“Garcia, fire two more duck breasts—medium rare, not leather. Becker, where is the amuse-bouche for six? Do the crème-fraîche first, then the caviar.” My voice carries across the kitchen without shouting. “Samuel, the lamb notes are in the folder under the pass. Always check there first.”
For the next three hours, I run the kitchen like I never left it. My hands remember the weight of the pans, the rhythm of service, the precise choreography that turns individual cooks into a unified team.
It feels fuckinggood.
“Behind!” I call as I slide past Maria with a pan full of perfectly seared scallops. “Samuel, taste this sauce—what’s missing?”
He takes the spoon, considers. “Acid?”
“Good. How much?”
“Just a splash of lemon. Maybe half a tablespoon.”
“Perfect. Trust your palate. It’s better than you think it is.”
By the time we push the last plate at 10:45, the kitchen is running like clockwork. I stand back and watch the relentlessparade of perfect dishes hitting the pass, the ballet of chefs weaving around each other without missing a beat.
The staff looks at me with something approaching awe, like they’re seeing me for the first time.
In a way, they are. Most of them have only known me as the CEO who shows up for tastings and meetings. They’ve never seen me work a line, never watched me plate a dish or call out a service.
They don’t know I was born for this shit.
“Not bad for a hoity-toity executive,” Zeke says, appearing at my elbow with a grin. He’s sweat-slicked and tired, but the light in his eyes matches mine.
Like him, I’m exhausted but oddly energized. “There was a time when this was all I knew how to do.”
“You miss it.”
It’s not a question, not really. Zeke knows me well enough to read the expression on my face. His eyes fall to my hands. He sees that, even now, these scarred, burned, tattooed fingers of mine are reluctant to let go of the towel I’ve been using to wipe down stations.
“Sometimes.” I look around the kitchen—mykitchen, really, even if I don’t run it anymore. “It’s simpler here. Either the dish works or it doesn’t. Either the service runs smoothly or it falls apart. No politics, no board meetings, no investors second-guessing every decision.”
“No Eliana Hunters quitting over pastries.”
I cringe inwardly. I’d managed to forget about that.
“I need to run by the office,” I say instead of responding to him. “Gotta check on some things before tomorrow. You good to get Sage home?”
Zeke looks suspicious. “You could delegate, you know. Send someone else to handle whatever urgent and definitely-not-made-up crisis is requiring your immediate attention at eleven o’clock at night.”
I turn away so he can’t see my face. “It’s fine. It won’t be long. Just a quick?—”
“Can I ask you something?” he interrupts.
“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
But he barrels ahead anyway. “When’s the last time you were happy, man? Because I gotta say, it’s been a long time since you looked as alive as you looked in there tonight.”
Happy. Christ. When was the last time I was happy? Really, genuinely happy?
I think about Eliana’s hands on my chest two nights ago, and I know that there is an answer in there somewhere I’m nowhere close to acknowledging.
“I don’t remember,” I admit.
Zeke nods like he expected that answer. “Yeah. ‘Bout what I thought.”
Sage wheels up a moment later. He’s tired from acting as a barback for the night, but it’s good to see him feel useful. For far too long, he was furious at the world for stripping away his independence. He wanted it back so badly, even as I longed to do thingsforhim, to make his life easier. It’s taken me a long timeto see that sometimes the best gift we can give others is the gift of letting them live without our help.
