Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fallon
The kitchen is quiet, save for the snick-snick of my knife against the cutting board. I’m breaking down a side of pork, separating the loin from the ribs with a single, fluid motion.
It’s muscle memory at this point. I could do this in my sleep, though I prefer not to; I value my fingers too much.
The sun is just starting to creep through the high windows. It’s early, even for us. I came in to get a head start on the charcuterie board prep, wanting to experiment with a new pheasant pate recipe I’ve been toying with.
The bell above the front door jingles, echoing through the empty dining room.
I frown, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s barely seven. We don’t open for breakfast service for another two hours, and the delivery trucks don’t usually arrive until eight.
I wipe my hands on my apron and walk out of the kitchen, ready to shoo away a lost tourist or an overeager vendor. When I step into the dining area, I stop.
A woman is standing just inside the door, shaking a light dusting of snow from her jacket. She’s not a tourist. She looks like she belongs in a magazine spread, not on the snowy streets of Fox Hollow.
She’s wearing a wrap dress in a deep, sapphire blue that hugs her curves and accentuates her waist. On her legs, she has on a pair of sleek, knee-high black leather boots that click softly on the hardwood floor as she shifts her weight.
A heavy wool coat is draped over her shoulders, and in her arms, she’s cradling a bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown craft paper.
She looks up, and I’m struck by how pretty she is. Large hazel eyes, chestnut hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and a face that is open and expressive, though currently pinched with a hint of nervousness.
“Hi,” she says, offering a tentative smile. “I know you’re not open yet. I’m so sorry to barge in.”
“No problem,” I say, leaning against the host stand. “We’re just in the back prepping. Can I help you with something?”
She takes a step closer, and the air shifts.
My nostrils flare. It’s subtle beneath the smell of the cold air and the floral perfume she’s carrying, but it’s there. Jasmine and rain.
I freeze. I know that scent. I smelled it on Eli two days ago, lingering on his collar like a ghost he couldn’t wash away.
This is her. The woman he’s been sneaking around with. The reason he’s been humming in the kitchen.
“I’m actually looking for Eli,” she says, clutching the flowers a little tighter. “Is he in?”
“Eli’s not in yet,” I tell her, crossing my arms over my chest. “He usually gets in around eight to start the dough. I’m Fallon, by the way. I work with Eli.”
Her shoulders drop slightly, disappointment flashing across her face. “Oh. I see. I’m Amber. I just… I wanted to drop these off. To say thank you. He did something really nice for me last night, and I wanted to return the favor.”
She holds out the bouquet. It’s a stunning arrangement—velvet red roses, sprigs of silver eucalyptus, and some bright yellow flowers I don’t recognize the name of. It’s wild and beautiful, much like the woman holding them.
“I can take them for him,” I offer, reaching out.
“Thank you.” She hands them over. As she does, she fumbles with a small white envelope tucked into the paper. She pulls it out, holding it against her chest for a second.
“I wrote a note,” she says, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. “It’s probably really cheesy. I almost didn’t include it.”
I grin. “He’ll love cheesy. Eli’s a romantic at heart.”
She laughs, a light, genuine sound. “You think so?”
“I know so.” I tap the envelope. “I promise I won’t read it. I’ll make sure he gets it the second he walks through the door.”
“Thank you, Fallon.” She pulls her coat tighter around herself. “I really appreciate it. I have to get to work, but… yeah. Just tell him Amber stopped by.”
“I will.”
She gives me a little wave and turns to go. I watch her walk out, the bell chiming again as the door closes behind her.
I look down at the flowers in my hand. Eli has done well for himself. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, sure, but she also seems… kind. There was a softness to her that I think Eli needs.
I shake my head, walking back into the kitchen. I place the bouquet on the stainless steel counter, right in the center where Eli can’t possibly miss it. The scent of jasmine fills the sterile kitchen.
I lean in and inhale the scent again. Yeah, this is definitely the one.
The back door swings open, letting in a blast of cold air. Knox walks in, already dressed in his chef’s whites, his face set in its usual expression of focused intensity. He’s carrying a tray of herbs he must have harvested from the garden box out back.
He stops dead when he sees me standing there, staring at a bouquet of flowers.
“What is that?” Knox asks, his eyes narrowing. He sets the tray down on the counter with a clatter. “We don’t allow non-essential items on the prep stations, Fallon. You know that.”
“Relax, it’s not a permanent fixture,” I say, leaning back against the butcher block. “They’re for Eli.”
“Eli?” Knox walks over, inspecting the bouquet like it’s a bomb about to go off. “Who is sending Eli flowers at seven in the morning?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I can’t help it. I love seeing Knox thrown off balance.
“You won’t believe who was just in here,” I say.
Knox looks up, his eyes locking onto mine. “Who?”
I nod toward the flowers. “Amber. From the flower shop.”
Knox stills. “Jude’s sister?”
“The very same.” I cross my arms, enjoying the moment. “How do you know her?”
“She’s eaten here before, fool.”
Oh yeah! But that was such a long time ago I’m even surprised Knox remembers. “Well, she came by to drop these off. Said she wanted to thank him for something he did last night. She was wearing this dress, Knox. And boots. And she smelled… well, let’s just say our boy Eli is in deep.”
Knox stares at the flowers, then at me. For a second, I think he’s going to explode. I expect a lecture about rules, about distractions, about the integrity of the kitchen.
Instead, he reaches out and adjusts the angle of the bouquet, straightening it perfectly on the counter.
“The roses are nice,” he says gruffly. “Good color. They complement the eucalyptus.”
I blink. “That’s it? ‘Good color’? That’s all you have to say?”
Knox turns back to his tray of herbs, picking up a sprig of thyme. “Eli is an adult. If he wants to receive flowers from a beautiful woman, that’s his prerogative. As long as he finishes the croissant dough on time, je m’en fiche who sends him flowers.”
For the past three days, the bouquet of red roses and eucalyptus has sat in the center of our dining table. It’s wilting now, the petals curling at the edges, losing that crisp vibrancy they had when Eli first brought them home, but he refuses to throw them out.
Every morning, he trims the stems and changes the water, treating them like a fragile guest rather than a decoration. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing.
What is slightly annoying is that Eli has barely said two words to me about where they came from. He comes home later and later these days, leaving the restaurant the second the dinner rush dies down.
And when he does come home, he carries that scent with him—jasmine and rain. It clings to his sweater, lingers in the bathroom after he showers.
It’s the smell of her. The florist. Amber.
I’m happy for him, I am. But the dynamic in the pack has shifted.
I’m stuck closing the restaurant every single night, scrubbing the grease traps and mopping the floors while he’s off playing house. And to make matters worse, we can’t seem to hire a competent dishwasher to save our lives.
The interviews have been a disaster.
One guy asked if he could eat the leftovers for free, and another girl showed up ten minutes late with a smoothie in hand.
I’m beat.
Knox took off an hour ago, heading to the gym to bench press his frustrations away. He does that whenever he feels like he’s losing control of the logistics.
Usually, I’d go with him, spot him, maybe hit the heavy bag myself, but tonight my energy is hovering somewhere near zero.
I’m sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, when Eli’s voice drifts in from the kitchen.
“Fallon! Get in here!”
I groan, dragging myself upright. “What? Did you make one of your tomato smoothies again?”
“Nope. Something better.”
That’s not promising.
I shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over my face. The space smells incredible—rich, savory, and buttery. Eli is standing by the island, two plates in hand.
On them sit individual meat pies, the crust golden brown and flaky, the filling bubbling up through the vents in the pastry.
“Meat pies?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Eli says, sliding a plate toward me. “I had some leftover braised short ribs from the stew Knox made the other day, and I picked up these heirloom tomatoes at the market this morning. I wanted to try something different.”
I pick up a fork and break the crust. It shatters beautifully, releasing a cloud of steam scented with thyme and beef. I take a bite.
The flavors hit my tongue—the rich, gelatinous beef, the acidity of the tomatoes that have been roasted down to sweetness, and the flaky, buttery crust. It’s incredible.
“Fuck, Eli,” I mumble around a mouthful. “This is good. Like, actually good. We should add this to the lunch menu. The lunch crowd would go crazy for this.”
Eli leans against the counter, crossing his arms, looking pleased but cautious. “You think? I don’t know. The tomatoes were fresh from the market, the best batch I’ve seen in a while. I’m not sure we can get this quality consistently for a daily menu item. It might be a special-only kind of dish.”
“Then we make it a special every week,” I argue, taking another bite. “People love comfort food. Don’t overthink it.”
He shrugs, taking a bite of his own pie. “Maybe. I’ll run it by Knox.”