Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nevan
Her words dissolve into static as I stare at her mouth, and I hate that I’m chasing scraps again. Clinging to the memory of my twenty-sixth birthday party like it meant more than it did—one night, a year ago, when she paid attention to me.
One night. And I’ve been running on fumes ever since.
God, I’m pathetic.
I take a deep breath to ground myself, but it’s not helping because she smells like coconut frosting and hot-girl indifference, and my brain short-circuits the way it does every single time she’s within three feet of me.
A year of this, and I still react like a kicked puppy.
“Nevan,” Sydney snaps, and every muscle in my back goes tight. I drag my gaze up and away from her mouth, to her pretty nose, then finally to her hazel eyes.
She frowns at me, hard, then thrusts the plate into my hands. “Are you going to start a new order or what?”
“Uh… I-I sure, I’ll…”
She spins and walks away, ponytail swinging, perfect ass swaying, and my dignity dies a slow, embarrassing death.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
Honestly, I’m already half convinced today is some elaborate karmic punishment. It’s probably for all the times I talked shit about Mercury retrograde.
Jasper would say that’s exactly why this is happening.
Regardless of the reason, I’m here once again, picking up the slack, running from one thing to the other, pretending I’m not one screaming nerve ending away from snapping.
Because I haven’t really slept again, and our grumpy-ass cook quit on me yesterday.
Dropped his apron on the floor and said something about “needing spiritual freedom” and left.
Spiritual freedom. Sure.
So, I’ve been up since four, taking care of the usual inn stuff while simultaneously trying to teach myself to make club sandwiches from YouTube.
I need freedom from this apron, burned sandwiches, and life, but sure, I’ll try this thing called cooking for paying guests again. I’m nothing if not persistent.
Or stubborn.
Or… stupid.
The word surfaces automatically, the way it does when I’m tired, and everything’s going wrong at once.
It’s familiar, a voice that’s been living in the back of my head longer than I can remember.
Teachers said it first. A few kids in school repeated it.
My mother never contradicted it because she was barely listening to begin with.
At some point, you stop arguing with it. It just becomes another fact.
Tall. Tired. Dumb.
Useful on a good day.
Invisible on the others.
I shove it down where it belongs and shoulder the kitchen door open harder than necessary.
Of course, I nearly walk straight into Jasper, who is just standing there with a huge grin on his face.
I follow his gaze and find a woman behind the stove, someone I have never seen before.
She’s short, with blonde hair swept back with a yellow bandana, and her sweater sleeves are rolled up to her elbows.
She’s moving around the kitchen as if she were hired five minutes ago, and I somehow missed the memo.
My gaze drops to the pan in front of her, and I take a deep inhale.
Jesus Christ.
It smells ridiculous.
Soul-selling ridiculous.
My mouth actually waters.
What in tarnation?
“Jasp.” I blink down at the curls on the top of my little brother’s head, trying to make sense of the situation. “What’s going on?”
Jasper spins toward me, still grinning. “Oh, hey, Nev.”
“Hey,” I say slowly. “Who is this?”
“That’s my new friend.” He beams wider. “I don’t know her name, but she’s—”
“You don’t know her name?”
Of course, he doesn’t.
“Yeah, but don’t worry, her aura is yellow. As in pure sunshine yellow, just like yours.” He nods to himself like that settles everything. “Actually, she feels a lot like you too. Same energy. Like… safe. Older sibling vibes.”
I stare at him.
“She told me to put on music, and then this song came on, which, duh. Okay, maybe there are a couple of shadows around the edges of her aura, but that’s just life, who doesn’t…”
Here we go, another esoteric spiral. Please, God, not right now.
“Jasper.”
“She’s a Taurus, too, so obviously she knows food. I don’t have her moon sign yet, but it’s like she’s meant to be in my life. Fate, you know? I should probably ask the cards later, but I can already feel it without them, which is usually a sign that it’s important—”
“Jasp,” I warn again, and he finally shuts up.
I lean toward him before he starts reciting her past lives or whatever he’s about to do next and ask loud enough that she can probably hear, “I don’t care if she’s a muffin moon or cupcake sun, why is a random short woman in my kitchen?”
Jasper giggles. The mouth of the woman in question twitches as she sets down four plates at the near end of the station, each with a perfect club sandwich.
She looks up at me with blue eyes and a confident little smirk. “The random short woman,” she says, tone dripping with I-don’t-have-time-for-your-male-confusion. “Is saving your ass. Now take these to the guests you tried to kill.”
I open my mouth, close it, open it again, but not a single brain cell steps up to help. They’ve all unionized and walked out.
The door swings open, but my focus is still locked on the stranger.
“Table 11 just ordered,” Sydney groans. “But at least it’s the last one for today.”
I swallow, still staring. “I… uh…”
The short woman exhales and turns to Sydney. “Table 11?”
Sydney hands over the ticket, not seeming shocked or interested in the new cook.
The blonde scans it, twirls a pan like she’s auditioning for a cooking show, and yells, “Ordering! Two eggs sunny, hash browns extra crispy, side of rye toast. Let’s go, people!
Oh, and here,” she adds, nodding toward the plates, “Can you take those to the guests with the burned… everything, please?”
Sydney’s lips twitch into an almost smile before she grabs the plates and turns to disappear back into the dining room, and my eyes drop before my self-respect can stop them.
Jasper pats my shoulder. “Simp.”
“You literally asked the stars for dating advice last week,” I fire back.
“The stars are wise, Nev.”
“The stars are balls of gas.”
He gasps and vanishes after Sydney with a muttered, “Rude,” before I can kick him in the shins.
Cool. Great. Abandon me with the crazy cooking show woman.
I tug at my apron. Why does it suddenly feel two sizes too tight?
I then drift closer because my feet are traitors.
She’s already got two pans going, flipping eggs with a flick of her wrist that makes me feel as if I’ve been doing this wrong my entire life.
She even seasons without looking, like her hands know exactly what the food needs before her brain does.
She’s completely at home in a kitchen that isn’t hers, with tools she never used before. I watch her adjust her grip on a pan and reach for the toast at the exact second it needs to be turned.
Each movement tells me she’s done this ten thousand times, until the muscle memory is deeper than thinking. It’s the same thing I do with a broken radiator, a sticky lock, or a guest who’s worked himself into a mood in the lobby. You don’t think. You just fix it.
I’ve never seen anyone do it with food before.
Okay. Fine. It’s already clear that she’s better than the old chef. Significantly better. Like, embarrassingly better. I’ll let her finish the last ticket, then politely escort her out before Mabel finds out I let a stranger cook for paying customers after I thank her, obviously.
Because she is, without question, saving my ass right now.
Unless she wants a job?
Mabel would definitely throw a fit if she heard the chef quit in the middle of high season. But if I say, “Hey, Mabel, surprise, I found a replacement, and she cooks like a witch,” maybe she’d throw a smaller fit?
Still, hiring someone purely because my little brother says her aura is yellow feels unwise and very Jasper. And I promised myself I’d stop going along with Jasper’s ideas. That’s how you end up with crystals in your sock drawer.
“Are the Shaw brothers done gossiping about me?” the woman asks without turning around, voice light and teasing.
Great job, Jasp. Tell the mysterious kitchen invader our last name, but don’t bother asking for hers.
“I’m sorry,” I start, then gesture vaguely at her and the stove. “I was just trying to figure out if you’re a health inspector doing undercover community service, or if Jasper summoned you with his tarot cards.”
She snorts. “Neither. I’m someone who couldn’t watch you kill another sandwich.”
“That’s fair,” I admit. “They didn’t deserve what I was doing to them.”
She shrugs, sliding something onto the hot pan with a hiss. “No worries, we’re gonna fix this.”
Thank God.
I clear my throat. “So, what’s your name then?”
“Le…” she says, right as the oil pops, “… on.”
Lemon?
I blink at her. Then blink again.
Yellow bandana with little citrus fruits. Yellow nails with tiny lemon slices. A lemon charm on her bracelet. She’s basically a walking farmer’s market advertisement. Jasper wasn’t kidding about the sunshine aura, she’s citrus incarnate.
God, is she one of those people who pick a theme and shape their entire personality around it?
Because I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime. But… Lemon is still a hell of a lot better than my mom calling herself “a child of the universe” and introducing me to strangers as her “earth-born tether.”
Lemon rises to her tiptoes to reach the back burner, and it’s… well, it’s stupid cute. She’s probably never hit her head on a doorway in her life.
I’ve been six-seven since I was seventeen. I hit my head on everything.
My gaze follows the movement, from her tiptoes to her calves, her thighs, and…
Jesus.
Focus, Nevan.
“I’m Nevan,” I manage.
“I know. Jasper gave me the full rundown. Said you’re a Scorpio, shit at cooking, but allergic to asking for help, and tragically in love with the waitress who doesn’t know you exist.”
My jaw drops. “He said what?”
“Kidding.” She winks. “Mostly.”