“Is this wise?” I ask, keeping my tone level. “Getting involved with a local? This is a small town. People talk. If things go south, it doesn’t just affect you. It affects the restaurant. It affects the pack.”
Eli straightens his shoulders, his jaw setting in a way I haven’t seen often. “It’s not like that, Knox. It’s just tarts. I’m not asking her to marry me. I’m not even asking her on a date. I was… I just wanted to see her smile. That’s all.”
Fallon’s grin fades slightly as he looks between us. He senses the shift in the air, the sudden tension. “Okay, whoa. Let’s dial it back. It’s just tarts. No need to bring out the corporate handbook.”
“It’s not just tarts,” I argue, my eyes locked on Eli. “You’re distracted. You’re humming. You’re off your game. That’s dangerous in a kitchen.”
“I am perfectly capable of doing my job,” Eli counters, his voice firm. “And I don’t need you policing my social interactions. I’m an adult, Knox. I know the risks.”
“Do you?” I challenge. “Because the last time one of us got distracted by a pretty face, we nearly lost the business before it started.”
Eli flinches. The reference to Mary hangs heavy in the air. It’s a low blow, and I know it, but fear is a cold thing in my gut.
We have built something fragile here. We have built a life. The thought of it unraveling because of… feelings… makes my chest feel tight.
“That was different,” Eli says quietly. “She’s not like that. She’s not playing games.”
“How do you know?” I press. “You’ve known her for what? A week? Two days? You don’t know her. You just know how she looks when she eats a pastry.”
“I know enough,” Eli snaps, slamming a tray of pastry shells onto the counter with a clatter. “And I’m done having this conversation. I have work to do.”
He turns his back to us, grabbing a bowl of lemon curd. The message is clear.
Fallon looks at me, his eyebrows raised. “Tone it down, man. You’re acting like his father.”
I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. The adrenaline of the confrontation is leaving me feeling drained.
Fallon is right. I am acting like a tyrant. But the fear doesn’t go away.
I walk over to the office, grabbing the ledger from the desk. I need to focus on something tangible.
Numbers don’t lie. Numbers don’t have hidden agendas.
I walk back out into the kitchen, slapping the heavy book onto the metal island.
“Fine,” I say, opening the book to the latest spreadsheets. “We’re dropping the personal talk. We need to talk about the business.”
Fallon groans. “Please, no. My brain is fried.”
“Look at this.” I point to the column of figures. “We are twenty percent over our projected revenue for the quarter. Twenty percent. The lunch crowd is growing, and the dinner specials are selling out every night.”
“That’s good, right?” Fallon asks, wiping down his station. “That means we’re rich.”
“It means we’re successful,” I correct. “But it also means we are drowning. Look at the labor hours. Eli, you were here until two a.m. last night doing the bake-off. Fallon, you were here at six a.m. breaking down the meat delivery. I’m pulling double shifts managing the floor and the line.”
“We’re a team,” Fallon says with a shrug. “That’s what we do.”
“We’re burning out,” I counter. “I see it in your eyes, Fallon. I see it in Eli’s shoulders. We can’t sustain this pace. If we keep pushing like this, mistakes are going to happen. And in a kitchen, mistakes mean injuries or bad food.”
“So what’s the solution?” Eli asks from his station, his back still to us but his voice calmer now. “Raise prices?”
“Maybe. A little. But that’s not the main fix.” I tap the ledger. “We need to hire staff.”
The kitchen goes silent.
“No,” Fallon says immediately.
“Hear me out,” I hold up a hand. “I’m not talking about bringing in another chef. We are the core. The identity of this place is us. I’m talking about support staff. A prep cook. A dishwasher. Someone to handle the cleaning, the vegetable peeling, the stock rotation.”
