Chapter Fourteen
Aubrey
Everything was fucked.
The chef I’d hired two days ago was a no-show.
He’d done well enough during his trial shift that I was going to have him work the wedding reception with me tomorrow, but now he wasn’t here, which meant I’d be working it by myself, which meant I needed to get even more prep done tonight since I wouldn’t have the extra hands to handle it on-site.
Then the food delivery had gotten messed up.
I’d ordered parsley but gotten cilantro, and they’d left out the artichokes entirely, meaning the braised artichoke hearts with duck jus that was the favorite of the bride’s, whose two-hundred-guest wedding I was now catering alone, wasn’t going to happen.
I could try getting the artichokes at a supermarket, but by the time I ran around to enough of them to get the number I needed, I wouldn’t have the time to prep them and the hundred other items on my list.
It was miss out on the artichokes but have something or get the artichokes and sacrifice the quality of everything else. Either way, this couple would be disappointed, and everyone in attendance would likely know it.
Fuck Jeff, the fucking new hire, fuck weddings, fuck artichokes, and fuck fuck fuck whoever’s idea it had been to package this parmesan in plastic so tight you needed a fucking chainsaw to get it open.
I shoved the tip of my knife into the corner of the plastic and pushed. It went right through, nicking the tip of my index finger on the way.
“Fuck.” My finger flew to my mouth, the tang of copper sharp on my tongue, and a scream lodged in my throat.
I forced my eyes closed and breathed deep through my nose. I needed to calm down and regroup before I did anything else careless that landed me more than a scratch.
The anger dissipated slightly with my next breath, making space for my eyes to burn. I squeezed them tighter and swallowed the tears of frustration. They wouldn’t help now either.
Three blunt knocks pounded on the door.
When I opened my eyes, Gabe was there. He strode toward me in his gym shorts, hoodie, and sneakers, brow creased as his gaze fell to my bleeding finger.
“You’re hurt,” he said, reaching for me. His hands were wrapped in boxing tape.
I gaped at him. “What are you doing here?”
He gently inspected my finger. “Your text was just vague enough to be ominous. I wanted to make sure you didn’t get caught in a deep-fryer explosion or something.” He surveyed the small kitchen. “Do you have a first-aid kit somewhere?”
I was still stuck on the him-being-here part. “You came because of my text?”
He spotted the red plastic case on the wall and headed for it.
“I tried calling, but you didn’t answer.
I figured I’d check in and leave once I knew everything was okay.
” He pulled out an antiseptic wipe, along with a bandage and finger cover.
“I promise I’m not trying to pull a Ross and demand your attention at work. ”
My lips lifted at the Friends reference. His mom had always had reruns playing on their TV growing up. We’d probably seen every episode at least three times without actively trying.
The episode he referred to, Ross surprised Rachel at her office with a picnic when she had to work late on their anniversary. He’d been self-absorbed and controlling, and none of the things I thought of Gabe right now.
He’d also been Rachel’s boyfriend—a detail not relevant to our situation, but my brain felt the need to point it out anyway.
“Here, sit.” He unfolded the step stool I stored beneath the counter, waited for me to sit, and lifted my finger to the light, examining it closer before pressing the antiseptic wipe to the cut.
The sting hardly registered against the squeeze in my chest.
He kept his head low, his every touch careful despite the force his body was capable of.
His eyes remained concentrated, framed by fine lines that crinkled when he smiled.
A slight crook shadowed his nose from where he’d probably broken it, though I couldn’t remember when.
It must have happened after he’d gone pro.
There were faint lines around his mouth, too, that deepened when he smiled. A smile that made my heart flutter every time, especially when it was only for me.
Those smiles were softer. Slower. Like they were emerging from within rather than tacked on the surface, a sunrise of affection straight from his heart.
Or maybe that was what I wanted them to be.
He finished with the bandage and brought the wrapped finger to his lips. “A kiss makes it heal faster,” he said, almost bashful. “Mom always said so.”
I swallowed the lump from my throat. “I remember.” It was the kind of care I’d mostly forgotten since Nana’s death. “Thank you.”
He brushed it off as if it’d been only my finger I thanked him for. Then he tossed the scraps of packaging into the large trash can in the corner and glanced around. “Where’s your new chef?”
Right. I blew out a breath. “Not here. He never showed, and I haven’t been able to reach him.”
“Ah. I take it that’s your crisis?”
“Part of it.” He didn’t need to hear the whole sob story. I’d manage from here.
Only, he didn’t turn to leave. He rubbed his hands together and asked, “How can I help?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded for the second time in about ten minutes. “What?”
“Use me. I mean, if there’s a way I can be helpful. You probably shouldn’t trust me with a knife, but I can wash dishes or something. Unless I’d just be in your way—”
“No.” My heart thumped as warmth unfurled in my body, bringing a fresh wave of energy with it. “That’d be great.”
Two hours later, he got back from the supermarket with the parsley and artichokes I needed—he’d sent me pictures of everything to make sure it was right—and I’d made it a third of the way through my prep list. Then he got to work in the dish pit.
By eleven o’clock, I was finishing the last item for the night, and he was mopping the floor. I’d been here well over twelve hours, far longer than I’d imagined at the start of the day, but it was frankly a miracle I was making it out of here before midnight.
“I owe you big time,” I said as I wrapped the last food tray in cellophane.
He smiled at the floor. “It was cool seeing you in your element. I mostly remember you eating lots as a kid, but not so much cooking.”
“That’s because your mom always stocked the best snacks.
” Their pantry had been a wonderland of Pop-Tarts, Dunkaroos, and all the other sugar-laden, processed junk a kid dreamed of.
My grandma preferred to make things from scratch, especially the sweet stuff, so the Hardt house quickly became where I got my junk food fix.
They were to blame for the Lucky Charms sitting in my cabinet.
“Chocolate still your favorite?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure why my ears warmed at him knowing that.
“Obviously. Chocolate is the best.” And don’t get me wrong, I was all for the fancy stuff.
I made a dark chocolate cake with whipped ganache and tempered chocolate shards that would make Jacques Torres cry.
But nothing could beat a good old-fashioned Hershey’s bar.
“I don’t know how you didn’t get sick of it after that one Halloween when you ate every one of our combined Snickers bars in one night.”
“Excuse me, they were Snickers Minis,” I said in defense. “It was a perfectly reasonable amount.”
“For a kid’s soccer team, maybe. I think that was the night Mom decided to make her sable cookies with chocolate instead of jam.”
“Now, they were my favorite.” I hardly cared if I came in last at every game night as long as I got to sit next to the plate of buttery cookies.
“I know. So did she. It’s why she kept making them.”
I always knew that was why, but hearing him say it filled my heart full with as much love as grief. Maybe they were the same thing at this point.
“She’s part of the reason I became a chef,” I admitted as I wiped the counter.
“Really?”
I nodded. His dad was the true cook of his family, but his mom had been the one to make me feel food as an expression of love. She and my grandma both. “Her food always felt special to me. I wanted to learn how to give that same feeling to others.”
Plus, cooking was something I could control.
There was an order to the kitchen I hadn’t had the first seven years of my life, constantly moving with my parents.
A comfort to standing beside the stove with my grandma, digging her handwritten recipes from the box she’d had for forty years, moving through the same steps she’d followed hundreds of times before to get the same delicious result.
For the most part, I still found that comfort in any kitchen. No matter if a hotheaded chef was screaming in my face or a dozen tickets were fired at once. I’d lost sight of it these past few months but desperately wanted it back.
“What was the other part?” he asked.
I shrugged. “My grandma, mostly. And I just liked it.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you after your grandma died. The way you’ve been for me.”
The heaviness of his voice had me pause with the sanitizing rag. He’d stopped mopping and stared at me with sincerity in his vibrant blue eyes.
It was true he hadn’t been there for me in the same way back then—no phone calls or long messages.
But I hadn’t expected him to be. We weren’t friends at the time.
He’d been away for some training camp or international match when she died, and it wasn’t like he’d been close enough with my grandma to fly all the way back for the funeral.
There were other people whose absence I felt abandoned by, but his wasn’t one of them.
“It’s okay,” I said with all the weight I could push into my voice. “You were here for me tonight.”
In this silly way, Gabe showing up here reminded me of this summer when Jase had dropped everything and run from the restaurant to save Dani from what they feared had been a stalker. It had turned out to be something else, and she hadn’t needed saving, but that hadn’t mattered in the moment.
Jase had been there. The same way Gabe had been here tonight.
I didn’t expect him to fall in love with me the way Jase did Dani or for this to mean anything beyond the boundaries we’d already laid out. But it felt good to have someone drop everything for me, even if I hadn’t really needed saving either.
His mouth lifted in a weak smile, his eyes going back to the mop. Somehow, I got the feeling he didn’t think it was enough.