Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Knox
The veal stock is at a perfect simmer—not a rolling boil that would cloud the liquid, but a gentle, rhythmic bubbling that coaxes every bit of collagen and flavor from the bones.
I stand over the large pot, skimming the impurities with a ladle, my movements precise and automatic. This is my meditation. This is my church.
The kitchen is quiet, save for the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of Fallon’s knife against the butcher block. He’s breaking down a side of pork, his movements less surgical than mine but incredibly efficient.
He’s a force of nature in his section, muscles bunching and shifting under his T-shirt as he separates the ribs from the loin.
I check my watch. 6:15 p.m. The dinner rush hasn’t quite started yet, but the prep list for tomorrow is already looming over us like a storm cloud.
Eli has been gone for an hour.
“Where the hell did he go?” I mutter, mostly to myself, dropping a sprig of thyme into the stock.
Fallon doesn’t look up from his work. “Probably went to feed a stray cat. Or save a burning building. You know Eli. He’s the Patron Saint of Lost Causes.”
“He’s the pastry chef,” I correct him, stirring the stock. “He should be here glazing the tarts for the dessert service. If those aren’t ready by seven, the tickets are going to back up.”
“Relax, Knox.” Fallon slices through a piece of fat with a wet sound. “We’re ahead of schedule. The guy is allowed five minutes to himself. He’s been working his ass off since we opened.”
I frown, lifting the ladle to check the clarity of the stock. It’s coming along nicely. “We have a system. Deviations from the system create inefficiencies. If he’s not here, the balance is off.”
“You sound like a robot.” Fallon laughs, wiping his knife on a towel. “Did you program yourself to say that in your sleep?”
“I programmed myself to say it because it is true. Order is the foundation of excellence.”
The back door opens, letting in a blast of cold air that makes the flame on the gas burner flicker. Eli walks in, shaking snow from his coat.
He looks… different. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, his glasses are slightly fogged up, and there’s a distinct spring in his step that wasn’t there when he left.
He hangs up his coat and walks over to the sink to wash his hands, humming a tune I don’t recognize.
“Look who decided to join us,” Fallon calls out, leaning against his prep table. “Did you get lost on your way to the sugar aisle?”
Eli turns, drying his hands on a paper towel. He’s smiling—a genuine, unburdened smile that I rarely see on his face. “I had an errand to run.”
“An errand?” Fallon waggles his eyebrows. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Who is she, Eli? Come on, spill. You were gone for an hour.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Eli says, but the color in his cheeks deepens. He moves to his station, avoiding Fallon’s gaze.
“Bullshit,” Fallon proclaims, pushing off the table to loom over the pastry station. “You smell like that. That specific scent. It’s not just sugar and vanilla. It’s… her. Who is she? Do I know her?”
I pause my stirring, my senses sharpening. I take a subtle inhale. Fallon is right. Beneath the smell of the cold air and the usual scent of Eli’s detergent, there is something else.
A faint, floral trace. Jasmine. And something warmer, sweeter. Omega.
My spine stiffens.
“It’s no one,” Eli says, reaching for a piping bag. “Just a friend. I dropped off some tarts.”
“Tarts?” Fallon laughs. “You walked all the way in the snow to drop off tarts for a ‘friend’? Please. You’re wooing someone.”
Eli focuses intently on fitting a star tip into the bag, refusing to make eye contact. “I’m just being nice. She likes lemon tarts.”
“She?” Fallon pounces on the pronoun. “Aha! So it is a she. Is it someone from town? Don’t tell me it’s Mabel’s niece. She’s like, twenty.”
“It’s not Mabel’s niece.” Eli sighs, finally looking up. “And I’m not wooing anyone. I’m just… being friendly. We had a conversation the other day, and I thought it would be a nice gesture.”
I turn off the burner under the stock and move to the end of the prep table, crossing my arms. “Eli.”
He looks at me, and I see a flicker of apprehension behind his glasses. He knows what I’m thinking. He knows the rule as well as I do.
“Is this wise?” I ask, keeping my tone level. “Getting involved with a local? This is a small town. People talk. If things go south, it doesn’t just affect you. It affects the restaurant. It affects the pack.”
Eli straightens his shoulders, his jaw setting in a way I haven’t seen often. “It’s not like that, Knox. It’s just tarts. I’m not asking her to marry me. I’m not even asking her on a date. I was… I just wanted to see her smile. That’s all.”
Fallon’s grin fades slightly as he looks between us. He senses the shift in the air, the sudden tension. “Okay, whoa. Let’s dial it back. It’s just tarts. No need to bring out the corporate handbook.”
“It’s not just tarts,” I argue, my eyes locked on Eli. “You’re distracted. You’re humming. You’re off your game. That’s dangerous in a kitchen.”
“I am perfectly capable of doing my job,” Eli counters, his voice firm. “And I don’t need you policing my social interactions. I’m an adult, Knox. I know the risks.”
“Do you?” I challenge. “Because the last time one of us got distracted by a pretty face, we nearly lost the business before it started.”
Eli flinches. The reference to Mary hangs heavy in the air. It’s a low blow, and I know it, but fear is a cold thing in my gut.
We have built something fragile here. We have built a life. The thought of it unraveling because of… feelings… makes my chest feel tight.
“That was different,” Eli says quietly. “She’s not like that. She’s not playing games.”
“How do you know?” I press. “You’ve known her for what? A week? Two days? You don’t know her. You just know how she looks when she eats a pastry.”
“I know enough,” Eli snaps, slamming a tray of pastry shells onto the counter with a clatter. “And I’m done having this conversation. I have work to do.”
He turns his back to us, grabbing a bowl of lemon curd. The message is clear.
Fallon looks at me, his eyebrows raised. “Tone it down, man. You’re acting like his father.”
I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. The adrenaline of the confrontation is leaving me feeling drained.
Fallon is right. I am acting like a tyrant. But the fear doesn’t go away.
I walk over to the office, grabbing the ledger from the desk. I need to focus on something tangible.
Numbers don’t lie. Numbers don’t have hidden agendas.
I walk back out into the kitchen, slapping the heavy book onto the metal island.
“Fine,” I say, opening the book to the latest spreadsheets. “We’re dropping the personal talk. We need to talk about the business.”
Fallon groans. “Please, no. My brain is fried.”
“Look at this.” I point to the column of figures. “We are twenty percent over our projected revenue for the quarter. Twenty percent. The lunch crowd is growing, and the dinner specials are selling out every night.”
“That’s good, right?” Fallon asks, wiping down his station. “That means we’re rich.”
“It means we’re successful,” I correct. “But it also means we are drowning. Look at the labor hours. Eli, you were here until two a.m. last night doing the bake-off. Fallon, you were here at six a.m. breaking down the meat delivery. I’m pulling double shifts managing the floor and the line.”
“We’re a team,” Fallon says with a shrug. “That’s what we do.”
“We’re burning out,” I counter. “I see it in your eyes, Fallon. I see it in Eli’s shoulders. We can’t sustain this pace. If we keep pushing like this, mistakes are going to happen. And in a kitchen, mistakes mean injuries or bad food.”
“So what’s the solution?” Eli asks from his station, his back still to us but his voice calmer now. “Raise prices?”
“Maybe. A little. But that’s not the main fix.” I tap the ledger. “We need to hire staff.”
The kitchen goes silent.
“No,” Fallon says immediately.
“Hear me out,” I hold up a hand. “I’m not talking about bringing in another chef. We are the core. The identity of this place is us. I’m talking about support staff. A prep cook. A dishwasher. Someone to handle the cleaning, the vegetable peeling, the stock rotation.”
“We don’t need strangers in our kitchen,” Fallon argues, his voice hardening. “We agreed on this. No one else behind the line. It’s too risky.”
“That was when we were struggling to make rent in a converted warehouse in Portland,” I counter. “This is Fox Hollow. We are established. We have a reputation. We can’t grow if we are stuck scrubbing pots until midnight.”
“I like scrubbing pots,” Eli mumbles.
“You like scrubbing pots because it gives you control,” I say. “But you could be spending that time developing new recipes. Expanding the dessert menu. Maybe even opening a breakfast service?”
Eli turns around at that. The mention of new recipes piques his interest despite his annoyance with me. “Breakfast? With pastries?”
“Cinnamon rolls. Croissants. Quiche,” I elaborate. “We have the space. We have the clientele. But not if we’re all exhausted by nine a.m.”
Fallon rubs his chin, the stubble scratching against his hand. He’s thinking about it. I can see the gears turning. He hates admitting when I’m right, but he’s practical.
“So,” Fallon says slowly. “A dishwasher. Someone to take the trash out, mop the floors, clean the grease trap.”
“Exactly. And a prep cook to handle the mise en place. Chopping onions, peeling potatoes, blanching vegetables. Imagine, Fallon. You walk in at ten a.m., and your station is already set up.”
Fallon’s eyes glaze over slightly at the image. “That does sound… nice.”
“It’s efficient,” I press. “It allows us to focus on the high-level execution. The art. Instead of the drudgery.”
“But the money?” Eli asks, walking over to the island. He looks at the ledger, his brow furrowed. “Can we afford it? Paying two new salaries? Benefits?”
“We can afford it,” I assure him. “Look at the surplus. If we reinvest in labor, we can increase output. We can handle the catering requests we’ve been turning away. We can expand the menu.”
I look at both of them. They are my pack. They are my brothers. But we are standing at a crossroads.
We can stay a small, tight-knit trio working ourselves into the ground, or we can grow into something bigger. Something that might actually last.
“It won’t be the same,” Fallon says quietly. “Having other people back here. It changes the vibe.”
“It will change,” I admit. “But it doesn’t have to change us. We set the culture. We train them. We are the Alphas here. We run the ship. They just swab the deck.”
Eli looks at me, his expression softening. He knows I’m trying. He knows that this—this proposal—is my way of caring for them.
My way of protecting them from burnout.
“You really think we can find someone who can handle your standards?” Eli asks, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not exactly easy to work for, Knox.”
“I’m fair,” I reply stiffly. “I demand excellence.”
“He’s a tyrant,” Fallon tells Eli.
“I’m a perfectionist,” I correct. “And if we hire the right people, they will learn to appreciate that.”
Eli sighs, looking down at his hands. He still smells faintly of jasmine and lemon. He’s hiding something, I know it.
But he’s also my brother, and I trust him. If he says it’s just tarts, I have to let it be for now. I have to trust that he won’t be stupid.
“Okay,” Eli says. “If you think we can afford it, I’m in. I could use the help with the dough. My hands are killing me.”
Fallon looks between us, then shrugs. “Fine. But I get to interview the dishwasher. If he looks like he’s going to steal our meat, he’s gone.”
“Deal,” I say, closing the ledger. A sense of relief washes over me. This is a step forward. This is control.
“But Knox?” Eli asks, his tone serious again.
“Yes?”
“Lay off the interrogation. If I want to bring someone tarts, let me bring them tarts.”
I look at him. I see the stubborn set of his jaw. I know this isn’t over. I know that wherever he went, whoever he saw, it has already begun.
But I also know that I can’t stop it. Not by yelling. Not by quoting rules.
“Bien,” I say, turning back to my stock. “Bring your tarts. Just make sure you’re back in time for service.”
Eli smiles, a small, secret smile. “I will.”
I pick up my spoon and stir the pot. The liquid is dark and rich, swirling with the possibilities of what we’re building.
But as I watch the steam rise, I can’t help but feel that the real storm hasn’t even hit us yet.