicately selected the smallest cookie on the tray.
I stood there, slightly overwhelmed by the warmth of their reception. No one mentioned last night's incident directly, but I caught a few curious glances at my bandaged hand, a few whispered comments I couldn't quite catch.
"Save some for the kitchen staff," I said as the tray lightened rapidly. "I made extra for them."
"Smart move." The security guy wiped crumbs from his mouth with a napkin. "Best way to their hearts."
As I headed toward the lockers to stash my things before my shift, I caught fragments of low conversation behind me.
"...never seen Mr. Luca do that before..."
"...on his knees in that whiskey..."
"...touched her like..."
I pretended not to hear, my cheeks burning as I fumbled with my locker combination. The memory of Dario's fingers against mine, the intensity of his gaze as he'd cleaned my wound, it felt both too intimate to share and too significant to keep to myself. I still didn't understand why he'd done it, why the notoriously cold owner had knelt beside me in spilled whiskey worth more than my monthly rent.
"Miss Belle."
I jumped, nearly dropping my bag as I turned to find Mr. Wilson standing behind me, his tall frame straight, his expression inscrutable. The kitchen manager had been polite but distant during my first two weeks, his green eyes missing nothing as he ran his domain with military precision.
"Mr. Wilson! I'm so sorry about last night," I blurted, the words rushing out before I could stop them. "Leaving in the middle of my shift was completely unprofessional. It won'thappen again. I should have stayed. The cut wasn't even that bad, and I—"
He raised a hand, stopping my nervous babble. "Mr. Luca himself ordered you home," he said, his voice gentler than I'd heard it before. "I heard him myself so that's hardly something to apologize for."
I blinked, caught off guard by his tone. "Still, I feel terrible about the whiskey. And leaving everyone short-staffed."
The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Though we try to be as careful as we possibly can, accidents happen. As for being short-staffed, we managed." His gaze dropped to the nearly empty cookie tray I'd set on the bench. "Though it seems you've found a way to get back in everyone's good graces."
"Oh! Would you like one?" I offered the tray, suddenly feeling silly for not offering sooner. "There's still a few left."
To my surprise, he selected a cookie, examining it with the same careful attention he gave to the creations that left his kitchen. "Chocolate chip. A classic." He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded. His eyes widened and he looked at the cookie, taking another, larger bite. "Dear Lord. Why didn’t you tell me you could bake?” Now he sounded a tad grouchy. “Is this your one thing or do you have more in your repertoire?”
“I do a few things, but I really just know how to follow a recipe.”
This time his smile was unmistakable, transforming his weathered face. "Your shift starts soon. How's the hand?"
I flexed my fingers, wincing slightly. "It's fine. I can work normally."
"You will be careful and keep it covered. The bandage will protect your hand so you don’t injure yourself worse," he said, but there was no sting in the words. "And Belle?" He paused, his expression softening further. "The cookies were a verythoughtful gesture. Unnecessary, but thoughtful. That kind of consideration... it's rare."
The warmth of his approval washed over me like sunshine and I couldn’t help but smile up at the older man. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson."
He nodded once more before turning away, his posture returning to its usual rigid correctness as he headed back toward his kitchen domain.
I closed my locker, a strange lightness filling my chest. The knot of anxiety I'd carried since last night hadn't entirely dissolved, but it had loosened considerably. I wasn't fired. The staff didn't hate me. And somehow, impossibly, I'd earned a smile from Mr. Wilson.
