Learning with the Older Boss (Curvy Wives of Blackwater Falls #5)

Chapter 1 - Levi

The sear on the duck breast isn't right.

I can tell from across the kitchen, can hear it in the way the fat renders against the pan. It’s too quiet, not enough crackle. I stride over to the range where Maya's working, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Temperature's too low," I say, reaching past her to adjust the burner. My arm brushes hers and I pull back like I've touched the damn flame itself. "You need to hear it sizzle. Listen."

The sound changes immediately, that satisfying crackle-pop of skin crisping properly, and Maya nods, her green eyes flicking up to meet mine for just a second before darting back to the pan.

"Got it, Chef."

*Chef.*

She always calls me that, even though it's just the two of us back here most days, even though the formal title feels too big for this small kitchen in this small town. But I make her use it anyway, make her keep that distance, because the alternative is too dangerous to consider.

"Flip it in thirty seconds," I tell her, already turning away. "And for God's sake, don't touch it before then. Let it do its job."

I don't wait for her response. I'm back at my station, hands moving through the familiar rhythm of plating the risotto that's been my focus for the past ten minutes.

Butternut squash, sage brown butter, a scatter of toasted pumpkin seeds.

Simple. Seasonal. The kind of dish that shouldn't make my pulse race but does anyway because every single plate that leaves this kitchen has to be perfect.

*Has* to be.

It's been two weeks since we opened. Fourteen days of packed reservation books and positive feedback and locals telling me they're proud to have a place like Juniper's in Blackwater Falls.

Fourteen days of barely sleeping, of lying awake at three in the morning mentally reviewing every service, every dish, every single detail that could have been better.

Fourteen days of trying not to think about the curvy brunette working five feet away from me, her hair in that same neat braid, her hands moving with a confidence that's growing every shift.

Fourteen days of failing spectacularly at that last part.

"Chef?" Maya's voice cuts through my thoughts. "The duck is ready to rest."

"Good. Start the Brussels sprouts. Charred, not burned. There's a difference."

"I know the difference." There's the tiniest edge in her voice, just a hint of frustration, and something in my chest twists.

I look up. She's already moving, pulling the cast iron skillet from the rack. She's learned the kitchen layout faster than I expected, adapted to my rhythms, anticipated needs before I voice them.

She's good. That's the problem.

Well. One of the problems.

The other problem is the way her chef's whites pull across her hips when she reaches for the overhead rack, the way her laugh sounds on the rare occasions I'm not being a complete bastard, the way she looks at me sometimes like I'm someone worth impressing.

I'm not. I'm just a tired thirty-six-year-old who's running on caffeine and spite and the desperate need to prove he didn't make a mistake coming back here.

"Table six needs their mains in five minutes," I say, checking the order tickets clipped above my station. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Chef."

The Brussels sprouts hit the hot pan with that perfect sizzle.

She's learning. Of course she is. Maya Sutton is a quick study, absorbs information like a sponge, asks questions that show she actually understands what she's doing and why.

When she interviewed for this position, I knew within five minutes she'd be an asset.

I also knew within five minutes that hiring her was probably a mistake I'd regret.

Not professionally. Professionally, she's exactly what I needed.

Someone eager, talented, willing to work for the modest wages I can afford to pay while the restaurant finds its footing.

Someone who genuinely loves this work, who lights up when we talk about techniques or ingredients or the thousand small details that separate good food from great food.

Personally? Personally, she's a disaster waiting to happen.

"Chef, I had an idea for the special this weekend—"

"Not now." I don't mean for it to come out as sharp as it does, but her mouth snaps shut and she focuses back on the sprouts, her shoulders tensing just slightly.

Guilt gnaws at my ribs, but I push it down.

Better she thinks I'm an asshole than she figures out the real reason I can't listen to her talk about food with that enthusiasm brightening her whole face, making her eyes spark, making her gesture with her hands in a way that draws my attention to the curve of her wrist, the elegant movement of her fingers.

Jesus Christ. I'm losing it.

"Plating," I announce.

I slide the risotto onto warmed plates while Maya rests the duck, fans the Brussels sprouts, adds the cherry gastrique I prepped this morning.

We don't talk. We don't need to. After two weeks, we've developed a rhythm that would be beautiful if it didn't make me want things I absolutely cannot have.

She's twenty-four. I did the math after her interview, casually asked about when she graduated culinary school, calculated the years and felt my stomach drop.

She's closer in age to my brother Owen than she is to me, young enough that the age gap makes this attraction inappropriate at best and predatory at worst.

And she works for me. I'm her boss, her mentor, the person responsible for her professional development. I'm not the kind of man who abuses that position, who takes advantage of a young woman just starting her career, who confuses proximity and admiration for something real.

Even if sometimes, when she's focused on a task and doesn't know I'm watching, I catch myself imagining what it would be like to back her against the stainless steel counter, to bracket her with my arms and finally taste that mouth that's been haunting my dreams.

"Service," I call out, and Maya carries the plates to the pass where Jenny, our front-of-house manager, is waiting.

"Looks gorgeous, Chef," Jenny says. "Table six is going to love it."

The dining room is visible through the pass, all warm lighting and exposed brick and the low hum of conversation that means people are happy, relaxed, enjoying themselves.

This is what I wanted when I designed Juniper's—a place that felt special without being intimidating, where locals could afford to celebrate without breaking the bank, where the food was the star but not at the expense of comfort.

My eyes catch on the framed photo near the host stand.

Grandma June, laughing in her kitchen, flour on her nose and joy in her eyes.

She'd love this place. She'd love that I named it for her, that I'm using her pie recipe for dessert specials, that I'm trying to create the same warmth she always brought to cooking.

She'd also probably smack me upside the head for being an idiot about Maya.

"Behind," Maya says, and I step aside, letting her access the prep station.

She's making the salad course for table eight, her hands moving through the mise en place. Arugula, shaved fennel, citrus segments, toasted almonds. She plates it with more care than necessary for a simple salad, arranging everything with an eye for color and composition.

"You're overthinking it," I tell her. "It's just a salad."

"There's no such thing as 'just' anything." She doesn't look up, but there's something defiant in her tone. "Every plate matters."

And damn it, she's right. That's exactly my philosophy, what I've been preaching since day one. Every plate matters. Every dish is an opportunity to make someone's night better, to create a memory, to show that you care about the details.

I taught her that.

"Fine," I mutter. "But we're on a clock. Beautiful and timely, remember?"

"Yes, Chef."

Orders flow in, plates flow out, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I lose myself in the work.

This is where I'm comfortable. The heat, the pressure, the need to execute flawlessly under constraints.

Fifteen years of kitchens, from New York to New Orleans, fine dining to casual bistros, and this is still where I feel most like myself.

In the chaos. In the fire.

Table twelve sends back their compliments to the chef. Table four orders a second bottle of wine. Table nine asks if we can accommodate a dairy allergy, and Maya's already adjusting the preparation before I can respond, swapping butter for olive oil, checking every component for hidden dairy.

She's thinking ahead. Anticipating. Becoming the kind of cook who doesn't just follow recipes but understands them, who can adapt on the fly because she knows the why behind every technique.

I'm proud of her.

I'm also going out of my mind.

"Last ticket," Jenny calls around nine-thirty, and relief washes through me. We're through another service. Another night of not screwing up, not disappointing people, not proving that opening a restaurant in my hometown was a romantic delusion doomed to failure.

Maya's already breaking down her station, moving through the closing routine.

Containers sealed and dated, surfaces wiped down, trash consolidated.

She works clean, another thing I noticed early on.

Some cooks are brilliant but messy, leaving chaos in their wake.

Maya keeps her space organized, makes cleanup part of the process rather than an afterthought.

Grandma June would have approved.

"Good work tonight," I tell her, because I should, because she deserves to hear it even if my voice comes out rougher than intended.

She looks up, surprised. "Thank you, Chef."

"The duck was perfect. Good recovery on the temperature."

A smile breaks across her face, bright and genuine, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like smile back. Instead, I turn to the prep list for tomorrow, scanning through what needs to be done, what ingredients I need to pull from the walk-in.