He glanced at me with that look he got when he was trying to play it cool, but his guard slipped. “It’s not just the chaos,” he admitted. “It’s stepping into Dad’s shoes. I mean, the man was a legend in that kitchen. He could eyeball a soup recipe and make it taste like home. I’m not him. I’ll never be him.”
My heart pulled at the edges. “Landon?—”
“I know I’m not supposed to compare myself,” he cut in quickly, like he’d already had this argument with himself a hundred times. “But I do. I keep thinking about the way he ranthe place, how everyone respected him, how he made it all look easy. And I’m just me. Barely keeping up. Messing up spinach and kale and second-guessing myself constantly.”
I took a step closer until we were toe to toe in the quiet stretch of the market. “You don’t have to be your dad. You just have to be you. Your heart is in it, and that’s what people will remember.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say exactly what I need to hear. Like you can read my mind or something.”
“It’s not mind reading. It’s just knowing you.” I smiled. “Besides, I’ll help you.”
“Help me?”
“I want to be there for you like you’ve been for me. I can jump in for the soft opening. Run food, take orders, whatever you need.”
In college, I waitressed at this tiny Italian place that paid me in tips and unlimited breadsticks—basically living the dream if your dream involves marinara stains and smelling like garlic twenty-four seven. Macey worked there with me too, which meant every shift was chaos. We once accidentally served an entire table of ten the wrong order, but they were so charmed by her fake Italian accent they tipped us extra.
“Kira…” He looked torn between grateful and reluctant. “That’s sweet of you, but it’s not your problem.”
“I want to help. Really.” I bumped his arm with mine. “It’s not forever. Just a few days to keep the place from imploding.”
He gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d seriously do that?”
“If it means you and your mom won’t have a nervous breakdown, absolutely.” I smiled. “Besides, it sounds kind of fun. Andit’ll give me a new excuse to wear my black boots and pretend I’m still twenty-one.”
He leaned over and kissed my temple, lingering for a beat. “You’re a lifesaver. But I’m buying you the fanciest dinner after this. Like cloth napkins, real candles, maybe even dessert and wine.”
“Damn,” I said, mock-stunned. “Wine? You are serious.”
“I’ll even let you order the weirdest thing on the menu.”
“I’ll remember that.” I laced my fingers with his as we made our way back to the car, debating what the weirdest thing we could order in Chicago was.
23
LANDON/KIRA
Landon
The kitchen was too hot. Or maybe I was just sweating through my shirt.
I tugged at the collar of my chef’s coat, pacing the narrow space between the prep counter and the walk-in like a trapped animal. Outside the kitchen doors, I could hear the voices of our first customers trickling in.
This was it. The last day of the soft opening. Days one and two had gone okay, all technical issues considered, but today I was about ten seconds away from throwing up in the utility sink.
“Why isn’t the line set yet?” I barked, a little sharper than I meant, as I spun toward the prep station.
“It is,” said one of the line cooks, who looked at me with fear-lined eyes. “You already checked it. Twice.”
Right. I did.
I turned toward the window, watching my mom seat someone at a booth with a too-bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was nervous too. Of course she was. But she was out there doing it anyway.
And I was in here, pacing and sweating and completelyconvinced that I was about to crash the ship I’d spent weeks helping build.
