Chapter 4 #2
"You do flavor well," I correct. "Let the ingredients speak. You don't need to shout over them."
He picks up a fork, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Okay. Point taken. But I'm keeping one dot."
"One dot is acceptable."
"Good. Because I'm not serving boring food to anyone, critic or not."
I close my notebook, tuck it back in my satchel. "Then we'd better make sure your ingredients can handle your ambition. I'll send you my supplier list. Farmers who can meet food safety standards and actually deliver on time."
"Controlling much?"
"Keeping you out of jail." I head toward the door, pause. "And Rogan? Fix the storage before I come back. I'm not risking my reputation on your interpretation of 'fine.'"
He gives me a mock salute, still grinning. "Yes, ma'am."
Maya walks me out, wiping her hands on her apron. "Thanks for not eviscerating him completely."
"The day's young."
She laughs. "He means well. He's just...a lot."
"I noticed."
"But he's good. The food, I mean. When he's not drowning it in unnecessary dots." She glances back toward the kitchen. "He's got a shot at this. If he doesn't self-destruct first."
"That's what I'm here to prevent."
"Good." Maya grins. "Because honestly? I like this job. And I'd really prefer not to be unemployed in two weeks."
I smile despite myself. "I'll do my best."
I step outside, the morning air cool and clean after the heat of the kitchen. My notebook feels heavier, full of new notes and observations and a growing sense that this might actually work.
If Rogan can learn to listen.
If I can learn to let go of control long enough to let him cook.
If we can both survive each other long enough to impress a critic who could make or break everything.
I walk back toward my truck, already mentally drafting the supplier email and the food safety checklist and the schedule for the radish harvest.
Three weeks to grow them. Two weeks to plan the menu. One very slim chance that this loud, chaotic, surprisingly talented orc chef can pull off something worth protecting.
I grasp my keys, pause.
The radishes tasted good. Really good.
I hate that I'm already looking forward to the next dish.
The kitchen is quieter at ten PM.
Maya left an hour ago, waving goodbye with a promise to be back early to prep the morning pastries.
Rogan should have left too. I certainly should have.
But when I came back to drop off the printed supplier list and food safety checklist, I found him elbow-deep in dirty dishes, the sink overflowing with pots and pans from his experimental menu testing.
"You don't have a dishwasher?"
He looks up, surprised. "Broken. Been meaning to call someone."
"Of course it is." I set my folder down and roll up my sleeves. "Move over."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm already here. And you're doing it wrong."
"There's a wrong way to wash dishes?"
I hip-check him aside, start reorganizing. "You soak the baking sheets first. Otherwise you're scrubbing for an hour."
He steps back, watching. "Bossy."
"Efficient." I fill the left sink with hot soapy water, the right with clean rinse water. Stack the dishes in order of difficulty. "You wash light to heavy. Glasses, plates, then pots."
"That's a lot of rules for soap and water."
"Systems exist for a reason." I hand him a towel. "You dry. I'll wash."
We fall into rhythm. I scrub, he dries. The radio on the windowsill plays something folksy and low, barely audible under the sound of running water. Steam rises between us, softening the harsh overhead lights into something almost gentle.
"You're good at this," Rogan says after a while.
"Washing dishes?"
"Creating order." He stacks a clean plate with the others. "I make messes. You clean them up."
"Someone has to."
He laughs quietly. "Yeah. Usually it's Maya yelling at me."
I scrub at a particularly stubborn pot, the one he'd used for the caramelized onions earlier. The bottom is crusted dark brown, sticky. "This needs to soak."
"See? Systems." He leans beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. The kitchen's cooling down now, the ovens off, and the heat feels almost welcome.
I fill the pot with hot water, add a squeeze of dish soap. "Give it ten minutes."
"Noted."
We work through the rest in comfortable silence. Glasses first, delicate and quick. Then plates, stacking them carefully on the drying rack. My hands are red from the hot water, pruning at the fingertips. I should have brought gloves.
Rogan reaches past me for another pot, his sleeve brushing my arm. "Can I ask you something?"
"That depends on the question."
"Why do you care so much?" He gestures at the kitchen, the organized chaos we're slowly taming. "About all this. The systems, the sourcing, the rules."
I scrub at a mixing bowl, buying time. "Because corners get cut. People get sick. Farms get blamed."
"That's the practical answer."
"It's the true answer."
"But it's not the whole answer." He sets down the towel, turns to face me fully. "You could just run your seed program. Send me a list and walk away. But you're here, washing dishes at ten PM, making sure I don't poison anyone."
My hands still in the water. "My family's farm failed when I was twelve."
He doesn't say anything. Just waits.
"There were a lot of reasons. Market prices, bad weather, equipment breaking at the worst times.
" I drag the bowl from the water, rinse it carefully.
"But the final straw was a contamination scare.
E. coli in the lettuce. Wasn't even our fault—it was the farm upstream, runoff from their livestock operation.
But we were all lumped together. One outbreak and suddenly no one would buy from any of us. "
"That's not fair."
"No. It's not." I hand him the bowl. "But it's reality. One mistake, one shortcut, one person who doesn't care enough to check their sources, and everything falls apart. My parents lost the farm. My dad had to take a job three towns over. My mom still won't eat store-bought lettuce."
Rogan dries the bowl slowly, deliberately. "So you came back to make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Someone has to protect what's left." I drain the sink, start on the soaking pot. The crust comes off easier now, flaking away under the scrubber. "The farmers here are good people. They care about what they grow. But they're vulnerable. One bad headline and they're done."
"And you think I'm a bad headline waiting to happen."
I glance at him. His expression is serious now, the usual brightness dimmed. "I think you're reckless."
"Fair."
"I think you love the spectacle more than the substance."
"Also fair."
"And I think—" I scrub harder, focusing on the pot. "I think you could be good at this. If you slow down enough to be careful."
He takes the pot from me, our fingers brushing. "I'm trying."
"Try harder." But my voice comes out softer than I intend.
The radio shifts to something slower, a woman's voice singing about highways and coming home. Rogan sets the pot on the rack, picks up the towel again.
"I don't know how to do this," he says quietly.
"Dishes? Because you're managing."
"All of it. The planning, the systems, the thinking three steps ahead." He wipes down the counter, focused on the task. "I cook by instinct. I taste and adjust. I don't—I can't work from checklists and protocols."
"You don't have to abandon instinct. Just balance it with structure."
"That's what my aunt used to say." He smiles, but there's something sad in it. "She'd leave me notes. Little reminders to check the walk-in temp, rotate the stock, pay the invoices on time. I'd find them everywhere. In the spice drawer, taped to the oven, tucked in the recipe box."
"She sounds practical."
"She was. But she also knew how to let loose. Saturday nights she'd throw these dinners—whoever showed up got fed. No reservations, no menu, just whatever she felt like cooking." He rinses the towel, wrings it out. "She made it look easy. The balance."
"It probably wasn't."
"No." He hangs the towel on the hook. "But she made it look like it was. Like caring and chaos could coexist."
I pull the plug, watch the dirty water spiral down the drain. "They can. With practice."
"Is that what we're doing? Practicing?"
"I'm trying to keep you from self-destructing. You're trying not to poison anyone." I dry my hands on a clean towel. "Seems like a reasonable arrangement."
He laughs, the sound lighter now. "When you put it that way."
The kitchen is clean. Counters wiped, dishes stacked, floor swept. It looks almost peaceful, the chaos of the day settled into something manageable.
I should leave. It's late. I have seedlings to check in the morning, a workshop to prep, emails to answer.
But Rogan is leaning at the counter, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Not flirtatious. Not defensive. Just...present.
"Thank you," he says.
"For the dishes?"
"For not giving up on me yet."
"The day's young."
"It's ten-thirty at night."
"Tomorrow's day, then." I reach for my folder, tuck it under my arm. "Fix the storage. Check the walk-in temp. And for the love of sustainable agriculture, label your containers."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'm serious, Rogan. The critic is coming. You don't get a second chance."
His smile fades. "I know."
"Do you?" I cross my arms. "Because every time I turn around, you're improvising. Adding flourishes. Chasing the next idea instead of perfecting the last one."
"That's how I cook."
"That's how you'll fail." The words come out harsher than I mean, but I don't take them back. "Spectacle without care is just noise. Pretty plates and bold flavors won't matter if the kitchen is a disaster and the sourcing is questionable."
He straightens, jaw tight. "You think I don't care?"
"I think you care about the wrong things."
"Wow." He rubs the scar on his jaw, that tell I'm already learning to recognize. "Tell me how you really feel."
I soften slightly. "You care about the food. I can see that. The way you taste, the way you adjust, the way you talk about flavor like it's a language you're fluent in. That's real. That matters."
"But?"
"But caring about food isn't enough if you don't care about the systems that support it.
The farmers who grow it. The safety standards that protect it.
The trust people place in you when they eat it.
" I take a breath. "Your aunt understood that.
She built something sustainable. Something that lasted. "
"Until it didn't."
"Because she died. Not because she failed." I step closer. "You inherited something worth protecting. But you're treating it like a playground instead of a responsibility."
The silence stretches between us. The radio plays on, oblivious.
Finally, Rogan nods. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay, you're right." He spreads his hands. "I've been sloppy. Cutting corners because I thought I could charm my way through. But you're right. It's not enough."
I blink, surprised. "You're agreeing with me?"
"Don't sound so shocked." He smiles, but it's different now. Quieter. "I do occasionally listen."
"Occasionally being the key word."
"I'm trying, Ivy. I know I'm a mess. I know I drive you crazy. But I promise—" He gazes at my eyes, serious. "I promise I'll try. To slow down. To think ahead. To build something that lasts instead of just something that burns bright and fast."
The words settle in my chest, warm and unexpected.
"That's all I'm asking," I say quietly.
"Then we're good?"
"We're getting there." I head toward the door, pause with my hand on the frame. "Two days until the critic?"
He freezes. "What?"
"You said you had a tasting scheduled. Three days from now."
"I didn't say that."
"Maya mentioned it. This afternoon." I turn back. "A small tasting. If the critic approves, Mayor Elsie said something about debt relief following."
Rogan's face does something complicated. Surprise, then panic, then resignation. "Damn it, Maya."
"So it's true."
He runs both hands through his hair, pulling the topknot loose. "It's not finalized. The critic's assistant reached out. They're passing through the region, thought they'd stop by. Very casual, very low-pressure."
"Nothing about a food critic is low-pressure."
"I know that." He starts pacing. "But if I say yes, and if she likes what she tastes, then yes, the Mayor said she'd talk to the bank. Maybe buy me some time on the loan."
"And if she doesn't like it?"
"Then I'm screwed either way." He stops pacing, looks at me. "So I might as well try."
My practical instincts war with the part of me that's starting to believe in him. Three days isn't enough time. The kitchen still needs work. The sourcing isn't finalized. The menu is half-formed at best.
But the determined, vulnerable, and stubborn look on his face makes me nod.
"Three days."
"Three days," he echoes.
"Then we'd better get to work." With my phone in hand, I’m already opening my calendar. "Tomorrow morning, six AM. I'll bring the supplier contacts and we'll finalize your orders. You'll prep a test menu. No flourishes, no chaos, just clean, careful cooking that highlights the ingredients."
"Six AM?"
"Systems, Rogan. They start early."
He groans but he's smiling. "You're going to kill me."
"Only if you don't kill yourself first with poor planning." I head for the door again, this time actually leaving. "Get some sleep. You'll need it."
"Ivy?"
I pause on the threshold.
"Thank you. For believing I can do this."
"I don't believe you can do this."
His face falls.
"I believe you might be able to do this. If you listen. If you focus. If you stop trying to do everything yourself and accept help." I meet his eyes. "That's not the same as belief. That's conditional faith."
"I'll take it."
I step outside into the cool night air. The town is quiet, most windows dark. Above, stars scatter across a sky unpolluted by city lights. Somewhere a dog barks once, then silence.
Three days.
I walk to my truck, already running through mental checklists. Suppliers to call. Ingredients to verify. Safety protocols to review. A test kitchen session to schedule.
And one chaotic orc chef to somehow mold into something resembling professional.
I climb into the truck, start the engine.
My phone buzzes. A text from Maya: Thank you for not murdering him. He needs this. We all do.
I type back: Three days. Tell him to be ready.
Her response is immediate: He will be. You're scary when you're determined.
I smile despite myself, pulling out of the parking lot.
Scary. Practical. Controlling.
All true.
But also willing to bet on long odds and late-night promises and the slim chance that care and chaos might actually find balance.
For three days, at least.
After that, we'll see if conditional faith is enough.