Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Amber
The kitchen at Blade he flows. He is a machine, a perfect engine of culinary efficiency.
He stands at the pass, his face a mask of concentration, plating food with the speed of a magician. He slides a plate of seared scallops to the left, reaches back to grab a pot of risotto without looking, and deposits a perfect quenelle of pea purée on the third plate.
“Two halibut, table four. Fire the lamb for table six,” he commands, his voice cutting through the noise of the sizzling grills and the ventilation hood.
“On it, Chef,” Fallon calls back from the grill.
I’m at the prep station, my hands moving in a blur. My job during the rush is to keep the line stocked. Clean plates, wiped rims, garnishes ready. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary.
I watch Knox adjust a sprig of rosemary on a steak, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He’s not satisfied. He flicks the rosemary off and grabs a fresh one, placing it with a slightly different angle.
“Better,” he mutters to himself.
He’s so serious. He doesn’t joke, he doesn’t banter. He just exists in a state of high-functioning perfection. It’s intimidating, but it’s also mesmerizing.
He catches every mistake before it happens. Once, I reached for a dirty spoon, and without turning his head, he tapped the counter in front of me, sliding a clean one into my path.
“Don’t break the flow,” he’d said quietly.
I’d nodded, breathless.
The dinner rush hits its peak around seven-thirty. The tickets pour in, a relentless white stream of paper. The heat in the kitchen becomes stifling. Sweat trickles down my spine, but I don’t stop moving.
I fall into the rhythm, mirroring the men around me. Fallon is a powerhouse at the grill, swearing good-naturedly at a stubborn piece of meat. Eli is in his zone at the pastry station, piping mousse with steady hands.
We move like a single organism, passing trays, calling out orders, dancing around each other in the narrow galley. It’s exhilarating. I feel useful, capable. I’m not just the girl with the broken past; I’m part of this team.
By ten-thirty, the last ticket is printed. The kitchen goes silent, save for the cooling fans and the heavy breathing of three exhausted Alphas.
Knox wipes down the pass, surveying the clean kitchen. He checks his watch. “Service complete. Bon boulot,” he says.
I don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure it’s the most praise I’ve heard him give.
He pulls off his apron, hangs it up with surgical precision, and grabs his coat. “I’m heading out. I have inventory logs to review.”
“Night, Knox,” Eli and Fallon chorus.
He nods at me. “Amber.”
“Goodnight, Knox.”
And just like that, he’s gone. The energy in the room shifts instantly.
“Thank god,” Fallon groans, stretching his arms over his head. “I thought that group of ten was never going to leave. Who orders a well-done ribeye? It’s a crime against beef.”
“They were tourists,” Eli says, starting to stack the mixing bowls. “They don’t know any better.”
We start the cleanup process. It’s a team effort. Fallon scrubs the grill while I attack the dishes.
Eli wipes down the counters and starts the machine that washes the pots. We work in sync, the silence comfortable but for the clatter of metal and the rush of water.
“My back is killing me,” Fallon complains, though he’s smiling. “I’m getting too old for this standing nonsense.”
“You’re thirty, Fallon,” I remind him, scraping a pan.
“Thirty is the new forty in the kitchen business,” he retorts. “My knees have the mileage of a sixty-year-old.”
“Maybe you should stop doing parkour on your days off,” Eli suggests.
“Never.”
It takes an hour to get the kitchen back to its pristine state. The stainless steel gleams, the floors are mopped, and the smell of bleach replaces the scent of seared meat.
Fallon dries his hands on a towel. “I’m beat. I’m going home to pass out. You two locking up?”
“Yeah,” Eli says. “Go ahead. I’ll finish here.”
“Thanks, brother.” Fallon grabs his jacket. “Night, Amber. You survived your first full rush. You didn’t drop a single plate. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks, Fallon.”
He leaves, and suddenly, the kitchen feels much larger. Just me and Eli.
The lights are dimmed now, casting shadows in the corners. Eli leans back against the counter, crossing his ankles. He looks tired, but his eyes are warm as they find mine.
“How are you doing?” he asks softly. “Really?”
I lean against the sink, drying my hands on a towel. “I’m good. Actually, I’m really good. It feels… nice to be part of something that works so well. You guys are amazing at what you do.”
“They are,” he agrees. “And you fit in, Amber. You have good instincts. You anticipate things. Knox noticed, you know.”
“Knox?” I laugh. “He barely tolerates me.”
“That’s just his face,” Eli says, walking over to me. “He respects you. He wouldn’t let you near the pass if he didn’t trust you not to screw up his plating.”
I look down at my sneakers. “So… everyone’s okay with me being here? I know it was a last-minute thing. I don’t want to step on toes or mess up the dynamic.”
Eli steps closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle, grounding.
“We’re more than okay with it. Fallon loves having someone else to torment with bad jokes. And I…” He pauses, a smile playing on his lips. “I like looking up and seeing you. It makes the long days bearable.”
My heart stutters. He steps in, his body heat radiating against me, and kisses me. It’s a slow, sweet kiss, unhurried now that the rush is over.
I taste the lingering mint from the gum he’s been chewing and the underlying warmth that is just Eli.
I want to stay. I want to lean into him and let him hold me until my feet stop aching. But I can’t.
“I have to go,” I murmur against his mouth, though I don’t pull away.
“I know,” he sighs, resting his forehead against mine. “The flowers.”
“Yeah. I promised Wren I’d check on the stock at Fox he conducted. Every movement was precise, economical. There was no wasted energy.
And for a few hours tonight, I wasn’t the traumatized Omega with the shady past. I wasn’t the single mother struggling to make rent. I was just Amber, part of the line, of the machine. I had a purpose. It was intoxicating.
I pull up in front of the Fox & Fern Café. The lights in the front are dimmed, but I can see a faint glow coming from the back office. Wren is still up.
I grab my purse and climb out, locking the car behind me. The bell above the door chimes softly as I let myself in. The café is dark, the chairs stacked on the tables. The place smells of coffee.
“Wren?” I call out softly.
“Back here,” comes the tired reply.
I walk past the counter, with its vintage cash register and lace curtains, and push open the door to the office. Wren is sitting at her desk, surrounded by a mountain of paperwork.
She looks exhausted. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, her glasses are sliding down her nose, and there are dark circles under her eyes that rival my own.
“Hey,” I say, stepping inside. “I thought you’d be home by now.”
Wren rubs her eyes, blinking up at me. “I was trying to get the orders in for next week. But my brain stopped functioning about an hour ago.”