Guilt gnaws at my ribs, but I push it down. Better she thinks I'm an asshole than she figures out the real reason I can't listen to her talk about food with that enthusiasm brightening her whole face, making her eyes spark, making her gesture with her hands in a way that draws my attention to the curve of her wrist, the elegant movement of her fingers.
Jesus Christ. I'm losing it.
"Plating," I announce.
I slide the risotto onto warmed plates while Maya rests the duck, fans the Brussels sprouts, adds the cherry gastrique I prepped this morning. We don't talk. We don't need to. After two weeks, we've developed a rhythm that would be beautiful if it didn't make me want things I absolutely cannot have.
She's twenty-four. I did the math after her interview, casually asked about when she graduated culinary school, calculated the years and felt my stomach drop. She's closer in age to my brother Owen than she is to me, young enough that the age gap makes this attraction inappropriate at best and predatory at worst.
And she works for me. I'm her boss, her mentor, the person responsible for her professional development. I'm not the kind of man who abuses that position, who takes advantage of a young woman just starting her career, who confuses proximity and admiration for something real.
Even if sometimes, when she's focused on a task and doesn't know I'm watching, I catch myself imagining what it would be like to back her against the stainless steel counter, to bracket her with my arms and finally taste that mouth that's been haunting my dreams.
"Service," I call out, and Maya carries the plates to the pass where Jenny, our front-of-house manager, is waiting.
"Looks gorgeous, Chef," Jenny says. "Table six is going to love it."
The dining room is visible through the pass, all warm lighting and exposed brick and the low hum of conversation that means people are happy, relaxed, enjoying themselves. This is what I wanted when I designed Juniper's—a place that felt special without being intimidating, where locals could afford to celebrate without breaking the bank, where the food was the star but not at the expense of comfort.
My eyes catch on the framed photo near the host stand. Grandma June, laughing in her kitchen, flour on her nose and joy in her eyes. She'd love this place. She'd love that I named it for her, that I'm using her pie recipe for dessert specials, that I'm trying to create the same warmth she always brought to cooking.
She'd also probably smack me upside the head for being an idiot about Maya.
"Behind," Maya says, and I step aside, letting her access the prep station.
She's making the salad course for table eight, her hands moving through the mise en place. Arugula, shaved fennel, citrus segments, toasted almonds. She plates it with more care than necessary for a simple salad, arranging everything with an eye for color and composition.
"You're overthinking it," I tell her. "It's just a salad."
"There's no such thing as 'just' anything." She doesn't look up, but there's something defiant in her tone. "Every plate matters."
And damn it, she's right. That's exactly my philosophy, what I've been preaching since day one. Every plate matters. Every dish is an opportunity to make someone's night better, to create a memory, to show that you care about the details.
I taught her that.
"Fine," I mutter. "But we're on a clock. Beautiful and timely, remember?"
"Yes, Chef."
Orders flow in, plates flow out, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I lose myself in the work. This is where I'm comfortable. The heat, the pressure, the need to execute flawlessly under constraints. Fifteen years of kitchens, from New York to NewOrleans, fine dining to casual bistros, and this is still where I feel most like myself.
In the chaos. In the fire.
Table twelve sends back their compliments to the chef. Table four orders a second bottle of wine. Table nine asks if we can accommodate a dairy allergy, and Maya's already adjusting the preparation before I can respond, swapping butter for olive oil, checking every component for hidden dairy.
She's thinking ahead. Anticipating. Becoming the kind of cook who doesn't just follow recipes but understands them, who can adapt on the fly because she knows the why behind every technique.
I'm proud of her.
I'm also going out of my mind.
"Last ticket," Jenny calls around nine-thirty, and relief washes through me. We're through another service. Another night of not screwing up, not disappointing people, not proving that opening a restaurant in my hometown was a romantic delusion doomed to failure.
Maya's already breaking down her station, moving through the closing routine. Containers sealed and dated, surfaces wiped down, trash consolidated. She works clean, another thing I noticed early on. Some cooks are brilliant but messy, leaving chaos in their wake. Maya keeps her space organized, makes cleanup part of the process rather than an afterthought.
Grandma June would have approved.
"Good work tonight," I tell her, because I should, because she deserves to hear it even if my voice comes out rougher than intended.
