Maybe they get it—maybe being Littles themselves means they know when to let it slide. Or maybe they're waiting. Either way, I'm grateful.
As the day kicks into gear, banter flying, tools humming, I lose myself in the rhythm.
But noon ticks closer, and Olivier's face keeps flashing in my mind.
That stern smile. That promise.
Becausedamn, I want to be a good boy for him.
The morning drags and flies all at once. By eleven, my hangover's dulled to a low hum, thanks to water and work. Xander calls a quick break, and I check my phone—no messages, but why would there be? Olivier doesn't have my number. Still, my stomach flips at the thought of seeing him.
What if he was just messing with me?
What if the lunch box is code for something else?
"Yo, Danny!" Taylor shouts, tossing me a bottle of water. "You spacing out? We need you on those beams."
"On it," I yell back.
And with that, all I can think about is the Construction Boys and the job at hand.
The only problem is that a man like Olivier doesn’t like to be forgotten…
Chapter 6
Olivier
The kitchen hums with its usual midday rhythm—knives chopping in precise synchronicity, sauces simmering on the stoves, the faint sizzle of proteins hitting hot pans.
But today, it's all background noise to the storm brewing in my head.
I'm at the central workstation, scribbling notes on the evening's reservations and making menu tweaks with Antonio and Lazlo hovering like well-trained hawks.
Antonio's my rock in the chaos, clipboard in hand, running through inventory adjustments. Lazlo's got the front-of-house intel: who's VIP tonight, which tables need extra flair, and whether or not we have another snooty reviewer coming in to see us.
We should be locked in, fine-tuning the specials—maybe swap the seared scallops for something heartier given the cold snap outside. But my pen hovers over the paper, and I can't focus.
“Fuck,” I grumble, realizing that I’ve made an error on one of the starters.
Every few seconds, my eyes flick to the corner of the spotless stainless-steel counter where a neatly packed lunch box sits, untouched.
It's nothing fancy by my standards: a turkey club on house-baked sourdough, crisp apple slices, a thermos of fresh-pressed juice, and those damn cookies I stayed up late perfecting… chocolate chip with sea salt, because why not spoil the boy?
The boy who didn't show.
"Chef? You with us?" Antonio's voice cuts through, patient but probing. He's got that Italian lilt that makes even concern sound melodic. "The lamb shank—braise it longer for the cold weather?"
"Yeah, sure. Longer braise," I mutter, scratching a note without really thinking. My foot taps an irritable rhythm on the tile floor. Noon came and went an hour ago. No sign of Danny.
No call, no text—though, shit, I don't even have his number.
What kind of idiot promises a reward without locking down the details?
But either way, we both agreed that he would swing by and pick up the lunch box. Sure, he was drinking more than me. But that’s not my problem. You give your word, you stick to it—beers or not.
Lazlo clears his throat, his pale blue eyes darting meaningfully to the lunch box. "And the tables? We've got that critic coming in at eight. Should I comp a dessert course?"
I slam the pen down harder than intended. "Yes, comp it. Whatever. Just make sure the service is flawless." My voice comes out sharper than the Santoku knives lined up behind me.
