Chapter 19 Jess
Jess
The conference room at FHG headquarters smells like espresso and pasta. Literally.
I’m sitting at a long table trying very hard to focus on my curriculum notes and not on the fact my boss is across from me wearing yet another black henley with the sleeves rolled up, something that should really be classified as a workplace hazard.
When your employer’s forearms are so distracting you forget how to think...
Matteo, the culinary director, is gesturing enthusiastically with a pen. “The kid menu needs to be simpler. Less fussy. More tactile.” He looks at me expectantly.
I blink, quickly compose myself. This meeting is supposed to be about my baby after all: Family Meal Mondays/Brave Kitchen.
Focus, Jess.
“Agreed,” I blurt out, making a show of flipping through my notes. “I was thinking we drop anything that requires advanced knife skills. At least for the first few sessions.”
“What about the lobster?” Matteo asks, glancing at Marco. “The spaghetti all’astice you made for the first dinner was a hit with the adults. But for kids?”
My face heats at the mention of that dish. The one Marco made specifically for me. My favorite. The one that made me realize this whole situation is way more complicated than a simple employer-employee relationship.
Marco’s eyes flick to mine for exactly half a second before returning to Matteo. But that half second? Loaded with about seventeen layers of subtext.
“You’re right, it’s too messy,” I manage, my voice only slightly strangled. “And dangerous. Kids can cut themselves on the shells. Plus it’s intimidating. We want approachable.”
“Even though you love it,” Marco says quietly.
I blink at him. Did he seriously just say that out loud? In a business meeting?
Matteo looks between us with mild confusion. “You love lobster?”
“I mean, who doesn’t?” I deflect, waving my hand dismissively. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about what works for anxious kids who are learning to trust the kitchen.”
Marco nods slowly. “Fair point.”
When you have to pretend your favorite dish isn’t significant even though it absolutely is and everyone in this room can probably sense the weird tension.
“What about staff support?” André, the VP of service and training, leans forward.
“If we want to grow Family Meal Mondays, we need bodies. Someone to handle logistics. Setup. Breakdown.” André pauses, then answers his own question.
“I can coordinate that. I’ll pull from FOH staff who’ve expressed interest in community programs. Rotate them so no one gets burned out. ”
Burned out. Right. The thing I’m actively trying to avoid.
“Speaking of burnout,” I say, because apparently I’m incapable of keeping my mouth shut, “we should probably keep it to one day a week for now. At least until we see how well it scales as we starting inviting more families.”
Marco’s watching me now. “You worried about capacity?”
“I’m worried about sustainability,” I correct. “I’ve seen what happens when you chase growth too fast. It implodes. I’d rather build slow and solid than crash and burn.”
The words hang in the air. I’m not just talking about Brave Kitchen. I’m talking about my entire influencer career. The way I chased metrics until they destroyed me. Feeding the algorithm until it burned me out.
Matteo nods. “Smart. Quality over quantity.”
“Always,” Marco agrees.
Our eyes meet again. Hold for a beat too long.
André clears his throat. “So. Modules. What are we teaching?”
I snap my attention back to my notes.
“Three core modules to start.” I pull up my outline. “Count the Bubbles is about observation and patience. Watching yeast activate. Seeing pizza dough rise. Noticing how things change when you pay attention.”
“I like it,” Matteo says. “So... meditative.”
“Exactly. Second module is Smell Sip Say. Engaging senses intentionally. Naming what you notice instead of just consuming.”
Marco’s leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed. The henley pulls across his chest and I have to physically force my eyes back to my laptop.
I clear my throat. “Third module is Brave Breaths. We did some of this in the last session. You know, squeeze when the timer goes off, breathe while stirring. But I plan to more fully integrate it into the cooking so that it becomes automatic for all the kids. So we make the kitchen synonymous with calm.”
“That’s the piece that made all the difference last session,” Rahul says through the speaker. “I’m glad to see you’re expanding on it. You’re not just teaching cooking. You’re teaching emotional regulation through food.”
“Regulation wrapped in butter and flour,” I quip.
Everyone laughs. It feels good. Like maybe I actually know what I’m doing.
“What about filming?” André asks. “I know we have the no-posting policy for Family Meal nights. But what if families want to document for themselves?”
“Hard no,” I say immediately. “The whole point is presence. Cook, don’t post. If parents want memories, they can be present and make them. But cameras stay off.”
Marco nods. “Agreed. Luis will audit devices during sessions. Same protocol as before.”
“What about internal training clips?” Matteo asks. “Like the knife safety demo Marco did in the carriage house. That was useful.”
The carriage house.
My face suddenly feels really hot. As in, beads of sweat forming hot.
Images of Marco’s big, juicy cock fill my mind, and it’s all I can do to block them out.
“Okay, we can do that, but internal use only,” I manage, my voice slightly higher than normal. “No faces. No posting. Just demo footage for training purposes.”
I glance at Marco. His jaw tightens.
He remembers.
Of course he remembers.
When your entire body is screaming ‘remember that time we violated seventeen different workplace policies?’ but you have to sit here and pretend it never happened.
“Sounds good,” André says, oblivious. “I’ll make sure staff sign the updated no-record agreements.”
We move through the rest of the logistics as part of the plan to handle more parents and their kids. You know, the whole capacity planning and ingredient sourcing thing. It’s the kind of systematic approach that makes me feel capable instead of disorganized.
When the meeting wraps, everyone filters out. Matteo claps my shoulder on his way past. “This is good work, Jess. Really good.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.
Then it’s just me and Marco. Alone in the conference room.
He’s gathering papers. Not looking at me. “You did well today.”
“I made a spreadsheet and said no to lobster. Bar’s pretty low.”
“The bar is exactly where it should be.” He finally looks up. Those dark eyes pin me in place. “You’re building something sustainable. That matters.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Well. I’ve seen what happens when you don’t. When you just chase growth for growth’s sake. It’s not pretty.”
“You’re not that person anymore.”
The words land like a gift. Like he sees past the failure... past the algorithm that chewed me up and spit me out.
“I’m trying not to be,” I admit quietly.
He takes a step closer. Not too close. Just enough that I can smell him.
Mmm... God.
“For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I think you’re doing more than trying. I think you’re succeeding.”
My throat goes tight. “Thanks.”
We stand there for a beat. The air between us thick with everything we’re not saying.
Then Marco steps back. Professional distance restored. “I should get back. Valentina has me blocked for calls.”
“Right. Yeah. Go.”
He leaves. I watch him go and try not to think about how broad his shoulders look in that stupid Henley.
I fail spectacularly.
When I finally pack up my laptop, I catch my reflection in the darkened screen. Flushed. Wide-eyed. Looking like someone who just got emotionally validated by her boss and is trying very hard not to read into it.
When you realize you’re not just building a business. You’re building a life that actually matters. And maybe falling for someone who sees you for who you are and not just what you can produce.
I shake it off. Grab my bag. Head toward the exit.
But the feeling stays. That weird mix of pride and terror and something that might be hope.
I’m doing this. Actually doing it. Building something real without needing proof it happened. Without chasing validation from strangers.
Just showing up. Doing the work. Letting it matter.
And somehow, against all odds, it’s working.