Chapter 6 #3
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of activity.
Prepping for the taste test, setting up the dining room, answering questions from the staff as they arrive.
By two-thirty, we have a proper spread: eight different bar snacks arranged on platters, each with a card listing ingredients and heat level.
The staff, Greta plus our two bartenders and the part-time server who helps on weekends, circulate through the options, making notes and comparing favorites.
“The wings are good,” says Dex, our Friday night bartender. “But the popcorn’s going to sell better. People like eating with their hands while they drink.”
“The dumplings are my favorite,” adds Kara, the weekend server. “But they’re messy. Maybe offer a fork option?”
Mei nods, making notes on her phone. “Good point. I can do a smaller version that’s easier to eat one-handed.”
It’s fascinating to watch her work the room.
Not the performative charm of her social media presence or the focused intensity she brings to the kitchen, but something in between.
Confident but receptive, sure of her vision but willing to adapt.
She moves through the space with the easy assurance of someone completely at home in their skin, stopping to answer questions and explain techniques without ever making the asker feel foolish.
“This is going to work,” Greta says quietly, appearing at my elbow with a plate of half-eaten wings. “The food, I mean. It’s good. Different enough to stand out but familiar enough that people will try it.”
I nod, not taking my eyes off Mei. “She’s good.”
“The best,” Greta agrees. There’s a pause, then: “You should tell her.”
I glance at her, surprised. “Tell her what?”
She gives me a look that contains approximately seventeen different meanings, all of them variations on “don’t be an idiot.
” “That you’ve been practicing her recipes since before she got here.
That you installed the wok station specifically because of her video on proper technique.
That you’ve had a crush on her since that bowl goals episode where she made the spicy pork and laughed so hard she dropped the chopsticks. ”
My face heats. “I don’t...that’s not...”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “You’ve been making heart eyes at her since day one. It’s embarrassing to watch.”
Before I can respond, not that I have a response that wouldn’t make things worse, Mei appears, her tablet tucked under her arm and a satisfied smile on her face.
“I think we’ve got a winner,” she says, holding up her notes. “Wings, dumplings, and popcorn for the first round, with the danger noodles as a weekend special. Sound good?”
“Perfect,” I say, and mean it. The menu is exactly what we need. Approachable but distinctive, with enough heat to make people notice and enough flavor to make them come back. “When do you want to launch?”
“Friday,” she decides. “Gives us time to do a proper prep and make sure everything’s perfect.”
We spend the next hour cleaning up. Mei packing away the test batches, me washing dishes and wiping down surfaces.
There’s a comfortable rhythm to it, the particular coordination of people who’ve worked together enough to anticipate each other’s movements.
I hand her containers before she asks; she passes me clean towels without looking up from her notes.
It’s nice. Domestic, almost, in a way that makes my throat tight with something that isn’t quite longing but lives in the same neighborhood.
“You’ve gotten better,” Mei says suddenly, breaking the silence. “At the knife work, I mean. Your julienne is almost perfect.”
I shrug, trying for casual. “Had a good teacher.”
She smiles, that quick, mischievous flash that makes my stomach do things it has no business doing. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Big Guy.”
“We’re good together,” she says, leaning against the prep table. “The food, I mean. It works.”
But there’s something in her voice. A hope underneath the professional assessment.
It makes me think she’s not just talking about the food.
That maybe, just maybe, she means us. The particular way we move around each other, the rhythm we’ve found in this kitchen that feels like it could be the start of something bigger.
“Yes,” I say, and mean it completely. “We are.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. Then she nods, apparently satisfied, and turns back to her notes. “We should probably talk about the debt thing. I’ve got about half of what I need to pay you back for this coming month, but the rest...”
“Stop trying to pay me back when you are already paying into this business. The Drunken Dragon is holding steady,” I promise. “The bar’s doing better. Another week like last week, and we’ll be in good shape.”
“Okay.” She nods, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that suggests she’s not convinced.
The mention of the goblins, brings me back to reality with a jolt.
Whatever’s happening between Mei and me, whatever possibility we’re circling, it exists in the shadow of a very real threat.
Grishnak doesn’t play fair, and he’s been waiting for me to show weakness.
A chef who’s changing the game, a bar that’s suddenly relevant again.
That’s exactly the kind of opportunity he’s been looking for.
“I should check the liquor order,” I say. “Make sure we’ve got enough for the weekend.”
Mei nods, already reaching for her phone. “I’ll finish up here. Go ahead.”
I head for the bar, Greta’s words echoing in my head. You should tell her. About the recipes, about the wok station, about the crush that started months before she ever set foot in my kitchen.
But telling her means making it real. Means acknowledging that this is more than business, that what I feel for her has nothing to do with saving the bar and everything to do with the way she smiles when something turns out exactly right.
And if I’m wrong? If what I’m seeing is just professional respect or friendly affection? Making it real means losing what we’ve built. The kitchen, the menu, the particular rhythm we’ve found working side by side.
It’s not a risk I’m ready to take. Not with Grishnak circling, not with Mei’s debt still hanging over us, not when things are finally starting to go right.
So instead of telling her, I check the liquor order. I count bottles and update inventory and make a list of what we’ll need for the weekend. I do all the things a bar owner should do when launching a new menu.
And I try not to think about Mei leaning against the prep table, her eyes on mine as she said “We’re good together” in a voice that made my throat tight with hope.