Or was it because I wanted to feel wanted?
Whatever the answer was, I couldn’t help but feel the sting of disappointment when I shoved my phone back in my apron and carried the bin of napkins to the drink station. I made several more trips, bringing the bins of forks, spoons, and knives, and once those were stacked in place, I went into the kitchen to go find Hilary.
There were two sections of the kitchen. The front, where I was entering, was one massive rush of employees. Everyone was moving in different directions at a pace that was several notches above normal. This was where all the cooking and prep went down. The back of the kitchen was for sanitation, where the overstock was kept, where the offices and the employee lockers were located, and where we ate, if there was time for that. To the side, between the two areas, housed the giant walk-in refrigerator and freezer.
I was just passing where the cooking and prep happened when I heard, “What the fuck is this?”
A question that hadn’t just been yelled, but growled. The tone so loud and so sharp that it sliced through my chest and made my feet stop moving.
My hands immediately went to my ears.
I wasn’t home, and that wasn’t Dean who had screamed those words—I had to remind myself of that.
I was at work, a realization that made my hands drop, and that voice …
“It’s a béarnaise sauce,” a different man replied.
“Like I just fucking said. What. The. Fuck. Is. This? You do know that a béarnaise sauce shouldn’t be lumpy and congealed, don’t you? How the hell do you expect me to serve this?”
As the man’s screams moved through me, I made eye contact with the faces around me, everyone’s expression fardifferent than mine. Where I knew I was showing how startled I was, they looked unbothered.
But why?
Did they hear this kind of tone all the time?
“I’m sorry,” was said just loud enough for me to hear.
“Don’t fucking apologize! Just do better!”
Out of curiosity, I turned to see who was arguing. The men were in front of the gas range, and the prep station was between us, blocking my view of them. The long counter with two shelves above it and heating lamps hanging from the ceiling made it difficult to see anything on the other side. I had to duck under the bottom shelf, and as soon as I did, I could see the profiles of the two men.
The blond was wiping sweat off his forehead, looking wickedly stressed, while the dark-haired man, with his lips curled, had his finger pointed at the blond’s chest.
It wasn’t their interaction that kept my eyes locked on them.
It was the dark hair I couldn’t look away from.
The beard.
The slope of his nose.
The curve of his lips.
Oh my fucking God.
My eyes bulged.
My heart pounded.
My mouth fell open.
Wait …
How?
Why?
This can’t be happening.
