Monday morning hits with that crisp clarity only a fresh week can bring—the city stirring awake, the birds singing, the faint scent of rain in the air from an overnight drizzle.
“Work hard!” I call out. “And behave!”
“Will do,” Danny replies. “And I’ll do my best LOL!”
I stand at the restaurant's front door, waving Danny off as he heads to the building site on foot.
Danny looks happy.
He's got that post-weekend glow, backpack slung over one shoulder with Lexi peeking out, his stride long and confident but with a backward glance and a shy wave that melts me every time.
"You’ve got this, boy," I call, voice carrying over the quiet sidewalk. He grins, blowing a kiss before turning the corner.
Damn, that boy.
After our weekend of fun and frolics, letting him go feels like releasing a part of myself. But the site's his world, for now. And the restaurant is mine too.
Back inside, the restaurant's still asleep… tables set but empty, kitchen prepped for the day ahead.
Antonio's due any minute for our meeting.
No Lazlo, no other crew.
Just Antonio and me.
My stomach twists with nerves I haven't felt since opening night years ago. This proposal—it's huge.
Life-changing for both of us.
If he accepts, it could pave the way for my future with Danny. I will be able to step away from the daily grind here, relocate, bridge our worlds.
But if Antonio turns it down? I’m back to square one, him off to New York, me chained to this place while Danny's crew pulls him home.
It's a gamble, but one that I know I have to take to give Danny and I the best shot possible at making our relationship work in the long run. Of all the boys in the world, Danny is the one who could make me do this. But it’s not even like I feel any hardship at contemplating it. It feels right. I’m ready for a new start. I just hope that Antonio is thinking along the same lines…
I pace the dining room, fingers trailing over the polished bar.
Laurent's words echo…
"The best decisions come from the soul, not the head, Olivier."
My mentor, gruff but wise, always hammered that in. Logic for menus, intuition for life. It makes sense to me, and I’ve tried to live by it as much as I possibly could over the years.
I stop at the framed photo on the wall—me and Laurent outside this very spot on opening night. I'm young, all sharp ambition and nerves, suit ill-fitted from borrowing it last-minute. Laurent is beaming, arm around my shoulders, cigar in hand, the sign above us fresh-painted:Ramsey’s.
Pride surges in the memory—Laurent’s praise that night, generous and unfiltered. "You did it, kid. This place? It's you. Now make it sing."
Laurent didn't hoard credit. No, he gave flowers when they were due. He celebrated my successes as easily as he critiqued my missteps. He gave me the push without the pull-back. If I'm half the mentor to Antonio that Laurent was to me, this proposal's the right call.
My soul says yes.
My head? It worries about details—contracts, transitions, the void I’ll leave if I’m not around.
But soul wins.
The door chimes, snapping me from reverie. Antonio steps in, shaking rain from his coat, that usual easy smile faltering when he sees me by the photo.
"Morning, chef,” Antonio says. “Awesome shot. You two look like conquerors." He hangs his coat, eyes flicking around the empty room. "Early meet,huh? If this is about firing me... I getit. The New York thing, right? Seriously, I get it. It’s not a good look to have a chef poached. So fire him first. It’s cool."
