To him.
I think this is what I’ve always wanted.
I should have known the easy morning was a red herring.
I’m greeted with chaos the moment I step foot through the kitchen doors.
“The stove is out . . .” says Amiya, my sous-chef.
Her dark brown eyes are wide, and don’t be fooled by her nose ring and sleeve of tattoos—she is the most type A, pleasure-to-have-in-class person I’ve ever met. She moved here from Birmingham, Alabama, to take this job and came with a glowing recommendation from the restaurants where she previously worked. I can’t help but think she should be the executive chef instead of me. Point being, she was here before me this morning.
But she said that’s never been her dream. She feels strongest in this role, and I feel stronger with her in it, so I won’t fight her on it.
“Actually, the stove is outandBradley called out sick,” she adds.
But instead of panicking I take a calming breath and look at my phone, noting that I still have eight hours until opening. No problem. I’ll call a handyman for the stove and see who else from our alternate staff is available to cover for Bradley tonight. Or better yet, I’ll have our manager, Tess, find someone! I like her. To quote her from her interview, she’s “menopausal and brash. Just the lady to get stuff done.”
So this is no big deal.
And it isn’t . . . at least it’s not compared to when she tells me we are having software issues and our POS system isn’t working. And then again to say no one is available to cover Bradley’s shift—oh, plus we have a walnut allergy reservation to look out for tonight.
But I keep my cool. I don’t let anyone see the panic on my face, because I can do this.
I can do this,I repeat to myself as I head for the back door, planning to go outside and scream in my truck.
I can—AH!
An arm snakes out from the pantry and loops around my waist,pulling me into the giant food storage closet. But it’s not any old arm. It’s James’s. And with my heart racing and panic hovering under the surface of my skin, I’m pressed gently back into the shelves and kissed. One of his hands slides against my jaw and the other is holding my hip.
“Sorry. Just wanted to say hi,” he says, voice gravelly.
“I’m glad you did. Hey, question: When’s your brother getting here?”
“Not really something a man likes to hear while kissing his girlfriend’s neck.”
Despite the chaos swirling in my head, that new title is a wind chime in my ear, making my skin prickle with pleasure.
“What did he do now?” James asks.
“Nothing.” I breathe out. “But it would be nice if he were around. To make sure this is all going like it should be going? I’m worried I’m doing it wrong already.”
Neither of us has seen Tommy since the incident the other night. He did email me the next morning, though, saying,I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. It was nothing personal—just business. But hey, I’m still up for that date if you are:)
Only Tommy would possess enough self-delusion to think a woman would ever consider dating him after the things he said. But again, because it’s him (and because I never harbored a smidge of feelings for him), I laughed it off and responded:You’re dreaming.
Tommy is uniquely Tommy.
James pulls away to catch my gaze. “Madison. You can do this.” He pauses, a soft smile growing. “But if you want me to, I’ll call him and get his ass down here.”
“Yes, please.”
Eventually, I leave the pantry and James’s safe arms and I putout what seems like a thousand fires (including one real one—small at least).
Tommy is nowhere to be found.
In a blink, it’s go time.
Guests are arriving, and we’re short-staffed. Guests are being seated, and we can’t find the box of our custom linen napkins, so we’re scrambling with paper. Guests are trying to sneak back into the kitchen to say hi—the ones who have known me since I was in diapers—and suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe.
