Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Knox
This is a bad idea.
The thought repeats itself in my head like a mantra. I thought it was a bad idea three days ago when Eli brought up the proposal at the morning meeting.
I thought it was a bad idea yesterday when she spent two hours after closing laughing with Eli and Fallon while I hid in the office, pretending to balance the ledger when I was really just listening to the conversation drifting from the kitchen.
And I especially think it’s a bad idea right now, as she stands in the doorway of my office.
Amber Carter.
She’s wearing the standard uniform we issued her, black trousers and a crisp white button-down shirt, but the way she wears it should be illegal.
The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, revealing forearms that are surprisingly strong.
Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck.
A strand has escaped, curling against her cheek, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to tuck it behind her ear.
She’s hot. Fuck it. Fine. I’ll admit it, at least in the privacy of my own mind.
She’s stunning.
There’s a softness to her that’s typically Omega, but there’s a resilience in her eyes that suggests she’s seen things and survived them.
And I’m not a fool. I know Fallon thinks so too. I’ve seen the way he looks at her when he thinks no one is watching, a mix of appreciation and intrigue.
And Eli? Eli is already halfway in love with her. He looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters.
I’m the voice of reason in this pack. I’m the one who keeps the trains running on time, who ensures the health inspector doesn’t shut us down, who makes sure we don’t bleed money on bad ideas.
I’m the one who should have my head screwed on straight.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, keeping my voice flat and professional. I turn my attention back to the inventory spreadsheet on my screen. If I look at her, I might lose my train of thought.
“Knox?” Her voice is a little hesitant.
I look up then, against my better judgment. “Oui, Amber?”
“It’s the steaming machine,” she says, stepping fully into the office. “Fallon explained how to use it this morning, but I think I messed up the dials. It’s jammed. The water isn’t circulating.”
“I’ll take a look at it.”
I wait for her leave. This is a quick fix. I can get this done and then quickly retreat back to my sanctuary, but I must not have been clear enough, because she doesn’t move. She stands there, waiting.
“Are you coming?” she asks.
I blink. “I… yes.”
I follow her out of the office and into the kitchen. The dinner rush hasn’t started yet, so the space is relatively quiet, the stainless steel gleaming under the overhead lights.
We walk over to the commercial steamer. It’s a hulking piece of equipment used to heat up plates and melt butter for sauces.
“I pressed the ‘Start’ button,” she explains, pointing to the digital panel. “And then the ‘Steam’ button. And it just made this grinding noise and stopped.”
I nod, stepping in close to inspect the control panel. I can smell her now. It’s faint, but it’s there—jasmine and rain.
It’s incongruous in a kitchen that usually smells of bleach and roasted meat, but somehow, the scent of flowers has permeated the room. It’s subtle, like she’s walked through and left a trail of life in her wake.
“You have to press ‘Steam’ first,” I explain. “If you press ‘Start’ while it’s in standby mode, the locking mechanism engages because it thinks the cycle is complete. It confuses the sensors.”
“Oh,” she says, looking at the buttons with renewed interest. “So it’s locked?”
“Exactly.” I press and hold the ‘Cancel’ button for three seconds. The machine beeps, the display flashing green. “Now. Watch. Press ‘Steam,’ wait for the light to turn, then press ‘Start.’”
She watches intently, nodding as the machine hums to life, steam hissing softly inside the glass chamber. “That makes sense. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I expect her to leave now, to go back to her station or the sink. But she doesn’t. She lingers, looking around the kitchen as if she’s waiting for something else.
“Is there anything else?”
She looks back at me. “Oh. No. I was just… I have to get to the dishes. The lunch rush left a backlog.”
I glance at the sink. It’s piled high with sheet pans and mixing bowls.
Fallon usually tackles this before he leaves for his deliveries, but he had to run to the docks to pick up the fish order. Eli is at the grocery store restocking produce.
Which means I’m the one left here with her.
“I can help you,” I find myself saying. The words are out of my mouth before I can consult my brain.
She shakes her head quickly. “No, it’s okay. You’re the head chef. You shouldn’t be washing dishes.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, rolling up the sleeves of my chef whites. “Idle hands, and all that.”
I don’t wait for her to argue. I walk over to the sink, grab an apron, and snap it on. I hear her hesitate for a second, and then the soft sound of her footsteps following me.
We work in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s charged. I can feel her presence next to me.
I try to focus on the task at hand—scrubbing the burnt cheese off a baking sheet—but I can’t help but notice how gorgeous she is.
The way the water splashes against her cheek as she rinses a plate. The way her hands move.The way she smells…
It’s distracting. It’s unprofessional.
I am almost grateful when my phone starts to ring on the office desk.
“I have to get that,” I say, ripping my gloves off. “If you need help with anything else, just tell me.”
“Thanks, Knox,” she says.
I freeze for a fraction of a second. The sound of my name in her mouth… there’s a thrill that zips down my spine that has absolutely no business being there. I nod curtly and escape to the safety of the office.
I close the door and pick up the phone. “Blade & Butter, Knox speaking.”
“Knox! It’s Ruth Evans.”
I smile, relaxing instantly. Ruth Evans is a sweet-faced older Omega who owns the antique shop on Main Street. She’s been a loyal customer since we opened.
“Ruth. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful, dear. Listen, I have a favor to ask. My niece is in town—just graduated from university in California—and the whole family is coming in to celebrate. There will be fifteen of us.”
“Fifteen?” I do the mental math. “That’s a decent crowd. We can certainly accommodate you. When were you thinking?”
“This Friday evening? Around seven?”
“Friday is doable. We’ll just need to finalize the menu.” I pull a notepad toward me. “Does she have any preferences? Allergies?”
“Oh, she’s not picky at all,” Ruth says. “But she is quite fond of spicy food. Loves a good kick. And she’s been raving about this truffle oil pasta she had in Napa, though I know that’s a bit out of season. Whatever you can come up with, Knox, I trust you. You’ve never steered me wrong.”
“I appreciate that, Ruth,” I say, my mind already racing. Spicy. Truffle. Fifteen people. “Let me put together a few options and I’ll email them to you for approval. I want to make sure c’est parfait.”
“That sounds lovely. Thank you, Knox. We’re all so excited. It’s been too long since the whole family was together.”
“We’ll take good care of you, Ruth. I’ll be in touch.”
I hang up the phone, staring at the notepad. Fifteen is a large group for a Friday night service, but it’s doable.
It’s an honor, really. Ruth is a pillar of the community. If we impress her family, it could lead to more catering gigs.
I pick up my pen and start brainstorming.
Appetizers: Spicy lamb meatballs with a yogurt mint sauce to cool the heat? Or maybe a blistered shishito pepper tempura. No, let’s go with the meatballs. It feels more familial.
Pasta: Truffle is tricky. Real truffles are out of the question this time of year, but a high-quality truffle oil infused with porcini mushrooms could work. A fresh pappardelle with a porcini cream sauce, drizzled with white truffle oil. Rich, earthy, indulgent.
Main course: We have that fresh halibut coming in from Fallon’s trip. We could do a spice-crusted halibut with a mango-habanero salsa. That hits the spicy request and feels celebratory.
Dessert: Eli has been working on a dark chocolate and chili tart. That would be the perfect finish.
I sketch out the menu, my mind shifting into the strategic mode I love. The logistics, the flavor profiles, the timing. This is what I’m good at. This is where I am in control.
I look up at the closed door. Amber is out there, washing dishes. The kitchen smells like jasmine.
I force myself to look back at the paper. I’m a chef and a businessman. I’m not a man who gets distracted by a pair of hazel eyes.
I underline halibut twice.
Focus.
I’ve been at the desk for an hour, refining the menu for Ruth Evans until the ink on the page begins to blur. The layout is taking shape.
I’ve decided on a trio of appetizers to start—spicy lamb meatballs with a cooling yogurt-mint dip to balance the heat, blistered shishito peppers with sea salt, and a delicate arancini.
For the mains, the porcini pappardelle is a lock, and I’m confident the halibut will work if I source the habaneros carefully.
The back door swings open, letting in a gust of chill air and the distinct rustle of paper bags.
“Knox! You have to see these peppers.”
Eli breezes into the office, his cheeks pink from the cold, his arms loaded with grocery bags. He sets them down on the floor with a heavy thud and immediately starts unpacking, pulling out a bag of vibrant red jalapenos and a basket of ugly, delicious heirloom tomatoes.
“The market was insane this morning,” he continues, his energy filling the small room. “I got into a shouting match with a woman over the last bunch of fresh basil. I won, obviously. I wasn’t leaving without it.”
I lean back in my chair, watching him. His enthusiasm amuses me. It’s good, having that energy in the pack.