Chapter 12
TWELVE
LEXI
If I keep taking every possible route to avoid the kitchen, my step counter app might implode.
Hell, I might finally drop a few pounds.
Lord knows I haven’t gotten exercise like this in years.
But I can’t go in the kitchen anymore. Even if it costs me half my day in workarounds.
It’s bad enough Wilder is in there. Now every surface in there reminds me of what he did to me in there too.
The counter he ordered me to make a mess on.
The edge of the shelf that dug into my flesh as I came all over his face.
And I’ve yet to make eye contact with his knife without blushing.
I don’t care how many times he scrubbed those surfaces down to make them food safe, they’ve all been ruined forever for me.
Orgasms in general might be ruined for me after two nights ago.
Running the calendar with the next week of shifts on it down the stairs to the dual-purpose locker room and breakroom for my team, I should poke my head into the kitchen and announce it’s there.
I clutch the schedule sheet between both hands, wrinkling it beyond salvation, when his booming voice rebounds through the hallway, causing me to jump.
“I’ll restock her, Chef, keep prepping.”
My nipples react to it, like they listen to him now, not me who’s telling them to stand down.
I’m afraid if I see his face I might spontaneously combust into another orgasm, since that’s apparently what I do around him now.
No, sir.
Back pressed to the wall, I take deep breaths, chest rising and deflating as I remind myself of the plan.
He’s on shift today, so I won’t be going in the kitchen. Or the dining room, to be safe. I will be working in my office, upstairs, until he’s out of the building and I regain control of my own body once more.
Wilder makes it a lot harder to hate him the way I’m determined to when his head is buried in all my curves.
I’ve still got a restaurant to run even after he’s gone in two and a half months. Now is the time to stay focused.
Even if opening week is going better than anyone could’ve expected.
Not even Rory’s best-case-scenario spreadsheets predicted this strong of a start.
Without another Facebook poll, I can’t be sure whether the rushes have been coming for the food, the new guy in town, or just to check out the one and only restaurant, but I vote we give Wilder as little credit as possible here.
I jump when my back pocket buzzes, and look around to make sure no one else can see my caller ID before I pull out my phone.
A sigh of relief hits my lips when it’s not my dad’s fake contact name on the screen but Tracy’s.
My eyes flit to the clock and see it’s twenty minutes until opening, and I know this won’t be good.
I start wandering as I answer the phone out of habit. “Hey,” I answer my phone like a polite human, because I like to remember that I have social skills when it comes to anyone other than my 6’5” chef with tattoos and bad ideas for days.
“I’m gonna have to—” Tracy’s voice cuts out as there’s a loud clack and some distant—disgusting—sounds.
Pacing the linoleum floor of the breakroom, I grip the phone tighter. “Tracy, tell me you aren’t sick.”
There’s some moaning on the other end, and one weak word is all she gives me. “Can’t.”
I feel my brows dip down toward my nose. “Oh no, are you okay?”
“Great,” she clips, and then there’s more noises I wish I could unhear.
At least I’m not turned on anymore.
“I’m impressed with your dedication,” I tell her, nodding my head like she can see me. “You could’ve texted, and spared me the sound effects, but you committed to a phone call.”
“I thought I could make it two minutes.”
“You poor thing.” I grab the black half apron hung up in my locker and wrap it around my waist. “Can I bring you anything?”
Tracy groans. “Don’t come near my house. The grandbabies got us all sick. Save yourself.”
“Aww. I’ll ask Samuel to bring you some soup on his way home.”
More retching noises.
“Or maybe just water,” I amend.
“Please don’t mention food right now,” she whimpers.
“Take care of yourself, babe. We got this here today.”
“You sure?” she asks.
Like I’m going to ask her or her daughter to come in while they’re going through that? Yeah, I might not be the world’s best server, but surely I’ll be better than someone with active food poisoning. Between Wanda and I, it’ll be fine.
“Rest up. That’s an order,” I tell her, my raspy voice soft in a way it only gets for a few people.
“Don’t kill the chef while I’m gone. I wanna catch it when you do so we go viral.”
“Ha!” I bark out a loud laugh. “I’ll try to save it for you, but only if you split the money with me.”
“Deal,” she croaks out, and we hang up as more noises start up.
I gag like a cat, mouth wide, tongue out, trying to get the heebie jeebies out before I have to go in the next room and… Yikes. Come face to face with a certain someone.
“Bad news,” I start off with no lead-in when I’m through the doorway near the dish pit.
Charlie’s head pops up quickly, concern in his crystal blue eyes.
“Not that bad, fire boy. No need to whip out the puppy dog eyes. Put those things back where they came from.”
Dishy and Wilder laugh—I try not to listen—and Charlie’s brows go back where they started.
“What’s up, Boss?” Wilder asks, strolling over, whipping a kitchen towel over his shoulder.
My traitorous eyes notice how strong the planes of his stubbled face look today, beneath that black bandana, and the glint of his silver chain poking out the top of his chef jacket.
My asshole brain wonders what’s beneath that chain, the jacket, and everything else blocking my view. The fact I haven’t seen for myself yet is all kinds of unfair.
And then I remember what I’m here to tell them and shake my head to clear it.
“Yeah, Tracy and Violet are out today. Sounds like the whole house came down with a double-ended plague. I’m going to be covering her section.”
Charlie’s face is back to doing that concerned thing. “Oh shit,” he says quietly. “Is she okay?”
“Tracy’s hanging in there.”
“And Violet?” Charlie is quick to ask.
“Sounds like no one in that family is loving life right now, but they should be fine. I’ll ask Samuel if he’s up for bringing them a deli container of his soup on your way home tonight. Maybe ding dong ditch to be safe?”
“I can do it!” Our resident cold-line cook and volunteer fireman throws his arm in the air, like he’s beating the competition to the offer.
“I leave in just a couple hours. I’ll bring her soup.
Them. Soup. Yeah.” He kicks the floor with his toe, a blush crawling across his cheeks as he drops his head.
Interesting. Do I smell a crush in the workplace? That might be one I can root for.
“Thank you, Charlie,” I say with a nod in his direction.
“I’ll help with side work,” Wanda offers, like the angel she is.
“Bless you.” I hold my hands together in front of my chest in thanks to her.
“Let me know what you need today, Boss,” Wilder says. “I got you.”
“I need you to do your job and nothing more. Thank you, staff! Let’s roll.”
Heading toward the dining room, a dish on the end of the expo station catches my eye. It’s not one I recognize, but it doesn’t look like takeout either.
“What’s this?” I ask no one and everyone.
“Oh, Lexi,” Wanda chuckles, tilting her head to give me the look.
“They’re pockets of love, woven by angels,” Dishy calls out from around the corner, where he’s peeking out at us.
“And I’m pretty sure their happy tears are what the sauce is made out of,” Charlie pipes up.
“It’s my house-made tortellini with pesto. Made with love.” Wilder’s voice is brusque, and there’s a smile through his words, which sets my hackles up.
“That’s what we said,” Charlie says, laughing.
“That’s a no from me,” I say, without looking at Wilder, the dish he made, or the line it’s sitting on.
“Not even gonna try it before you shoot it down?” I can feel my head chef’s eyes twinkling at me and I refuse to give him the pleasure of looking up at him.
“Some things you don’t need to try to know they’re just not going to work out.” I clap my hands and turn my back on Wilder as the staff take off for their respective areas, sensing the shift in mood.
I’m left to pretend I can’t feel his closeness like a live wire under my skin.
Ignoring him all day while having to share space with him might not be easy enough for me to crush this.
As a server, I simply don’t have ways to avoid going into the kitchen.
I have to turn in tickets and pick up orders, and Wilder has been using every second of it to his advantage.
We’re only an hour into opening, and the man has already found at least a dozen ways to remind me of exactly why I’ve been keeping my distance in the first place.
Running his fingers along the back of his knife as he’s chopping.
The smirk he gave me as I walked past the walk-ins.
And I swear he polished the line so it winks at me when I walk by it now.
If it were up to him, he’d probably put an engraved plaque in that spot, saying “Lexi Was Here” just because it would send me through the roof every time I saw it.
And while Wanda is gliding between tables, making it look like she was born to small talk with customers and remember orders without her pad, I’m over here learning the hard way why food service workers are the real MVPs.
It’s non fucking stop.
Take an order, check out a guest, reset a table, now table twenty-two’s drinks are low, forgot the silverware on that reset, and what happened to fourteen’s food? It’s been in the window for so long, Chef had to remind me to come get it before it turned into a dead plate.
And I wish I could say that was the only time.
The rubber on the soles of my shoes must be burning with the tracks I’m cutting into the floor today, back and forth, the tables, the server station, the kitchen.
To top things off, the humidity today is a Southern special, and summer is hitting early this year. Had to pull my hair back before it turned into one giant frizz puff, and let’s just say it is not helping the ego (or my mood) today.