Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eli
The wind howls against the windshield of my car, the wipers working furiously to clear the slush that began falling halfway to the specialty market in Eugene.
The drive is usually a time for me to decompress, to let my mind wander through flavor profiles and pastry techniques, but today, my mind is blank. Just static.
I pull into the lot of the high-end grocer, grab the reusable bags from the passenger seat, and march inside. The store is brightly lit, the Muzak playing a smooth jazz version of a pop song I don’t recognize.
I move efficiently down the aisles—double cream, European butter, fresh organic raspberries for a garnish, heavy cream, and a dozen extra cartons of free-range eggs.
I’m in the checkout line, my mind already back in the kitchen, worrying about the tart shells, when I reach into my back pocket to grab my wallet.
My fingers brush against the denim. Nothing.
I pat my hip pocket. Nothing.
I freeze. The cashier, a bored-looking teenager with purple hair, looks up at me. “That’ll be eighty-forty, sir.”
I stare at her, my stomach dropping. I left my wallet on the counter in the office. I remember taking it out to check a receipt earlier and… just leaving it there.
“I… I forgot my wallet,” I say, the heat rushing to my face.
The cashier sighs, long and suffering. “Do you have Apple Pay? A card on your phone?”
I check my pockets. My phone is dead. I forgot to charge it last night.
“Is there a problem, sir?” The manager, a man I’ve bought supplies from before, walks over.
“Robert,” I say, feeling like an amateur. “I left my wallet at the restaurant. I’m the chef from Blade it’s mocking me.
I’m scattered. I’m off my game. And it’s all because of the weird energy in the kitchen today.
When I pull up to the back of Blade & Butter, Fallon is out back having a cigarette. He waves me down as I get out of the car.
“You missed the excitement,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke.
I grab two bags of groceries. “What excitement? Please tell me the kitchen didn’t burn down.”
“Close enough.” He follows me inside. “I think Knox is trying to kill your girl.”
What the hell does that even mean? “What?” I choke out.
“Amber had a run-in with the habaneros. Got the oil in her eye. Then she burned her arm on a roasting tray.”
My heart stumbles. “What? Is she okay? Where is she?”
“She’s fine. Knox patched her up. She’s in his office.” Fallon grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “She was a bit of a disaster, but she’s okay.”
I set the bags down on the steel counter with a heavy thud. “I should go see her.”
“I’d give it a minute,” Fallon advises, grabbing a bag of raspberries. “She was pretty embarrassed. I think she’s crying.”
“Crying?”
“Yeah. Knox was… intense about it.”
I frown. Knox is always intense, but usually, he’s distant. If he was intense with Amber, I need to know why. I wipe my hands on my apron and head for the office.
The door is closed. I knock softly.
“Amber? It’s Eli.”
“Come in,” she calls out. Her voice sounds thick, like she’s been crying.
I open the door. She’s sitting in the leather chair, her legs tucked up underneath her. One eye is red and puffy, watering uncontrollably. Her forearm is bandaged with a neat strip of gauze.
She looks small and defeated, a far cry from the capable woman who helped us crush the lunch rush yesterday.
I walk over, crouching down in front of her so I don’t loom over her. “Fallon told me what happened.”
She sniffles, looking away. “I was such an idiot. I touched my face. Then I burned myself. I’m just… I’m so tired, Eli. I feel like I can’t do anything right today.”
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching out to take her hand. Her fingers are cold. “You’re not an idiot. You’re exhausted. We all are. This happens.”
“I fucked up,” she whispers, guilty tears tracking down her cheeks. “Right in front of Knox.”
“He’s over it by now, I promise.” I squeeze her hand. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Does the arm hurt much?”
“Throbs. But Knox put the gel on it. It helped.”
“He’s good at that.” I pause, studying her face. “Do you want to go home? I can drive you.”
She shakes her head vigorously. “No. I can’t. I need to be here. I need to help. Ruth will be here soon.”
“Okay.” I stroke her knuckles with my thumb. “How about you come sit by me in the kitchen? You can help with the tart crusts. It’s easy work. Mindless. And you’ll be close to me.”
She manages a weak smile. “That sounds nice. Thank you, Eli.”
“Anytime.”
I help her up, keeping a hand on her lower back as we walk out of the office. When we enter the kitchen, the atmosphere is thick.
Knox is at the stove, his movements stiff and jerky. He doesn’t turn around when we enter.
Amber clears her throat. “Knox? I’m sorry again about the tray. And… everything.”
Knox pauses, his hand hovering over a pot of boiling water. He turns slowly. His gaze flickers from her face to her bandaged arm, then to me.
For a second, there’s something in his eyes that I can’t read. It’s not anger. It’s heavy and charged.
“It’s handled,” he says, his voice clipped. “If you’re staying, wash your hands. Eli needs help with the dough.”
“Right.”
I guide her to the pastry station. I feel a weird tension in the air, a static electricity that seems to spark between Knox and Amber.
Is it just me? Am I projecting my own insecurities because I left her alone? Or is there something actually going on there?
Knox turns back to his stove, dismissing us. I watch him for a moment, trying to read his body language. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set.
He’s stressed about the dinner. That must be it. I push the thought away. We have a service to execute.
“Okay,” I say to Amber, handing her an apron. “Let’s get these tarts done.”
The next two hours are a blur of activity. Amber is good company. She’s quiet, focused, and her hands are surprisingly gentle with the dough.
She helps me line the tart shells, pressing the crumbs into the pans with a precision that rivals my own.
It’s strange, but her presence seems to calm the kitchen. Even Knox seems to settle, moving from his rigid state into his usual fluid rhythm.
At seven o’clock, the front door opens and Ruth Evans arrives with her family. I can hear Sarah greeting them, her voice bright and professional.
To my surprise, she actually sounds competent. She seats them in the private dining area, and within minutes, the first ticket prints.
Appetizers: 3 orders lamb meatballs, 2 orders shishito peppers.
“Showtime,” Knox mutters.
The service begins.
It’s like a dance. I finish piping the chili chocolate mixture into the tart shells and slide them into the oven to set. Fallon is on the grill, searing the lamb. Knox is plating.
Amber is on the line with me, acting as the expeditor. She calls out the orders, her voice clear and steady, no longer shaky.
“Table one, two appetizers ready. Table two, one appetizer.”
She looks tired, her eye still a bit red, but she’s holding it together.
The kitchen is hot, loud, and alive. The smell of roasting lamb and spices fills the air.
“Taste this,” Knox says, holding a spoon out to me.
I taste the lamb sauce. “Perfect. The acid cuts the richness.”
“Good.”
The first course goes out. I watch through the service window as Sarah serves the dishes. She’s smiling, charming the guests. Maybe she’s not so bad after all.
Next comes the pasta, the porcini pappardelle with white truffle oil. Knox plates it beautifully, arranging the pasta in a nest, garnishing it with shaved parmesan and fresh thyme. It smells earthy and rich.
Then the main event. The spice-crusted halibut.
Knox sears the fish, the skin crisping up perfectly. He plates it over a bed of citrus-braised fennel, tops it with the mango-habanero salsa, and sends it out.
We hold our breath.
A few minutes later, the door to the kitchen swings open. Ruth’s niece, a young woman with bright blue hair, walks in. She’s holding a clean plate.
“Oh my god,” she says, looking around. “Who made the fish?”
Knox turns, wiping his hands. “I did.”
She rushes over to him. “That was incredible. Best thing I’ve ever eaten. And that kick? The spice is perfect.”
Knox blinks, clearly taken aback. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Ruth is raving about the pasta,” she continues. “And the service? Sarah is amazing. You guys have really outdone yourselves.”
She bounces back out to the dining room.
Knox looks at the door, then at us. For the first time all day, the corners of his mouth twitch upward. It’s a small smile, barely there, but it’s a smile.
“Looks like we nailed it,” Fallon says, clapping Knox on the back.
“Don’t get complacent,” Knox says, but the edge is gone from his voice. “Dessert is next.”
I pull the tarts from the fridge. The chili chocolate is set perfectly. I whip the cream, adding a hint of ancho powder and sugar. I pipe it onto the tarts in delicate rosettes, garnishing each with a sliver of candied orange peel.
Amber carries the tray out.
When she returns, she’s beaming. “They love them. Ruth said she’s going to write a review for the town paper.”
A collective sigh of relief goes through the kitchen. The tension that has been plaguing us all day evaporates. We did it.
The dinner finishes without a hitch. The guests leave, full and happy.
The dining room is empty. The kitchen is a wreck—pots, pans, trays, dirty dishes everywhere. But the mood is triumphant.
“I’m not cleaning this tonight,” Fallon declares, leaning heavily against the counter. “I’m dead on my feet.”