Chapter 1 - Levi #2
"I was thinking," Maya starts, and I tense. "About the weekend special. What if we did a play on chicken and dumplings? But elevated, maybe a coq au vin style braise with herbed spaetzle instead of traditional dumplings? We could source the chicken from Promise Ranch, use their mushrooms too, and—"
"No."
The word comes out flat, final, and I watch her deflate in my peripheral vision.
"It's a good idea," she says. "Seasonal, local sourcing, familiar enough for the regulars but interesting enough to feel special. That's your whole philosophy."
"My philosophy. My restaurant. My decision." I'm being an asshole again, I can hear it in my own voice, but I can't seem to stop. "We're two weeks in, Maya. Now's not the time to mess with what's working."
"I'm not trying to mess with anything. I'm trying to help."
"I don't need help. I need you to focus on execution, not creative direction."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. I force myself to look at her, to meet those green eyes that are bright with frustration and something that might be pain. Her jaw is set, her hands clenched at her sides, and I can see her fighting to keep her expression professional.
"Understood, Chef," she finally says. "Is there anything else you need tonight?"
"No. Go home. Get some rest."
She strips off her apron, hangs it on the hook by the back door, and grabs her jacket from the small office that's barely more than a closet. I listen to her footsteps crossing the kitchen, hear the back door open and close, and only then do I let myself exhale.
My hands are shaking.
I brace them against the counter, staring down at the scarred stainless steel, the burns and cuts on my knuckles that are part of the job. These hands have broken down hundreds of chickens, filleted thousands of fish, prepared countless meals for people I'll never meet.
These hands have no business imagining what Maya's skin would feel like. How soft. How warm.
"You're an idiot," I mutter to the empty kitchen.
Her idea was good. Really good. Exactly the kind of elevated comfort food that Juniper's is supposed to be about, using local ingredients, playing with familiarity and surprise. I should have at least listened to her full pitch, should have discussed it, maybe suggested tweaks or refinements.
Instead, I shut her down because listening to her talk about food with that passion in her voice makes me want to close the distance between us and find out if she kisses with the same enthusiasm.
Which I can't do. Won't do.
She's my employee. She's too young. She's just starting her career and I'm not going to be the cliché older boss who takes advantage of proximity and power dynamics and a young woman's admiration.
Even if the way she looked at me tonight, frustrated and defiant and refusing to back down completely, made something in my chest ache.
I finish the closing routine alone, moving through the tasks on autopilot. Trash out, floors swept and mopped, equipment checked, lights off in sequence. The restaurant settles into silence around me, just the hum of refrigeration and the tick of cooling metal.
Through the pass, I can see the dining room in the dim emergency lighting. Empty tables, chairs tucked in, everything ready for tomorrow. The framed photo of Grandma June is just visible in the shadows.
"I'm trying, Grandma," I tell her quietly. "I'm really trying."
Trying to make this work. Trying to build something that matters. Trying not to screw up the best thing that's walked into my kitchen in years by wanting something I have absolutely no right to want.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Owen: *How'd service go?*
*Fine,* I reply. *Solid night.*
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally: *You sound thrilled.*
I almost laugh. Owen knows me too well, even through text.
We grew up together in Granddad Jim's house after our parents decided parenting wasn't for them, learned to rely on each other when there was no one else.
He moved away first, came back recently, and now he's stupidly happy with Ivy, my best friend since childhood.
I'm happy for them. Genuinely. Watching them finally figure out what everyone else could see for years has been one of the few bright spots in my life lately.
I'm also envious in a way that makes me feel like a petty asshole.
*Just tired,* I text back. *Talk tomorrow.*
I pocket the phone and do one final walk-through, checking everything twice because that's who I am now: obsessive, paranoid, unable to trust that anything is truly done. The kitchen is pristine. The prep is ready for tomorrow. Everything is exactly as it should be.
Except me.
I lock up and step into the October night, the air crisp enough to make me pull my jacket tighter. Blackwater Falls is quiet at this hour, most businesses closed, just the streetlights and the distant sound of a motorcycle rumbling through town. Probably one of the Savage Riders heading home.
I still can't quite believe how that opening night went.
I'd been nervous when I saw the leather cuts come through the door.
Bikers in my nice restaurant… What if they caused problems, what if they scared off other customers?
Instead, they were respectful, complimentary, tipped well, and one of them told me if anyone gave me trouble to let them know.
I still don't know what to do with that offer.