Chapter 7 #3
“You’re right,” he agrees, wincing. “But that’s not that easy, and it’s high season.
If we close the restaurant, half the inn’s income dies, and people won’t get paid.
” He glances back toward where his brother is now refilling water glasses and chatting with another table, like everything is fine.
“Nevan’s been working constantly, trying to hold everything together.
He’s already doing everything because the inn doesn’t have enough staff.
Reception, serving, housekeeping, and now he’s trying to cook. ”
I cringe at the thought.
“Yeah, you can see how well it’s going, but he would never close. He told me he’ll figure something out before Mabel notices, but…” He trails off, shaking his curls. “He’s running himself into the ground. I want to help, but he won’t let me.”
I have no idea who any of these people are, but judging by the way he watches the bigger, blonder version of himself walking back to the kitchen, Nevan is definitely Fairy Boy’s brother.
“But if you stay open like this…” I gesture toward the dining room, the charred chicken, the depressed sandwich, “… people will notice and leave bad reviews. That’s worse. You’ll lose income now, sure, but at least people will come back in the future.”
He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and shrugs with a yeah, fair point kind of tilt.
I suck in a breath.
Not your circus, not your monkeys, Lennon. Stay out of it. Eat your Brie, do a tarot reading, and mind your own…
His brother emerges from the kitchen carrying another plate of chicken that looks even more tortured than the last one.
Oh God.
So much for minding my own business.
“Alice Waters, grant me strength,” I mutter, and before Fairy Boy can ask the question practically gleaming in his eyes, I stand, grab my grocery bag, and pull out my phone.
“Here…” I hand it to him, “… give me your number. We’re doing the tarot reading tomorrow.”
“Sure.” He takes it, curls bouncing as he taps rapidly. “But why?”
He hands the phone back, and I glance at the contact name with a frown. “Your name isn’t Shaw?”
“Well, it is my last name. My first name is Jasper.”
Jasper, the little punk fairy. Cute.
“What’s your—” he starts to ask, but another waft of burned food hits my nostrils, and I cut him off.
“Let’s go.” I march straight toward the kitchen doors as if I’ve been hired to fix this place. “We’ve got dishes to rescue.”
Jasper scrambles behind me as I push into the kitchen, toss my groceries onto the nearest prep table, and shove the butter and Brie into the walk-in like I’ve worked here for years. I yank my yellow bandana out of my purse and tie it over my hair, and then I let myself actually look at the kitchen.
The space is huge, way bigger than I expected, with old brick walls painted white, wide butcher-block counters softened by years of knife marks, and a copper pot rack hanging overhead that looks like it’s seen generations of Sunday roasts.
There’s a massive cast-iron stove that looks original to the inn, plus a more modern range shoved in beside it.
The walk-in door is dented. The shelves are a chaotic collage of mismatched containers, spices in old jars, and stacks of sheet pans that don’t quite fit together.
It’s beautiful in a lived-in, lovingly neglected way.
The rest is… a whole situation.
It’s chaos, yes, a beautiful disaster only a restaurant mid-crisis can achieve, but it’s also organized chaos. The ticket rail is a mess, sure, and the prep station is cluttered, but the knife set is clean and carefully arranged.
He’s been trying. He’s been trying so hard.
I know that kind of trying. You keep a thing alive with adrenaline, instinct, and the stupid belief that if you work hard enough, collapse can be negotiated with.
But nobody can run a whole inn by themselves. You need people who are good at their jobs.
Good thing I’m great at mine.
I grab a clean apron off a hook, slip it over my head, roll up my sleeves, and head straight for the sink. Hot water. Soap. Rinse. Again. Again.
“You… know what you’re doing, right?” Jasper asks from where he’s leaning against the wall next to the swing doors, visibly torn between awe and panic.
I raise a brow at him. “Does it look like I do?”
He grins, dimples and all. “I’ll shut up then.”
It smells like chaos and desperation—scorched protein, old oil, stress-sweat, pure panic—but somehow that scent is also like home.
Five-star Michelin kitchens smell exactly the same, minus the burned chicken and ancient fryer oil. But the sweat and fear? There’s always plenty of that.
“How about some music?” I ask.
Jasper perks up. “On it.” He darts to the wall-mounted radio and cranks the volume.
“Yellow,” by Coldplay fills the kitchen, and I crack my neck, step into position, and wiggle my fingers. The lemons on my nails grin back at me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something besides exhaustion, pain, or panic.
Purpose.
Not happiness or peace, but close enough to keep me standing.
I slap the cutting board flat, reach for a knife, and test its balance, an old habit snapping back into place.
God, I’ve missed this.