CHAPTER FIFTEEN
K RU
Seven days into Ray's and I've survived the delicious, chaotic, adrenaline-fueled blur. Even better, the place is humming like a well-oiled machine already.
Being cleared for sit-down service yesterday was the final piece falling into place, that last satisfying click when you complete a puzzle that took way too fucking long to finish.
Regulars who'd been surviving on takeout these past few days could finally experience the ambiance I'd worked so hard to create. The TV crew is only hanging around for another day or two—their focus was on the renovation and opening, and now that we’re locked and loaded, Pat and the camera crew will be moving onto their next featured business.
On Friday night, Ray’s is packed. Every table filled, the bar seats occupied, reservations stacked through closing. Even my patio is full of diners enjoying the unseasonably warm autumn night, though I have tower heaters at the ready in case it gets too cold.
"Order up! Table seven—two salmon, one steak, medium rare!"
I call out orders in rapid succession, wiping sweat from my brow with my forearm.
The kitchen is hot—both literally and figuratively.
We're on fire, pumping out dishes with military precision. Brady has gotten better and more in tune every shift; Rafael on expo is hitting his stride after a week, making sure every plate that leaves the kitchen is perfect before it hits the dining room. I’ve added a front of house manager and our new bartender is pulling in regulars already.
In a way, starting with take-out service was a blessing, because it gave us all a chance to warm up together before shit hit the fan with a packed dining room.
"Yes, Chef!" Rafael responds, grabbing the plates I've just finished.
There's a rhythm to a good kitchen, a dance that happens when everyone knows their part. The sizzle of meat hitting hot pans, the clattering of plates, the shouted confirmations—it's music to me. A kitchen in the flow is a dopamine rush I’m addicted to.
My dad would be proud. The thought hits me suddenly as I'm plating a perfect lobster tail. Fuck, the grief comes out of nowhere sometimes. My throat gets tight, and I wish with my whole heart he could have made it long enough to see this place. To see me and this crew and this menu.
To meet Piper.
"Chef, special request at table twelve. They want to know if you can do the lobster tail without the risotto, extra asparagus instead."
"On it," I nod, my hands already moving to accommodate the request. "Brady, fire two more asparagus for table twelve's special."
"Yes, Chef!"
I'm so in the zone that I don't immediately notice the movement at the back of the kitchen. It's only when Brady's rhythm falters slightly that I look up and spot her.
Piper is standing in the doorway of our shared storage space, looking slightly hesitant. Her hair is piled on top of her head in that messy bun she favors, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's still wearing her work apron, dusted with what looks like powdered sugar.
She's beautiful. And she's in my kitchen during our busiest dinner service yet.
“Keegan. What are you doing here?” I add a little bark to my voice without abandoning my post. Just so she knows that in this kitchen, there’s an order to things.
“Don’t mind me,” she calls out over the kitchen noise. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I shoot back.
“I need to steal a ladder, and I didn’t want you to see me.”
I shake my head as I drizzle the finishing sauce over top a new order of the lobster tail. “Move fast. Don’t touch anything else.”
“Sir, yes sir,” she teases.
“It’s ‘yes, chef’,” I correct.
She drifts closer, gaze stuck on the work I’m doing with the plates. “Very dictatorial in here."
I grin, not looking up from my work. "It's called respect in the kitchen. Chain of command. Not that you'd understand the concept since you run a one-woman show."
"Excuse me, I have Jerrica," she retorts. "And she respects me without the militaristic call-and-response."
"I bet if you said 'jump,' she'd ask 'how high?'" I slide another plate toward the heat lamps where Rafael is readying the orders. “Order up.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can see she's fighting a smile. "I need to get back."
"You forgot 'Yes, Chef'," I tease.
"In your dreams, Lobster Man."
Rafael hurries over. "Chef, table fourteen is wondering if they can meet you when they're done with their meal."
"Sure, let them know I'll stop by when things slow down."
"Yes, Chef."
Piper makes an exaggerated face at the exchange, and I can't help but laugh.
"See?" I nod toward Rafael. "Respect."
"Or you could call it hero worship," she counters.
"You worshipped me a time or two before, if I recall correctly.” When her cheeks pinken, I add, “Say it once. You might like how it feels."
She cocks her head, considering. Then, with deliberate slowness, she leans in closer. "No."
Something about her defiance, the sparkle in her eyes, the closeness of her—it short-circuits my brain. Without thinking, I close the distance between us and kiss her. Right there, in the middle of my bustling kitchen, with orders piling up and staff all around.
It's brief but electric, and when I pull back, her eyes are wide with surprise. It takes a second for reality to crash back in—the realization that I just kissed her in front of my entire staff and, more importantly, the cameras currently capturing every moment of our dinner service.
"You need to get out of here," I murmur.
Piper grabs the ladder and bolts out of the kitchen just as Rafael says, "Uh, Chef? I’m missing a salmon for table six…"
Rafael’s words jar something loose inside me. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as a quiet voice inside me whispers this is what happens.
I knew it once before. And I’ve forgotten already. I’m fucking up orders my opening week because I’m letting myself get swept away in a bad idea.
This shit stops now.
"My bad, Raf. Won’t happen again. Coming now.”
"Was that planned for the show?" Pat, the producer, asks as he sidles up next to me.
"Nope," I admit, already back to preparing the next dish. "More of an accident than anything."
"The viewers are going to eat this up," he says gleefully. "Rival business owners falling for each other? This is ratings gold."
I don't bother correcting his "falling for each other" assessment. Mostly because I'm not sure he's wrong.
The rest of the dinner service flies by, and it's nearly eleven when we finally clear the last table. My body aches from standing all day, but it's the good kind of tired, the satisfaction of a job well done.
Once the kitchen is cleaned and the staff has gone home, I take a moment to check my phone. There's a notification from the Bayshore Best page—yes, I signed up for daily updates—and I open it to check the updated standings.
My lobster tail with asparagus risotto is now up to fifth place.
Fuck yes. My Bayshore dudes are loving it, despite my late start to the competition with the soft launch gone awry.
Piper's strawberry s'mores torte is in second.
And sitting pretty in first is The Golden Pear with their brown butter apple croissant with blue cheese and honey.
I frown at the screen. The Golden Pear's dish sounds good—really good. The kind of sweet-savory balance that people go crazy for. It’s got me thinking. I’m not sure how to leverage that for my dish or if I even can.
But then something Piper told me at the fence one night comes back to me. You’ll need to add a marshmallow to make it better.
I start mulling over that possibility. Marshmallow additions to the recipe fill my head as I shut the kitchen down. I’m itching to test some things out. Maybe Piper was right. That could be a pivot that snags me number one.
Once all my final closing tasks are completed, including pocketing one of my home knives that somehow drifted here to the restaurant, I notice a light from the Cloud Nine side.
Surprising, given the hour. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Piper here this late.
I walk through our shared storage space and peek into her shop.
Piper is hunched over a table covered in papers, a laptop open in front of her, lo-fi electronica pumping through the speaker.
Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she sketches something out on paper.
There are paint swatches and fabric samples scattered around her.
She’s too absorbed in whatever she's planning to notice me walk in.
"Dang, you’re here late tonight."
She startles, her hand flying to her chest. The pencil she was using flies through the air. "Kru!”
"Sorry," I say, lifting my palms. “Four older brothers, I remember.” I head for the tossed pencil, picking it up and placing it gingerly on her table. As I do, I take a glance at what she’s working on.
Blueprints.
She leans back, stretching her arms above her head. The movement makes her shirt ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin at her waist. My mouth goes dry, but I remind myself that there can be no more of this.
I know what happens.
I know better.
“I’m glad I caught you. I had an idea I wanted to ask you about,” I say, my gaze drifting over the blueprints.
“Oh yeah?” She tries to stifle a yawn behind her hand. “What’s that?”
“I was wondering if I could bulk order some marshmallows. I’m taking your advice to add marshmallow to my lobster dish, and I want to start experimenting tomorrow.”
Her face lights up. “Hey, that’s awesome. I’ll drop off a set for you tomorrow morning before you get in, so they’ll be ready to go when you start prepping for lunch. Any flavor preferences?”
“I’d like a variety. Surprise me.”
“Consider it done.”
"Thanks, Maven. So, what's all this?" I gesture to the chaos on her table.
She hesitates. "Nothing.”
“This looks like the opposite of nothing,” I say.
“I’m planning an…event space.”
When she doesn’t add more, I tip my head to seek out her gaze. “Go on.”
She watches me for a moment, almost like she’s waiting for something.
Then she lets loose. “I want to expand Cloud Nine into event catering and hosting. Weddings, corporate parties, that sort of thing. It’s just a future thing, though.
I’ve been thinking about it for almost two years now, but I have no idea where it would go, and I feel like I’d have to relocate the entire business to be wherever this place is, which would be a really big hassle and relearning for my customer base, not to mention a huge gamble in terms of rent prices and, well, how do I find another place that’s affordable so close to the lake, and it’s just—" She pauses, then lets out a huff. “I’m getting myself worked up into knots over something that doesn’t exist yet. ”
I move closer, examining her sketches. "All of that aside, these are good. You've got an eye for layout."
"Thanks." She sounds surprised by the compliment. "It's just ideas right now. I’m not working with any real building yet, since I need to find the right space, figure out permits, hire more staff…" She trails off.
"You know," I say, an idea forming, "when I bought this property, it included another building I didn’t expect. The barn at the far end of the parking lot.”
Her eyes widen. "The barn?"
"Yeah. If I’m not mistaken, it has a view of the lake.
It’s old, would need a lot of work, but when I checked it out, it was solid.
I haven’t spent too much time inspecting it, since it was more of an add-on from the previous owner, but you’re welcome to look at it and see if it might be something that could work for you. Rustic charm and all that."
"Are you serious?" She's sitting up straighter now, excitement replacing fatigue in her expression.
"Completely serious. I don’t really have any plans for it. I thought maybe I’d use it for storage, like overflow…" I shrug. "But it’s not even on my radar right now."
She's quiet for a long moment, wheels clearly turning behind those bright green eyes. "Would you…would you consider renting it to me?"
I laugh. “Maven, you haven’t even seen it.”
“I’ve seen it. I’ve looked at it every single day for the past three years.”
“I mean the inside .” I lean on the counter, watching her. "But to answer your question, I’d consider it. But that barn will need a lot of work to be event ready. You’ll need to have a solid plan for renovations."
"I do!" She jumps up, suddenly energized, and starts shuffling her papers. "I mean, I will. I’ll figure it out. If the space is right, I’ll make it work. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’ll be perfect because I’ve been imagining a barn in my mind the entire time I’ve been planning this out."
She spreads out her sketches, pointing out details, explaining her vision.
It's impossible not to get caught up in her enthusiasm.
She's practically glowing as she talks about fairy lights strung from rafters, a dance floor beneath exposed beams, tables arranged to maximize the view of the water. She even pulls out her phone and shows me the various inspiration boards she made on Pinterest. It’s a complete step-by-step plan.
One that just needs the right space to allow her vision to become reality.
"What do you think?" she asks finally. "Is it too much? Too ambitious?"
"I think," I say slowly, "that this would be yet another amazing Cloud Nine creation.”
Her smile is blinding. "Really?"
"Really." I step closer to her. "If your shop looks like this, I can only imagine how incredible the event space would turn out. Besides…Cloud Nine Events. It has a nice ring to it."
"It does, doesn't it?" She's still smiling, her eyes locked on mine.
Something electric shudders between us. For me, it feels a lot like a heavy hand at my back.
Pushing me forward, into Piper, the same shove I get whenever I’m near her.
It’s inconvenient—disorienting, even. Like earlier today during the lunch rush.
I kissed her in front of my staff. In front of cameras .
I shouldn’t be doing shit like that.
But I can’t stop myself.
She must sense my hesitation because she tips her head to look up at me, those pretty green gemstone eyes zeroing in on me. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
“Do you want me to?” I ask. Though I don’t need to. I can see the answer written on her lips, which are parted and waiting for me. I can see the answer on her pebbled skin, in her dilating eyes, in the way she arches closer.
Piper’s lips curl up at the corners. She fists the front of my shirt and tugs me closer. “Yes, chef.”