Antonio and Lazlo exchange a quick glance— the kind that says, Chef's in a mood.
Lazlo folds his arms, leaning against the counter with that knowing smirk he's perfected over years of putting up with my bullshit.
"Something on your mind, Olivier? Or should I say... someone?" His gaze lands pointedly on the lunch box again.
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
"It's for that ungrateful boy from last night,” I grumble. “The one who was supposed to swing by at noon. We... agreed on it. Or at least, I thought we did."
The words taste bitter, like over-reduced balsamic. I can still picture Danny's flushed face at the bar, those wide eyes promising he'd be good. The way he nodded so eagerly at the mention of a reward.
And now? Nothing.
Stood up by a construction hunk who probably forgot all about me the second he sobered up.
Antonio sets his clipboard down, crossing his beefy arms. He's built like a linebacker who traded football for fine dining, and his expression is all paternal concern.
"The big guy from the crew? Danny, right? Looked like he was ready to drop to his knees when you talked to him."
"Yeah, well, apparently not ready enough to show up," I grumble. The irritation bubbles up— not just at Danny, but at myself for getting so invested so fast.
One night of flirting, one fantasy in the shower, and I'm prepping special lunches like some lovesick fool. At forty-three, I should know better.
Boys like him—young, built, full of promise— they flake.
They always do.
Lazlo and Antonio share another look, this one laced with amusement. Antonio chuckles, deep and rumbling.
"We've got lunch service covered, chef,” Antonio says. “Kitchen's prepped, the team is on point. Why don't you take that box over to the site yourself? Or even better, taken some of our pre-prepped sandwiches for the whole crew. Show the boy what happens to naughty ones who forget their lunch!"
I pause, the image flashing: Danny over my lap, those massive thighs tensing under my hand, his blush spreading as I deliver a firm reminder. Heat stirs low in my gut, cutting through the annoyance.
"You two are incorrigible." But I can't help the chuckle that escapes. "I might just do that. Teach him a lesson about keeping promises."
"Attaboy," Lazlo says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Go get your Little. And if he's half as smitten as he looked last night, he'll be begging for forgiveness."
I roll my eyes but grab my keys from the hook anyway.
"Fine. But if service tanks while I'm gone, it's on you two," I say, a look of mock threat in my eyes.
They wave me off with matching grins, and I head to the walk-in cooler. If I'm going to the site, might as well make it count. Ipull out ingredients—fresh breads, cheeses, meats—and whip up a dozen more lunches in record time. Sandwiches stacked high, fruit, cookies for everyone.
An offering for the crew… and an excuse to hunt down my wayward boy.
The Porsche SUV purrs to life in the alley behind the restaurant, the engine's growl matching my mood. It's a sleek black beast, more suited to city streets than construction zones, but it'll turn heads. And right now, I want all eyes on me. The drive to the site is short—too short to cool my irritation—but long enough to rehearse what I'll say.
Danny better have a damn good reason for ghosting.
I pull up to the chain-link fence surrounding the build, dust kicking up under the tires. The site's a hive of activity: cranes swinging, hammers pounding, men in hard hats shouting orders.
As I step out, slamming the door with a bit more force than necessary, heads turn.
Whistles and murmurs ripple through the crew.
Yeah, a Porsche at a construction site sticks out like caviar at a barbecue. Except I’m not some rich client coming to check out the build. Oh no, I’m something else altogether.
I pop the trunk, revealing the stack of boxed lunches, each labeled with my restaurant's logo.
