“Sure, I get it,” he says, his eyes landing on every spot in the kitchen but me. “I should get back to my prep. But see you at Freddie’s later?”
“Definitely,” I say, letting out a relieved breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Fortunately, the conversation doesn’t go any further, because just then, Chef’s voice cuts through the kitchen.
“It’s showtime, people!” he calls out. “Here we go. Ordering: two halibut, one salmon, one tagine, no olives. Followed by one campanelle and a hanger steak, MR.”
“Oui,Chef!”
“And,” he continues, “picking up on twelve, six, nine, thirty-one, forty-two.”
“Oui,Chef!”
“Six!” calls Mia.
“Six!”
Timers tick, pans clatter, oil sizzles. The air swells with the fragrance of melted butter, roasting fish, and sweat.
“Plates!” Oren bellows. I reach under the pass and grab a fresh stack of white china. Oren swings past me, grabbing them off the countertop without even pausing to make eye contact.
Across the kitchen, an enormous pot of water bubbles. Our timer indicates there are only three minutes left until the pasta finishes, and a quick glance at the countertop confirms there won’tbe space for all the dishes. I grab a handful of trivets and start looking for places to stash the hot plates.
Chef rotates through the kitchen, quietly sampling each dish. The campanelle with mushroom and asparagus sauce gets his approval, as does the halibut, but he stops abruptly in his tracks when he samples the steak’s chimichurri. He thrusts the pan back at Corbin, instructing him to add more seasoning.
Meanwhile, Mia and I are swamped with appetizer orders. We take turns, alternating between salad and hummus platters. I’m at it for less than five minutes before Oren calls my name from across the room.
“Lexi! I need a hand with plating!” I shoot Mia an apologetic look as I dash over to meet him at the pasta station. I quickly scoop pasta into shallow porcelain bowls, then ladle the mushroom sauce on top. My presentation isn’t nearly as pleasing as Oren’s, but in a hurry, it’s the best we can do.
“Service!” Chef yells. A parade of waiters hurries into the kitchen. They pluck up the plates, hoist them two at a time on their arms, and usher them out to the waiting guests.
A second timer goes off. More dishes sail over to the pass. Another round of waiters comes through the kitchen, grabs them, and dashes through the kitchen doors.
An hour passes before the ticket printer finally stills. I’m just leaning against the metal countertop trying to catch my breath when Mia slides up beside me. Her dark eyes sparkle with amusement as she crosses her tattooed arms and leans back against the countertop.
“So. You and Ethan, huh?”
“Is that bad?” I ask, a knot of panic forming in my chest. “I didn’t think there were any rules against dating coworkers here. I mean, you always hear about kitchens and—”
“Chill, Ann Taylor! You’re cool. Practically everyone in this joint has hooked up at some point.” She bites back a smile. “I’mjust a little surprised you’d go for the human embodiment of vanilla extract.” We both glance over at Ethan, who’s wiping a dab of sweat from his halo of blond curls. His biceps flex as he sweeps crumbs from his station. Mia has a point: the guy’s a walking stock photo.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re about as basic as they come,” she continues. “But I suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye. Underneath all that pumpkin spice and neurosis, I think there’s a fierce-ass bitch with green M&M energy just dying to get out.” She grins at me, and I can’t help but smile back.
Just then, Hannah, the hostess, bursts into the kitchen. Her dark eyes are wide, and her cheeks are flushed pink.
“Oren!” she hisses as she hurries over to our station. “We have a situation.”
“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “Another re-fire? It’ll be the third one tonight.” We call anything that returns to the kitchen a “re-fire,” because it usually means the dish will be returning to the oven for one reason or another: it isn’t cooked to the correct level of doneness, or the customer didn’t find it warm enough. Re-fires usually fall under Oren’s jurisdiction, and honestly, I’m not sure he has it in him to handle another one tonight.
Hannah shakes her head, her dark curls bouncing back and forth. “Not a re-fire, Oren. There’s acelebrityhere, and he wants to come back to thank the staff personally.”
My stomach drops. No… he wouldn’t.Would he?Oren’s face lights up. “Well, by all means, bring him back!” he instructs.
Hannah beams with excitement and practically bounces through the swinging doors. A minute later, she returns, Jake in tow. He gives the staff a little wave as he showcases his dimple. Hannah practically dissolves into a puddle.
“Sorry to interrupt y’all,” he says. “I just wanted to say thanks for the incredible meal.”
He turns to look at me with a sheepish smile. “Hey, Lex.”
“Jake, what are you doing here?”
