Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Amber
I am exhausted.
We stayed up until nearly two in the morning last night, scrubbing floors, polishing silverware, and steaming linens until the dining room of Blade water isn’t cutting it.
“It’s not working!” I cry out.
“Here!” Fallon appears with a carton of whole milk.
Knox grabs a clean cloth, soaks it until it’s dripping, then presses it gently over my eye.
“Ne bouge pas. Hold still,” he commands. His voice is less sharp now, more urgent. He’s close—too close. I can smell the scent of him, that clean, cold smell mixed with the tang of the peppers he’s been handling.
The cool milk soaks into my skin, and slowly, agonizingly, the fire begins to recede. I let out a sob of relief, leaning into his hand without realizing it.
“Are you okay?” Fallon asks from the side, looking anxious. “That looks painful.”
“She’ll be fine,” Knox says, not taking his eyes off my face. He swaps the cloth for a fresh one soaked in milk. “The milk neutralizes the capsaicin. Drette là. Keep it there for a minute.”
“I’m so stupid,” I whisper, my eye squinting open slightly. My vision is blurry, watery. “You told me not to touch my face.”
“T’inquiète. People make mistakes,” Knox says, his tone surprisingly gentle.
He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. The blue light from his glasses hides his eyes, but I can feel his gaze boring into mine.
I blink, the milk-soaked cloth cool against my skin. I’ve heard him drop little phrases before—bits of “chef-speak” or a quick “merci,” but he barely talks to me so I never really thought much about it.
Now, hearing the smooth, melodic roll of the vowels coming from deep in his chest, the realization hits me. Knox is French.
“Is she okay?” Sarah’s voice cuts in, floating from the doorway. “Oh no, what happened? Is she allergic to something?”
She really needs to stop talking, I think, a spike of irritation piercing through the pain. She sounds like she’s watching a soap opera, not a kitchen accident.
“She got pepper in her eye,” Fallon tells her. “She’ll be fine.”
“Oh, poor thing,” Sarah coos. “Maybe she should go lie down? We don’t want her ruining the vibe for the guests if she’s all red and puffy.”
I bristle. Vibe? I’m the one who has been cleaning this place for two days.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice coming out stronger than I feel. I pull away from Knox’s hand, testing the skin around my eye. It still throbs, but the agony is gone. “I’m going to wash my hands again.”
I walk to the sink, scrubbing my hands with soap, trying to scrub away the humiliation along with the spice.
I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. One eye is red and puffy, tearing up uncontrollably. I look like a mess.
I turn back to the kitchen, determined to redeem myself. I need to be useful. I need to prove I’m not just a liability.
Knox is back at the oven, checking on the halibut. He’s roasting it at high heat to get a crust. He pulls the heavy tray out, the heat waves distorting the air around him.
“Do you need help plating those?” I ask, stepping forward. “I can start arranging the fennel.”
“I’ve got it,” he says, not looking at me. “Just give me a second.”
“I can help,” I insist, wanting to do something right. I reach out to grab the tray of roasted fennel sitting on the counter next to him, intending to move it to the plating station.
But I misjudge the distance. My hand, still wet from the sink, slips. My wrist grazes the edge of the hot tray he just pulled out.
“Ow!” I snatch my hand back, a searing line of pain burning across my forearm.
Knox spins around, eyes wide. “Putain! Amber!”
I look down at my arm. A bright red stripe is blooming across my skin. “Shit. I… I didn’t mean to do that.”
Knox drops the oven mitts and grabs my arm, inspecting the burn. “It’s not blistering, but it’s going to hurt. Fallon! Get the burn gel from the kit!”
“On it!” Fallon yells again.
Knox doesn’t let go of my wrist. His grip is firm but surprisingly gentle. He leads me away from the heat of the ovens, back toward the office.
“Come with me,” he says. “You need to sit down.”
He guides me down the hallway, his hand warm on my shoulder. I blink, my vision still blurry from the pepper tears, trying to navigate the hallway.
“In here,” he says, opening the door to his office.
He ushers me inside and closes the door, shutting out the noise of the kitchen and the sound of Sarah’s voice. The office is cool and quiet, smelling of old paper and Knox’s crisp scent.
He points to the leather chair. “Sit.”
I sit, wincing as the fabric of the chair rubs against my arm.
Knox kneels in front of me, his height bringing him eye level with me. Fallon comes in with a tube of gel and hands it to Knox before slipping back out, closing the door.
Knox opens the tube and squeezes a cool dollop onto his fingers. He looks up at me, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.
“This might sting,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper.
He applies the gel to my arm. The sensation is cool and soothing, instantly calming the angry heat. He works it in with slow, circular motions. His hands are strong, his fingers long and elegant.
I watch him as he tends to me. Up close, he really is handsome. He looks severe with his sharp jaw and tight lips, but right now, with his head bent in concentration, he looks… devoted.
He’s wearing his chef’s whites, the crisp fabric contrasting with his dark hair. The uniform suits him. It commands respect, but there’s a grace to his movements that I hadn’t noticed before.
He looks up, catching me staring.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“Not anymore,” I say, sounding breathless to my own ears. “Thank you, Knox.”
He wipes the excess gel from his fingers with a tissue. He doesn’t stand up immediately. He stays there, kneeling between my knees, looking at me.
My eyes are still watery, my vision swimming. I feel vulnerable, exposed. But I also feel safe.
We both begin to speak. He stops and motions for me to go first.
“You’re French?”
That must take him by surprise. “French-Canadian. Did you not know this about me?”
I suddenly feel shy again. “Not really. I knew you had a foreign accent but never really placed it.”
“Ah. Born and raised in Ottawa. Franco-Ontarien on my father’s side, Québécois on my mother’s.”
“That’s so cool.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
We go silent again for a couple of seconds. This time, he’s the one to break it.
“You’re having a rough day,” he observes.
“I’m usually not this clumsy,” I say, trying to laugh, but it comes out as a choked breath. “I’m just… off today.”
“Everyone has off days,” he says. He reaches out, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from my cheek. His touch is tentative, as if he’s testing a boundary.
The dream flashes in my mind again—Knox pinning me to the fridge. The line between reality and the dream feels dangerously thin.
“Knox…” I start, not sure what I’m going to say.
He seems to realize the position he’s in—kneeling before me, touching my face. He pulls his hand back, his jaw tightening. He stands up abruptly, putting distance between us.
“Rest here for a minute,” he says, his voice returning to its professional cadence. “Until your eye stops watering. We open in two hours. I need you focused if you’re going to handle the front of house.”
“I will be,” I promise.
He nods once, gives me a curt look, and walks out.
I sit in the quiet office, listening to the muffled sounds of the kitchen. My arm throbs dully, my eye stings, and my heart is racing a mile a minute.
I press my hands to my cheeks. They’re burning. And I’m terrified that it has nothing to do with the chili peppers.
Then the dawning realization hits me. I might lose this job.
That’s when the panic kicks in.