Charlie’s head pops up quickly, concern in his crystal blue eyes.
“Not that bad, fire boy. No need to whip out the puppy dog eyes. Put those things back where they came from.”
Dishy and Wilder laugh—I try not to listen—and Charlie’s brows go back where they started.
“What’s up, Boss?” Wilder asks, strolling over, whipping a kitchen towel over his shoulder.
My traitorous eyes notice how strong the planes of his stubbled face look today, beneath that black bandana, and the glint of his silver chain poking out the top of his chef jacket.
My asshole brain wonders what’s beneath that chain, the jacket, and everything else blocking my view. The fact I haven’t seen for myself yet is all kinds of unfair.
And then I remember what I’m here to tell them and shake my head to clear it.
“Yeah, Tracy and Violet are out today. Sounds like the whole house came down with a double-ended plague. I’m going to be covering her section.”
Charlie’s face is back to doing that concerned thing. “Oh shit,” he says quietly. “Is she okay?”
“Tracy’s hanging in there.”
“And Violet?” Charlie is quick to ask.
“Sounds like no one in that family is loving life right now, but they should be fine. I’ll ask Samuel if he’s up for bringing them a deli container of his soup on your way home tonight. Maybe ding dong ditch to be safe?”
“I can do it!” Our resident cold-line cook and volunteer fireman throws his arm in the air, like he’s beating the competition to the offer. “I leave in just a couple hours. I’ll bring her soup. Them. Soup. Yeah.” He kicks the floor with his toe, a blush crawling across his cheeks as he drops his head.
Interesting. Do I smell a crush in the workplace? That might be one I can root for.
“Thank you, Charlie,” I say with a nod in his direction.
“I’ll help with side work,” Wanda offers, like the angel she is.
“Bless you.” I hold my hands together in front of my chest in thanks to her.
“Let me know what you need today, Boss,” Wilder says. “I got you.”
“I need you to do your job and nothing more. Thank you, staff! Let’s roll.”
Heading toward the dining room, a dish on the end of the expo station catches my eye. It’s not one I recognize, but it doesn’t look like takeout either.
“What’s this?” I ask no one and everyone.
“Oh, Lexi,” Wanda chuckles, tilting her head to give methe look.
“They’re pockets of love, woven by angels,” Dishy calls out from around the corner, where he’s peeking out at us.
“And I’m pretty sure their happy tears are what the sauce is made out of,” Charlie pipes up.
“It’s my house-made tortellini with pesto. Made with love.” Wilder’s voice is brusque, and there’s a smile through his words, which sets my hackles up.
“That’s what we said,” Charlie says, laughing.
“That’s a no from me,” I say, without looking at Wilder, the dish he made,orthe line it’s sitting on.
“Not even gonna try it before you shoot it down?” I can feel my head chef’s eyes twinkling at me and I refuse to give him the pleasure of looking up at him.
“Some things you don’t need to try to know they’re just not going to work out.” I clap my hands and turn my back on Wilder as the staff take off for their respective areas, sensing the shift in mood.
I’m left to pretend I can’t feel his closeness like a live wire under my skin.
