Chapter 2 - Maya
My car refuses to start.
Again.
I turn the key for the fourth time, and the engine makes that same pathetic wheezing sound, like it's dying, which it probably is, before giving up entirely. The dashboard lights flicker once and go dark.
"Are you kidding me right now?" I smack the steering wheel with both hands, immediately regret it when pain shoots through my palms, and slump back against the seat.
This is perfect. Just perfect. Cap off a night where my boss shot down my idea without even pretending to consider it by stranding me in the Juniper's parking lot at ten o'clock at night with a dead car and a dying phone battery.
I pull out my cell and stare at the 8% charge remaining.
Mom's working the overnight shift, so calling her isn't an option.
I could call a tow truck, except I can't afford a tow truck because I'm barely making enough to help with bills as it is.
The mechanic's been telling me for months that this car is on borrowed time, and apparently time's finally run out.
"Dammit." I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes.
I'm still angry. That's the worst part. I'm angrier about Levi dismissing my idea than I am about the car, which is ridiculous because the car is an actual problem while Levi Harper's inability to see me as anything but a kitchen helper who should keep her mouth shut is just... frustrating.
*My philosophy. My restaurant. My decision.*
His voice echoes in my head, flat and final, like I'd suggested something absurd instead of a special that fit perfectly with Juniper's whole concept.
I wasn't trying to take over. I wasn't trying to overstep.
I was trying to contribute, to show him that I'm more than just someone who can follow his instructions.
But he won't let me.
Every idea I've suggested over the past two weeks, he's shut down.
Every attempt to have a real conversation about food, about technique, about anything beyond immediate tasks, he deflects or ignores.
Sometimes I catch him watching me, and I think maybe he's going to say something, acknowledge that I exist beyond my function in his kitchen.
Then he turns away and barks another order, and I'm back to being invisible.
Story of my life, really.
I've spent twenty-four years being invisible to men.
The pretty girls got noticed, the thin girls got asked out, and I got to be the "sweet" one, the "nice" one, the one who was "such a good friend.
" I made peace with it, mostly, and decided my career mattered more than waiting around for someone to see me as more than just the chubby girl in the corner.
But Levi makes me feel visible in the worst way. Like he sees me and actively wishes he didn't.
My phone buzzes with a low battery warning. Seven percent now.
"Okay." I take a breath. "Okay. Think."
I could walk. It's only about three miles to the house Mom and I share on the edge of town.
Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour in the dark.
Not ideal, but doable. Or I could sit here and wait until morning when the mechanic's shop opens, except the thought of spending the night in my car in an empty parking lot is—
Headlights sweep across my rearview mirror.
I twist around to see a truck pulling into the lot. Levi's truck, I recognize it from the last two weeks of watching him arrive before me and leave after me every single day.
Great. Perfect. Now he's going to see me stranded here like the mess I apparently am, unable to even maintain a functional vehicle.
His truck pulls up beside my car and the engine cuts. Through my passenger window, I watch him climb out, all broad shoulders and perpetual stubble and that permanent scowl that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely is.
He taps on my window.
I roll it down manually, because of course the battery's too dead for power windows, and try to arrange my face into something that isn't "furious and humiliated."
"Car trouble?" His voice is rough.
"What gave it away?" The words come out sharper than intended, but I'm too frustrated to care. "The fact that I'm still here, or the dead engine?"
His jaw tightens. "Pop the hood."
"You don't have to—"
"Pop the hood, Maya."
The way he says my name sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, which is infuriating because he's being bossy and presumptuous and I should tell him I can handle this myself.
Except I can't handle it myself. So, I pull the hood release and listen to him walk around to the front of the car.
I should get out. I should stand there while he looks at the engine and pretend I understand what he's checking. Instead, I sit in the driver's seat, staring at the steering wheel, feeling the frustration of the entire evening pressing down on my chest.
The chicken and dumplings idea was good. I know it was. Seasonal, local, elevated comfort food, literally everything Juniper's is supposed to be about. But he wouldn't even listen to the full pitch, just shut me down like I was wasting his time by having thoughts about the menu.
The hood slams shut and I jump. A second later, Levi's at my window again, wiping his hands on a rag he must have pulled from his truck.
"Battery's dead. Corrosion on the terminals, probably needs to be replaced entirely." He pauses. "When's the last time you had this thing serviced?"
"I... don't know. A while."
"A while." He's giving me that look, the one that makes me feel like I'm a disappointing prep cook who forgot to date the containers. "You're driving around in a death trap."
"It's been fine." Defensive. I sound defensive, which makes me even more annoyed. "It gets me where I need to go."
"Except tonight."
I glare at him through the open window. "Was there something else you needed, Chef, or did you just stop by to criticize my vehicle maintenance?"
Something flickers in his eyes: surprise, maybe, that I'm pushing back. Good. Let him be surprised. I'm tired of swallowing my words, tired of pretending his dismissiveness doesn't sting.
"I'm giving you a ride home," he says, like it's already decided.
"I can walk."
"It's three miles and it's dark."
"I have legs."
"Maya." There it is again, my name in that voice, and this time there's a note of something almost like frustration. "Get in the truck. Please."
The "please" does it. I've never heard him say please, never heard anything but commands and corrections and the occasional terse acknowledgment that I've done something right. The word sounds weird in his mouth, like it costs him something.
I grab my bag, roll up the window, and climb out of the car. He's already walking back to his truck, assuming I'll follow. The presumption should annoy me, but I'm too tired to care anymore.
His truck is clean inside, surprisingly clean for someone who works in kitchens all day.
No fast food wrappers, no coffee cups, just the faint smell of something woodsy and the lingering scent of whatever soap he uses.
I slide into the passenger seat and buckle up, and can’t help but notice the enclosed space, the way his presence seems to fill the cab.
He starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, heading toward the main road without asking for directions.
"You don't know where I live," I point out.
"Small town. I'll figure it out. Which direction?"
"East. Out past the elementary school."
He nods and takes the turn, his hands steady on the wheel.
Those hands. Scarred from years in kitchens, nicked with burns and cuts that never quite heal when you work with knives and heat every day.
I've spent an embarrassing amount of time noticing those hands over the past two weeks, watching them move through prep work, imagining—
No. Not going there. Not tonight, not when I'm already frustrated and confused and sitting way too close to him in the dark.
We drive in silence for a minute, two minutes, the tension thick enough that I want to roll down the window just to let some of it escape. The streets of Blackwater Falls roll past, most houses already dark for the night.
"Your idea wasn't bad," Levi says suddenly.
I turn to look at him, not sure I heard correctly. "What?"
"The chicken and dumplings thing. Coq au vin with spaetzle." He keeps his eyes on the road, his profile hard to read in the dashboard lights. "It wasn't a bad idea."
"Then why did you shoot it down?"
"Because we're two weeks in."
"You said that already."
"Because it's true." His hands tighten on the wheel. "We need consistency right now, not experimentation. People are just starting to trust us, to understand what Juniper's is. Changing things too fast makes it look like we don't know what we're doing."
"A single special isn't changing everything—"
"It's not about the special." The words come out harder than before, clipped. "It's about focus. I need everyone focused on execution right now, not creativity. Get the fundamentals perfect first, then we can talk about innovation."
There's something in his voice, something underneath the words that sounds almost like he's trying to convince himself as much as me. But I don't push. I've pushed enough tonight.
"Turn left at the next street," I tell him, my own voice quieter now.
He makes the turn, following my directions through the neighborhood where houses get progressively smaller, yards less maintained. This isn't the nice part of Blackwater Falls. This is where people like me and Mom live, people who work two jobs and make do and hope the car lasts one more month.
"The blue one with the white shutters," I say, pointing.
He pulls into the driveway and puts the truck in park but doesn't cut the engine. We sit there in the rumbling idle, neither of us moving, the porch light Mom left on casting long shadows across the hood.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For the ride."
"Yeah." He's staring straight ahead through the windshield, his jaw tight.
I should get out. I should thank him again, grab my bag, and go inside and forget this entire awkward night. Instead, I hear myself saying, "Why did you hire me?"