If there were a hole, it appeared as if she would crawl into it.
“I was just going to tiptoe past you on my way out, but I had a feeling you’d hear me,” she added.
“I would have.” My eyes narrowed in on her. “What are you doing here? Rachel told me everyone was gone.”
“I must have gotten so lost in cutting that I didn’t realize everyone had left. And that’s not Rachel’s fault. Please don’tblame her. I told her I was wrapping up, and she probably thought I was already gone.” She pointed at the side kitchen that handled the overflow on extra-busy nights. “I was over there … practicing.”
“Do you have any idea how late it is?”
She nodded, and I could see the exhaustion in her eyes.
“I’m assuming you have to be at your other job in the morning?”
She nodded again.
“Then why are you here late, sacrificing your sleep?”
She broke eye contact, taking a long look around the kitchen. “This is the only time I really get to practice. I want to get better, Walker. I want more nights like the other evening, when I got to see the little girl chowing down on my chicken nuggets.” She wrapped an arm around her stomach, holding the box of knives toward her chest. “That feeling … I can’t even describe it.”
My head dropped.
I was envious.
I remembered that feeling. I just hadn’t felt it in a long fucking time.
I backed up, gripping the side of the cold door, and while I gazed inside, I waited for the sensation to hit me. A burning need to grab one of the items off the shelf. To manipulate the flavors into something sensational. To create like I used to, like I was known for.
But it wasn’t there.
I felt … nothing.
I finally looked at her. Her gorgeous hair knotted on top of her head. Full lips waiting to smile. Eyes eager and fixed directly on me. Since she’d started at Charred, a few pounds had been added to her tiny frame, and they looked beautiful on her.
Every time I was around this woman, something inside me changed. I wondered if that would happen again right now.
I wondered if she could make me feel.
“Come here, Alivia.” When she came closer, looking up at me, I had to do everything in my power not to kiss her. “Do you want to practice?”
“With you?”
I let out a breath. “Yes.”
“I would absolutely love to.”
I nodded toward the cooler. “After you.”
She stepped into the large refrigerator, wrapping an arm around herself, shivering from the temperature.
“Pick something,” I ordered.
“What am I looking for?”
“When it comes to creating, everyone’s process is different. Personally, mine has no road map. I don’t go in with a plan. I go in, like I am right now, and see what speaks to me. I look, I feel, and then I grab.”
“Is that because you know what pairs so well together?” Her eyes were on me instead of the food.
“Experience, I’m sure, helps, yes. But what if you get to the fridge and you’re out of something? What if it’s gone bad? What if the quality doesn’t meet your expectations? Experience will teach youthat. So, I go in”—I scanned the shelves in front of us—“and I let the food speak to me. When the voice feels right, when I feel it here”—I banged my fist against my chest; the sensation building was far more than the hollowness I’d felt prior—“I make my choice.”
