She turns slowly, taking everything in.
“It’s beautiful,” she admits, and there’s no hesitation in it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Something in my chest loosens at her tone. It’s soft and dreamy in a way that I’ve come to associate only with Taylor.
I nod once, then lead her toward the back. “Kitchen’s this way.”
We move through the space together, close but not touching. There are moments where our arms brush, small accidental contact that lingers just a second too long before we both shift away.
The silence between us sits just shy of uncomfortable.
There’s too much simmering underneath it.
I push through the swinging doors into the main kitchen, already alive with last minute prep before the first official dinner service ofNorthern Flame.
“This is where the magic happens,” I say lightly.
Her eyes light up immediately, scanning the room with interest. The chefs and line cooks don’t acknowledge us, completely absorbed in their task at hand.
Exactly as they should be.
Distractions equal mistakes and mistakes have consequences, especially for new concepts.
“Okay, this is incredible,” she says eyes sparking to life, stepping further in. “Look at this setup.”
I watch her instead of the kitchen.
How she moves through the space, carefully staying out of the way, curiosity pulling her forward. My attention hyper-focuses on the trail of her fingers over the counter as she looks around.
Having her in the space I built is almost as surreal as owning my own restaurant. And, while this is the first time, if I have it my way, it won’t be the last.
I look away before I get too caught up in the thought.
“There’s more,” I say, nodding toward the back hallway.
She follows without question. We walk in silence for a few seconds before I stop in front of a closed door at the back of the kitchen.
“This is the last part.”
My heart starts beating wildly in my chest, hands going clammy with nerves. This is the moment I’ve been working toward these past few months.
“Oooh, mysterious!” She tilts her head, teasing.
“Something like that.”
I push the door open, stepping inside and flipping the light on.
“This space is separate for a reason,” I start, leaning casually against the counter as she steps in behind me. “Savory kitchens are brutal on pastry. Too many smells, too much heat. It messes with everything.”
She considers that as she analyzes the pristine prep room with state-of-the-art appliances and flawless chrome countertops.
“That’s why this is back here, isolated in a controlled environment. No interference.”
Her gaze moves across the room, lingering on the equipment, the layout, the way everything is set up with intention for optimum flow.
