Chapter 7 #2
This is a mistake. This is professional suicide. This is exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do when I accepted the job, when I moved into the spare room, when I started building something real in this kitchen.
And I don’t care. Not with his hand in my hair, not with his chest against mine, not with the particular sound he makes when I slide my hand up to the nape of his neck.
But then his hand moves from my waist to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and reality comes crashing back. I put my palm flat against his chest, creating a careful inch of space between us.
“Wait,” I say, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. “We should...this is...”
He steps back immediately, his hand falling away from my face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have...”
“No.” I shake my head, trying to get my breathing under control. “It’s not...I wanted to. That’s the problem.”
He’s watching me, those unusual green eyes steady on my face. Waiting, I realize, for me to explain. Not pushing, not assuming. Just listening.
“It’s complicated,” I say, the words coming easier now that he’s given me space to think.
“You’re my boss. I live in your spare room.
I owe money to a goblin who threatened to break my kneecaps.
” I run a hand through my hair, trying to order my thoughts.
“And I have a history, okay? A pattern. I throw myself into things. Relationships, jobs, pop-up restaurants. They start intense and they end spectacularly. Usually with me running for the hills or getting thrown out of them.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “And you think that’s what this would be? Another intense beginning with a spectacular ending?”
“I know it would be,” I say. “Because that’s what I do.
I take good things and I ruin them because I can’t figure out how to want things and have them at the same time.
” I force myself to meet his eyes. “And this job, this kitchen, it’s the first thing in months that’s felt right.
That’s felt like it could be mine. I can’t risk that.
Not even for...” I gesture between us, unable to name what almost happened.
He nods slowly, like he’s turning my words over in his head. “I understand. And I respect that. The job, the kitchen, they’re important. They should be.”
Relief floods through me, along with something more complicated. Gratitude and disappointment making my chest ache. “Thank you. For understanding, I mean.”
He’s quiet for another moment, his eyes on my face. Then he says, “I’d like to offer you a permanent position.”
The words take a second to register. “A what?”
“A permanent position,” he repeats. “Head chef at The Drunken Dragon, not just a pop-up concept but for real. Full salary, benefits, creative control over the menu. The kitchen would be yours to run as you see fit.” His voice is steady, professional, with none of the heat from our kiss.
“The apartment would be part of the package, or we could find you something else if you’d prefer. Your choice.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “You’re offering me a job. A real job.”
He nods. “Yes. The arrangement we have now works, but it’s temporary. I’m offering something more permanent. Something that’s yours regardless of...” He gestures between us, echoing my earlier motion. “Regardless of anything else.”
The offer settles between us, weighty with implication.
Not a romantic overture or a business arrangement with benefits, but something else.
A recognition of what we’ve built, a commitment to keeping it regardless of what happens between us personally.
The restraint of the gesture, the careful way he’s set boundaries, created space for me to make a choice that isn’t complicated by attraction or debt or chemistry, hits me harder than any declaration would have.
“I’ll take it,” I say, the words coming out more forceful than I intended. “The job. Yes.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Relief, maybe, or satisfaction. Then his expression settles back to careful neutrality. “Good. We can discuss terms tomorrow, when we’re both...” He gestures vaguely at the closet, at the particular tension still hanging in the air between us.
“Less distracted,” I supply.
He nods. “Less distracted.” He steps back, creating more space between us. “I should finish the inventory. Greta’s waiting on those paper towels.”
“I’ll get them,” I say, already reaching for the shelf. “You go ahead, Big Guy.”
He pauses at that, something warm flickering in his eyes. Then he nods and steps out of the closet, pulling the door closed behind him. But not before I hear him say, quietly, “Goodnight, Hot Pot.”
I stand in the narrow space for a long moment, paper towels clutched to my chest, trying to get my breathing under control.
My lips are still tingling from the kiss.
My heart is doing things it has no business doing, a complicated rhythm that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the careful way Tovek stepped back when I asked him to, the professional offer he made when he could have pushed for something more.
I have a job. A real job, with salary and benefits and creative control. A kitchen that’s mine to run as I see fit. An apartment that’s part of the package, if I want it.
And feelings for my boss that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
I take the paper towels back to the bar, where Greta is wiping down the last of the tables. She glances up when I enter, her expression doing that complicated thing that means she’s putting puzzle pieces together in her head.
“You good?” she asks, taking the paper towels without commenting on how long it took me to get them.
“Fine,” I say, which is both true and a complete lie. I’m better than fine. I have a job, a kitchen, a place that’s starting to feel like it could be mine. And I’m worse. Caught in a situation that’s getting more complicated by the day, with feelings I have no business having.
Greta studies me for a long moment, then nods, apparently satisfied. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s prep list is on the counter. Don’t stay up all night worrying about it.”
It’s good advice. I should follow it. Instead, I lie in my enormous spare-room bed, staring at the ceiling, and think about Tovek’s hand in my hair, the careful neutrality in his voice when he offered me the job, the particular way he said “Goodnight, Hot Pot” like it means something.
I’m already in trouble. The kind that has nothing to do with debt or goblins or the spectacular ways I’ve found to ruin good things. The kind that starts with a kiss in a storage closet and ends with me wanting things I have no right to want.
The kind that makes me check my secret savings account at 2 AM, reminding myself that I’m building something of my own. That I won’t be left destitute if this all falls apart. That Tovek might be one in a million, but I refuse to take that for granted.