“Fine. I’m a chef.” It’s little more than a mumble, and it feels strange to voice those words, but at least it stops him from hounding me.
“Better,” Archer says. “Now talk to me, Chef.”
I realize what he’s doing. With my hand still clutched between his two giant palms, he’s trying to distract me while the crew downstairs works on getting the elevator back up and running. And I hate to admit it, but it’s working.
My right hand is still in Julian’s, which is only slightly uncomfortable since the start of our relationship was so rocky. If someone had told me when I was picking up custard off the Kades’ dining room floor that I’d be holding hands with Julian in an elevator hours later, I would have called them a liar.
But here we are.
And sure, his hand does feel sort of nice.
“What do you want me to talk about?” I ask Archer.
“Tell me about your dreams. If you could cook anything anywhere, what and where would it be?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” I say, looking up toward the mirrored ceiling. “I’d cook my own menu in my own restaurant.”
“What would be on your menu?” Archer asks, nudging in closer to me.
“It would be an Indian fusion restaurant,” I say wistfully. “I love taking things I grew up on—flavors and foods my mom made in our kitchen—and combining them with the French techniques I fell in love with in culinary school. Like kokum-glazed scallops with shaved fennel and pink peppercorns.”
Archer hums, eyes closed, already picturing it.
“That sounds amazing,” Julian mutters under his breath.
“Duck confit samosas with fig chutney.”
“Stop,” Archer groans.
“Chili-guava macarons.”
“You’re killing me. Please.”
I laugh softly, but there’s a weight behind it. I glance down at my lap as I speak, letting myself sink into the vision that’s lived in my head since I was thirteen.
“Growing up, I used to feel split in pieces. An Indian girl living in California, named after a Norse goddess. Too Indian for my school friends, too American for my relatives in Punjab. But food always brought the pieces together. My mom used to make dal while I practiced croissants, and somehow, our kitchen didn’t fall apart. It made sense. It felt like me. And now I want to create a place that does that—blends stories and cultures on every plate.”
Even with tears moistening my eyes, I see it all so clearly. Handwritten menus. Bright, joyful colors pressed against gilded accents. Brass lamps like the ones my biji had in her living room. The scent of toasted ajwain and masala chai in the air.
“There’s poetry in that, you know? In how food carries memory. It carries history. I want my restaurant to feel like that. Like a conversation—between old worlds and new ones.”
Julian shivers with my hand still gripped in his, so I gently tug him closer. He inches toward me until our legs are touching. Archer does the same on the other side, all three of us silently agreeing that body warmth is more important than decorum.
“So what’s stopping you?” Archer asks. “Open your restaurant. You obviously have what it takes.”
At this, I scoff loudly. “What’s stopping me?”
“Yeah,” he says, his teeth starting to chatter.
“A little thing called money, Archer. I need funds to lease the location and money to buy the furniture and food and supplies and decor. I don’t have a spare restaurant just lying around.”
He turns his head toward me, and when I do the same, our faces are mere inches apart. Close enough to see the nearly black hue to his eyes.
“That’s it?”
I roll my eyes and look away. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“The only thing standing between you and your dream restaurant is money?”
