Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fallon
The back door opens, letting in a blast of freezing air. Knox walks in, dressed in his running gear, sweat sheening his forehead despite the cold.
He’s breathing hard, his cheeks flushed from the elements. He grabs a towel from the rack and wipes his face.
“You’re up early,” he says, his voice a bit rough from the exertion. He moves immediately to the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I reply, flipping a slice of bacon. “Figured I’d get a head start on the day. Want some?”
Knox takes a sip, leaning against the counter. “S’te pla?t. Where did you disappear to last night? You weren’t here when I got back from the gym.”
“Smokehouse,” I tell him. “Needed to get out of the house for a bit. Clear my head.”
Knox arches a brow, watching me over the rim of his mug. “Should I expect one of your conquests to come traipsing out of your room in a few hours? Or did you manage to contain yourself this time?”
I shake my head, sliding the finished bacon onto a plate lined with paper towels. “No conquests. Just a few drinks and a game of darts. I came home alone.”
“Ah bon?” Knox looks curious. “That’s unlike you. Usually, you can’t walk into a bar without leaving with someone.
“Yeah, well.” I turn the heat down on the pan and crack four eggs into it. “I just wasn’t feeling it last night.”
“You weren’t?” Knox takes the plate I slide toward him and crunches on a piece of bacon.
“I guess I just wasn’t in the mood,” I admit with a shrug. I grab a fork and start scrambling the eggs.
I don’t want to examine it too closely, the reason why I wasn’t exactly interested in any of the women in The Smokehouse. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe the grind of the restaurant is catching up with me.
Or maybe it has something to do with a certain florist with hazel eyes and a smart mouth who has been occupying a lot of our mental real estate lately.
I push that thought away before it can take root. I’m not ready to go there.
Knox looks at me like he wants to say more. Luckily, he doesn’t.
“How was your workout?” I ask.
“Pretty standard.” Knox chews slowly. “Now that you are choosing monachisme you should consider joining me in the gym. The exercise would be good for you.”
“Mona-what now?”
He taps the side of his head as he tries to come up with the English word. It’s a gesture I’ve come to recognize over the years. “What do you call it? The silent treatment place? You know, like Avatar?”
“Monk?”
“Exactly.”
“Fuck you. I’m not being a monk, and neither is Aang.” Then, deciding not to dwell on that, I drop it. “Besides, parkour and the restaurant are way more exercise than I need.”
“You’re a monk, non?”
“Leave me alone, Knox.”
He chuckles. “I was just worried about you. You need a way to center yourself. All that pent-up angst isn’t good for you.”
“Can you please fuck off? You’re the monk.” I plate the eggs and grab two forks.
“Criss d’épais. I was only trying to help.”
“Did you call me an asshole?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m going to ignore that. Eat up. We’ve got a long day.”
Just then, Eli’s bedroom door opens. He shuffles out, wearing flannel pajama pants and a faded T-shirt, his hair sticking up in every direction.
“Is that bacon?” he mumbles, shuffling toward the coffee maker like a zombie.
“It is,” I say, sliding a plate toward him. “And eggs. Eat up, Sleeping Beauty.”
Eli pours a cup of coffee, takes a long sip, and seems to wake up incrementally. He sits on the stool next to Knox and starts eating. “What are you guys doing up so early? It’s not even six.”
“Fallon couldn’t sleep,” Knox says, pointing his fork at me. “And he decided to cook us breakfast.”
Eli looks at me, then at Knox. A small smirk plays on his lips. “Let me guess. Knox was interrogating you about your love life again?”
Knox scowls. “I was not interrogating. I was asking a simple question.”
“You were asking if I brought someone home,” I correct him. “That’s an interrogation, brother.”
“I prefer the term ‘inquiry into the logistics of our shared living space,’” Knox retorts dryly.
Eli laughs, the sound bright and easy in the quiet kitchen. “Well, I for one am glad you’re home, Fallon. I need your muscles today.”
“My muscles are always at your service.” I bow theatrically. “What’s the plan?”
“The Evans dinner,” Eli says, his expression turning more serious. “We need to be ready. Ruth is expecting a lot, and I want to make sure the food is flawless.”
We move to the island, spreading out the order forms and prep lists. The kitchen becomes a war room.
“Okay,” I say, leaning over the counter. “We need to break this down. Shopping is the first priority. I need to hit the docks early to make sure I get the best halibut. If the catch is light, we might have to pivot to sea bass, but I really want the halibut for that spice crust.”
“I’ll handle the produce run,” Eli adds, tapping his pen against the paper.
“I need to go to the farm stand for those heirloom tomatoes and the fresh herbs. I also need to pick up more flour and butter. I’m going to make a test batch of that chili tart again this morning to make sure the spice level is right. ”
“I’ll handle the front-of-house prep,” I tell them.
“The private dining room needs to be set up. That means moving the extra tables, polishing the silverware, and steaming the linens. And… we need to deep clean the dining room. Bleach the floors, scrub the baseboards. It has to sparkle. Ruth is particular.”
Knox nods, looking at the list. “It’s a lot to do in two days, especially with regular service prep on top of it. If we spend the morning scrubbing floors, we’re going to be behind on the mise en place.”
“That’s actually why I wanted to bring this up,” I say, shifting my weight. “I know someone. Her name is Sarah. She’s an event planner, does freelance work for some of the venues in Portland. She owes me a favor.”
Knox looks up, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “An event planner? We don’t need an event planner, Fallon. We have a staff. We have Amber now.”
“Amber is one person,” I counter. “And she’s going to be helping with service and cleanup.
You’re going to be cooking. Eli’s going to be baking.
I’m going to be prepping and running the pass.
Who is going to set the tables? Who is going to arrange the flowers, coordinate the timing of the courses with the kitchen, make sure the wine glasses are spotless?
Sarah can handle all of that. She can come in Friday afternoon, set everything up perfectly, and get out of our hair. ”
Knox purses his lips. “Ben là! We can’t afford to hire a freelancer. We’re already eating into our margins with the extra ingredients for this menu.”
“She owes me a favor, Knox. She’ll do it for free. Or I’ll cover the cost myself. It’s worth it to keep our sanity.”
Knox hesitates. I can see him weighing the cost of his sanity against his tightfistedness. He looks at the list, then at me.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Call her. But if she gets in the way, she’s out.”
“Deal.”
We finish breakfast and load the dishwasher. The sun is starting to peek over the horizon, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold.
“Let’s hit it,” Knox says, grabbing his coat. “I want to be at the restaurant by seven.”
We drive over in silence, the roads still icy. When we pull up to Blade & Butter, the lights are already on in the kitchen.
We walk in the back door, shedding our coats. The kitchen is clean, spotless as always, but there is movement in the front.
I walk through the swinging doors and freeze.
Amber is there. She’s behind the counter, setting up the coffee station.
She’s wearing her uniform—black pants and the white shirt—but she’s got these massive headphones on, the kind that cover her whole ears. She’s humming to herself, moving her hips slightly to whatever rhythm is playing in her ears. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a high ponytail.
She looks… happy. Radiant.
I feel a grin spread across my face. I lift a hand and wave.
I’m so glad we agreed to let her use the spare key. Seeing her first thing after walking into the restaurant is…totally worth it.
She spots me and jumps slightly, pulling the headphones down around her neck. She smiles back, and it makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Hey, Fallon!” she calls out.
“Morning, Amber. You’re here early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, echoing my words from earlier. “Figured I’d get a head start on the coffee.”
Eli walks in behind me. His face lights up the second he sees her. He just walks right over to her, wraps an arm around her waist, and kisses her cheek.
It’s a sweet, domestic gesture. So easy.
I watch them for a second. Eli whispers something in her ear, and she laughs, swatting his arm playfully.
And then a thought hits me, unbidden and dangerous. I wonder what it would be like to kiss her.
Not a cheek kiss. A real kiss.
I wonder if her lips are as soft as they look. I wonder if she would taste like the vanilla frosting she’s always piping, or something darker, richer. I wonder if she would be gentle, or if she’s wild.
The thought is so vivid, so sudden, that it makes my chest tighten. I stare at her lips, then at her eyes.
She looks up, catching my gaze, and for a split second, gravity seems to shift. The world outside the kitchen goes quiet, leaving nothing but the sound of my own pulse thudding in my ears.
Then she smiles at me, that same friendly smile she gave me a second ago, and the spell breaks.
I push the thought away rapidly, shoving it down into the deep, dark recesses of my mind where I keep the things I don’t want to examine.
She’s with Eli. She’s our employee. And we have our rule for a reason.
I clear my throat, the sound loud in the quiet dining room.
“Alright, lovebirds,” I say, my voice sounding a little rougher than intended. “Break time is over. We have a restaurant to prep.”
Eli pulls away, looking slightly sheepish. “Right. Coffee first. Then work.”
“Coffee. Then work,” I agree, forcing a grin.
I turn and head back to the kitchen, needing the cold, hard reality of the meat and the knives to ground me. I have a job to do. And I can’t be thinking about kissing the florist.
No matter how intriguing the idea might be.