I take it gratefully. “You are my heroine.”
Angela smiles. “I get that a lot.”
Tom exhales like he’s been released from captivity. “Yes. Apron. Good thinking.”
“You’re welcome,” Angela chuckles.
I tie the apron around my waist, deliberately slow. Tom very pointedly looks at the prep table.
“There,” I say. “Safe. Covered. Still tragically myself.”
Angela steps back, eyes flicking between us with open amusement. “Try not to scare him,” she says to me.
“I’m not trying,” I reply. “It’s a natural talent.”
Tom groans. “Where is the respect for me?”
I meet his gaze, smile widening just a touch. “You’re the one who blushed.”
“I did not blush.”
Angela raises an eyebrow. “Chef.”
He sighs. “I may have… coloured slightly.”
“Like a tomato,” I say.
He shoots me a look. “Careful.”
“Oh,” I reply, entirely unfazed. “I am.”
Angela shakes her head, still smiling, and moves back to her station. As she goes, she mutters just loudly enough, “This is better than the Saturday rush.”
Tom straightens, finally regaining some dignity. “Right. Orientation. Before you say anything else.”
“Too late,” I say.
He points a finger at me. “One more teasing and I’m assigning you to stand by the dishwashers.”
I consider it. “Tempting. But no.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
The jacket is abandoned on the hook. The apron stays. The air between us still feels tight, charged, and faintly ridiculous.
And for reasons I absolutely refuse to examine, I am enjoying every second of it.
There is a natural lull after the jacket incident. Not awkward exactly. More like the kitchen collectively deciding to pretend it never happened while filing it away for future entertainment.
Time slides. Not hours. Just enough for Tom to walk me through the space properly.
He introduces me to Paolo, who runs hot section with the quiet authority of someone who has burned himself enough times to stop swearing about it. There are two apprentices, Sam and Nisha, both young, sharp eyed, and vibrating slightly with nerves and caffeine. His head waiter, Luca, appears long enough to shake my hand, assess melike a complicated booking request, and disappear again with the air of a man who knows exactly where everything is and intends to keep it that way.
By the time the tour ends, the kitchen has accepted me as furniture. Mobile furniture, but still.
Tom stops at a stainless steel workstation tucked slightly out of the main traffic flow. A calm pocket in the noise. Ingredients are already laid out with military neatness. Tomatoes. Garlic. Basil. Olive oil. Salt. Nothing fancy.
“All right,” he says, planting his hands on the counter. “This is where you stand.”
