“You’re late.” Oren’s voice is terse when I step into the kitchen. I yank my fingers through my hair, twisting it back in a messy knot. Then I pull on my toque and send a silent prayer into the universe that no one has noticed the cameramen lurking outside the restaurant.
“I know.”
“You can’t do this, Lexi. You missed half yourmisetime.”
“I know, I know. I promise, I’m going to catch up.”
But my words are futile. Lunch service is already starting, and within minutes, I’m in the weeds, helpless to resist the pull of my own downward spiral. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to catchup, and my head pounds against the pressure of a never-ending to-do list.
I try to reassure myself that I can prep during service if my station isn’t hit too hard, but it’s no use. Salad orders are at their heaviest during the lunch hour, and between trying to prep and plate, I’m drowning.
Mia does her best to bail me out, taking on as much of my workload as she can, but there’s only so much she can do. It isn’t long before Oren is forced to set up his own station beside us, his expression clouded with annoyance. He directs me to finish mymisewhile he takes over my salad orders.
Head spinning, I begin dicing vegetables as quickly as possible. This day is already a complete disaster, and I have no one to blame but myself. I never should have agreed to go to Georgia with Jake in the first place. What on earth was I thinking, taking that kind of gamble with time? I’ve never been late to anything in my life, and after one weekend with Jake, I’m showing up two hours late to work. I’m lucky Oren didn’t fire me on the spot.
But there’s more to my panic than just time management. So much has changed within the past twenty-four hours, and I’m still trying to sort through what is happening with Jake. On the one hand, it feels incredible to finally stop fighting my feelings for him. But on the other, I can’t escape the mounting sense of anxiety about being outed by the press. I’ve spent the last three years avoiding the drama of romantic entanglements, and now, in a particularly cruel twist of irony, I’ve fallen headfirst into a relationship so conspicuous that a gang of paparazzi are lingering outside my workplace. How long will it be before someone here notices? What if the photographers try to come into the restaurant? Or worse, the kitchen?
I’m so caught up in my inner monologue that I barely notice the flash of pain shooting through my knuckles until a pool of crimson spreads across the cutting board. Within seconds, my diced onions are coated in warm, sticky blood.
“Ow!” It’s a delayed reaction, though now that it’s caught my attention, it hurts like hell. Oren snaps his head around, face paling as he takes in the mess I’ve made.
“Jesus, Berman. First aid, my office.Now.” Muttering a series of curses under his breath, Oren grabs my bloodied cutting board, flinging its contents into the trash before tossing it into the sink.
Mortified, I wrap my hand in the bottom of my jacket and hurry into Oren’s office. I find the first aid kit in his top desk drawer, half buried between a collection of notepads and phone chargers, and head to the bathroom. After rinsing my hand in the sink, I dab on some antibacterial ointment and wrap Band-Aids around my three injured fingers. I’m too shaken to head back into the kitchen—I can already feel the threatening sting behind my eyes—so I head to the walk-in fridge instead, slumping to the floor as hot tears spill out of me.
I bury my face in my palms as a million thoughts race across my brain. How could I have been so careless? I’ve worked so hard to get where I am now, and for what? To fuck it all up for some boy? And not just any boy, but a megastar, who will be leaving me imminently. Then what will I do? Abandon all my goals and give up my career to follow him around the globe? There isn’t a chance in hell.
That’s if I can even hold on to my job. It was disruptive enough the night Jake visited the kitchen. What’s going to happen now that the world knows I’m the mystery woman behind the song that catapulted him to stardom?
I’m crouched there for an entire minute, shivering against the cold and doing my best to ignore the offensive fish smell wafting through the air, when I hear Mom’s voice in the back of my head.Get up, honey. You are strong. You are not a quitter.I sniffle, her voice ringing in my ears so clearly, it’s as if she’s right next to me. She was so strong, always preaching the importance of tenacity like the living embodiment of a “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster. There’sno way I’m going to let her down now, not after everything I’ve accomplished, just because things are tough.
Pulling myself up, I take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, and release it slowly. Then, I leave the fridge and head to the bathroom to wash my face.
When I return to my workstation a few minutes later, wearing the clean chef whites I grabbed from Oren’s office, Mia looks genuinely surprised to see me.
“You’re still here?”
“Of course I’m still here. You think I would just abandon you in the middle of a shift?” I shoot her a wry smile. “I seem to remember someone telling me that working in a restaurant is all about teamwork.”
Her shocked expression melts into bemusement. “Well. That person sounds like a bad-ass bitch.”
“BERMAN?”
I’m getting ready to head out the service door around eleven when Oren’s voice calls my name. I linger in the doorway of his office, too nervous to step all the way through. After my crying jag in the fridge, I managed to make it through the rest of my shift without incident, but I’ve been avoiding him as much as possible, paranoid that he’s going to hand me a pink slip the moment he spots me.
“I need you to cover an extra shift on Thursday night. To make up for the day you missed yesterday.” He holds up the clipboard with the call-sheet schedule, and relief floods through me as I realize that’s all he’s after.
“No problem, Oren. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I’m about to turn toward the hallway when his voice calls me back.
“By the way”—he raises his eyebrows at me as he leans back in his chair—“there were a few men with cameras asking for you this afternoon. Trevor got rid of them. Told ’em we’ve never heard ofany Alexa Berman.” Oren attempts a reassuring smile, but it does little to improve the sinking feeling in my stomach.Shit. I’d really hoped the paparazzi had given up after failing to catch me coming in this morning, and that the team would never have been the wiser.
“Thank you, Oren. I’m so sorry again, really.” I’m about to continue my groveling when a thought hits me.
“Wait, Trevor? Isn’t Hannah on today?”
“Hannah doesn’t work here anymore.” He pauses, throwing me a meaningful look. “Who do you think tipped the paparazzi off in the first place?”
My mind flashes back to that day Jake visited the kitchen, the glazed look on the hostess’s face as she stared up at Jake.Of course.
