Which, I supposed, was literally his job.
During his visits, he’d tried to flirt with me. More than once. Tossed compliments my way when I came out to check on the kitchen’s ticket times. Made jokes that had the whole crew laughing, his voice carrying over the noise of the bar. He had one of those laughs that filled a room, making you want to be in on whatever was so funny.
I’d smiled politely every time. Then I’d retreated to the kitchen, where I belonged.
Because I’d seen guys like Hux before. Charming, easy, everyone’s favorite. The kind of man who lit up a room and knew it. They were great for a good time, but they weren’t serious. And I didn’t have time for not-serious.
I had a plan. A year here, maybe two, building my skills and my savings. Then I was gone. Asheville had a growing food scene. Charlotte had more opportunities. Either way, I wasn’t staying in Wildwood Valley forever. This job was a stepping stone, not a destination.
A flirty firefighter with a killer smile was not part of the plan.
“How’s this?”
I turned to find Hux holding up the cutting board, displaying a pile of diced onions that was actually pretty decent. Not perfect, but usable.
“Better,” I said. “Now do the celery. Same size pieces.”
He nodded and reached for the celery stalks I’d set out. I watched him for a moment longer than necessary, noting the way his forearms flexed as he worked, the sleeve of his thermal pushed up to his elbows. Then I made myself look away.
“How long have you been cooking?” he asked.
The question surprised me. Most people didn’t ask about the person behind the food. They just ate whatever I put in front of them and moved on with their lives. Even the regulars—the ones who complimented my specials and asked for extra bread—rarely wondered about the woman in the kitchen.
“Professionally? About two years. But I’ve been cooking since I was a kid.” I adjusted the flame under the stock pot, watching the surface shimmer. “My grandmother taught me. She had this theory that food was how you showed people you loved them.”
“Smart woman.”
“She was.” I paused, then added, “She passed a few years ago. Left me her cast-iron skillets and her recipe box. I still use both.”
I didn’t know why I told him that. I didn’t talk about my grandmother with anyone except my parents. But something about the quiet of the kitchen, the snow piling up outside the windows, made it feel safe to share.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
When I glanced over, his expression was sincere. No joke waiting behind his eyes. Just genuine sympathy.
“It’s okay. She lived a good life.” I cleared my throat. “Carrots next, after the celery. Same dice.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes. The only sounds were the knife against the cutting board, the bubble of the stock, the howl of wind outside.
It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. He fell into a rhythm, following my instructions without complaint, and I found myself relaxing into the familiar comfort of cooking.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked eventually. “You going to run this place someday?”
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “God, no. I mean, I love Kameron, and this job has been great experience. But the roadhouse isn’t exactly fine dining.”
“What do you want, then?”
The question was simple, but something about the way he asked it made me pause. Like he actually wanted to know the answer.
“My own place,” I said. “Eventually. Something small. Farm-to-table, seasonal menus, the kind of food that makes people slow down and pay attention.” I shook my head, embarrassed by my own earnestness. “It’s a pipe dream. The restaurant industry is brutal, and most new places fail within the first year. I’d need investors, a solid business plan, and years of experience at higher-end places first.”
“But you’re going to try anyway.”
It wasn’t a question. I looked over at him, and he was watching me again, the carrots forgotten. There was something in his expression I couldn’t read. Something warm and focused and entirely too intense.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m going to try anyway.”
“Good.” He held my gaze for a beat too long. “You light up when you talk about it. Like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.”
