Samuel makes a clucking noise.
Leaning into my most reliable staff member, I mutter, “Keep an eye on these for me. One sec.”
When I shove my front half through the swinging door into the dining room, I see all three waitstaff running around, making sure the customers are cared for. With no guests tocheck out yet, and her front of house team on it, Lexi is grinning, talking smack with one of the tables.
“Boss!” I holler.
She jumps, scowling over her shoulder at me, and excuses herself from the patrons she’s entertaining.
“What?” she hisses at me, once she’s through the door.
“I need help back here. Either you jump on the grill with Samuel, or you help Dishy with his workload. He’s buried.”
“Got it,” she says, pursing her lips before streaking off for the back corner.
I allow myself the precious seconds to watch her go, the way her hips sway in determination.
A sight I’ll never get enough of.
“Chef!” Samuel barks, and I’m jerked back to the moment.
“Coming,” I call over.
“Just because we have a firefighter in the kitchen doesn’t mean we should tempt it,” he teases, pointing at the overload of pans on the stovetop and the sizzling dishes on the flattop.
Steam could turn to smoke in seconds without enough attention.
If I burn the place down, I blame Lexi’s ass.
Jumping back into the fray, I take over once again and between us, we somehow survive the second wave of the lunch rush.
Aside from onetime where Charlie insisted on trying to make the crepe, rather than just prep it for Samuel to cook (and burnt it to a shade of black that matches the deep night sky out here in the Heights), we’ve survived opening day so far.
Still chuckling at Charlie’s wail of “I’ll never get this, will I?” I shake my head.
Rounding the corner past the dish station that leads to the back door, I’m desperate for a thirty second break in between rounds of dinner orders.
The bandana around my forehead begs for a quick reposition, so I untie it, refold the fabric while my forehead relishes the fresh breeze, then secure it back in place.
By the backdoor, however, I freeze, hands still behind my head.
Lexi is stooped, back to the paneled wall, head pressed back against it with her eyes shut.
Last I saw her, she was alternating between helping out on dishes and darting through the dining room, cracking jokes with the patrons and front of house staff alike, sunshine beaming from her smile as she went. I didn’t see her slip back here for a moment of respite between the madness.
My fingers make quick work of the knot as I try not to startle her. But before I can make myself known, she takes one of her hands in the other, moaning pitifully as she rubs it with the kind of delicacy I used to use plating in fine dining. Like too much pressure would rupture something that deserves to be cherished.
“You good?”
She jumps with the couple of words, like I dropped her in ice water—the way we do to the asparagus—before her eyes catch up to the scene in front of her and she rolls them at me instead.
Is this a miracle?
She catches herself, stopping mid-roll before her face melts, morphing into a look I’m not sure she’s ever directed my way.
Worry?
Lexi shocks me again when her tone also comes out concerned instead of annoyed toward me for possibly the firsttime since I’ve known her. “Is everything okay in the kitchen? Do you need something, Chef?”
