“It’s the kind I love,” she answers, eyes bright. “Thanks for stopping by.”
I nod again and step back again, forcing myself to turn and walk toward Ops, the reason I claimed I was here in the first place.
Behind me, a pen taps, and I picture that strand of hair swinging down to cover those laughing blue eyes, while a pen cap sits nestled between her lips.
Chapter Five
Olivia
I take the service corridor instead of the main elevators because the restaurant entrance is still taped off for finishing work, and I don’t want to step through wet clear coat in heels.
The corridor smells like paint and roasted garlic—an interesting, yet somehow appealing combination. Someone’s testing the hoods because there’s a constant low white noise overhead. I guess I'd better get used to that sound.
The restaurant cocooned behind the papered glass is supposed to be dark today—contractors only, no staff.
Caterina blocked out a week for the final punch list before the culinary team starts living in the space. I’m here to check the sight line from the host stand to the lounge and make sure the sight of the ocean isn’t blocked by the wine display. I also want to measure the distance for cocktail pass so the servers don’t get caught in pinch points when the room fills. It’s the kind of nerdy detail that thrills me.
I push the service door with my shoulder, step into the back hall, and stop.
The kitchen glows. It’s not the harsh construction light I expect. Someone has turned on proper work lights over the line.
Stainless runs long and bright, already wearing the first faint fingerprints that mean a kitchen is being well-used. On the pass, neat stacks of tasting spoons sit like soldiers beside a hotel pan of ice. A pot simmers on a burner at the far end, giving off the kind of fragrance that stops you mid-thought: lemon and herbs and something rich that has nothing to do with fresh paint.
A woman stands with her back to me at the sauté station. She’s in white, sleeves rolled up, dark hair braided and coiled at the nape of her neck. She moves with an efficiency I recognize from every serious kitchen I’ve ever stepped into, the kind with no wasted movement: pan off, tilt, taste, a small adjustment, a nod to herself. She’s not supposed to be here, and also, she is absolutely supposed to be here because everything about her screams it.
I don’t have to see her face to know who it is.
“Excuse me,” I say, because I feel like a guest in her kitchen. “I can come back if you need quiet.”
She turns, tasting spoon still between her fingers. Green eyes, dark lashes, pursed lips. She isn’t wearing a scrap of makeup and doesn’t need it.
“Hi,” she says, voice warm and a little amused, like she knows she’s breaking a rule and dares me to scold her. “You must be Olivia.”
I laugh, caught. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s the posture,” she says, setting the spoon in the ice pan, already reaching for a towel to wipe her station. “Like you’re measuring the room in your head. Caterina did that here the first time she walked in. Exact same look.” She offers her hand, palm strong, callused. “Bianca.”
I shake, a little starstruck because somehow meeting the chef is different than hearing about her. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” I say. “All of it terrifyingly good.”
“That’s a relief.” She leans a hip against the stainless and studies me for a beat. “I wasn’t supposed to be in for another week,” she adds, self-aware. “But I got an update on the kitchen this morning from Caterina, and she asked me something about basil, and it broke the seal. I just couldn’t stay away. So here I am.”
I grin before I can stop myself. “I couldn’t imagine sitting home while someone else takes care of everything for me.”
“You understand,” Bianca says, grinning right back. She gestures at the line. “I’ll behave. Mostly. Paperwork gets signed next week. Today I’m checking the heat distribution on the flattop and whether the ventilation scatters everything under it.
“You were the one with the locals-first idea, right?”
“Guilty.”
“Good,” she says easily. “That’s the right call.” She tips her chin at the pass. “Come taste. If you hate it, I’ll pretend you didn’t say anything, but it’ll keep me up at night.”
“I’m honored,” I deadpan, but my heart kicks because this is the kind of welcome that means trust. I step to the pass, take the spoon she offers. Steam touches my face as I lean in.
“What is it?”
“Test broth for the lemon saffron risotto we’re running in the lounge with the branzino crudo on top,” she says. “I’m checking whether the brightness holds after a low simmer.”
I taste. The first hit is silk and salt, then the lemon threads in beautifully, not sour but bright. There’s a zing that makes my shoulders drop and something floral that must be the saffron coming in at the end.
