Chapter 3 - Levi
I don't leave her driveway until I see the light go on inside the house.
It's a stupid impulse, protective in a way I have no right to be. Maya's not mine to protect. She's my employee, nothing more, and sitting here like some kind of watchdog is crossing lines I've been trying so hard to maintain.
But I wait anyway, engine idling, until I see movement through the front window, a shadow passing by the curtains, and only then do I shift into reverse.
The drive back to my apartment takes ten minutes. Ten minutes of my hands gripping the steering wheel too tight, ten minutes of replaying that conversation in my head, ten minutes of calling myself seven kinds of idiot.
*When it's not at work, you can call me Levi.*
What the hell was I thinking? The whole point of keeping distance is to keep distance, not to give her permission to use my first name like we're friends, like there isn't a massive power imbalance between us, like I'm not spending every shift fighting the urge to touch her.
I pull into my parking spot behind the apartment building and cut the engine, sitting in the sudden silence. The building's not much, a converted house split into four units, but it's close to Juniper's and it's mine and that's all that matters right now.
My phone buzzes. Owen.
*Ivy says you gave Maya Sutton a ride home. Small town, big windows, someone saw your truck in her driveway.*
Of course they did. I'm an idiot for thinking otherwise.
*Her car died. I gave her a ride. That's it.*
*Sure.*
*I'm serious.*
*Ivy also says Maya's really good. Says she watched her work during opening night and the girl knows her way around a kitchen.*
I stare at the text, jaw tight. Of course Ivy noticed.
Ivy notices everything. It's what makes her such a good librarian, that attention to detail, that ability to read people and situations.
And now she's with Owen, which means Owen knows everything she knows, which means I'm about to get the third degree about my newest employee.
*She's competent,* I text back.
*High praise from you.*
*She needs more experience but she's got potential.*
*Also high praise. You going soft in your old age?*
*Fuck off.*
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then: *Seriously though. You okay? You seemed wound pretty tight at opening night.*
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the seat.
Am I okay? I'm running on four hours of sleep a night, mainlining coffee like it's oxygen, obsessing over every detail of a restaurant that's been open for two weeks.
I'm watching reservation books like a hawk, reading every online review multiple times, lying awake at three in the morning mentally reviewing each service for mistakes.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I've developed a completely inappropriate fixation on my kitchen helper who's twelve years younger than me and looks at me like I hung the fucking moon.
*Fine,* I text back. *Just tired.*
*Come by the clinic tomorrow if you need to talk. Lunch is on me.*
*Yeah. Maybe.*
I won't. Owen knows it, I know it. I've never been good at talking about things, never been the type to spill my guts just because feelings are complicated. I deal with problems by working harder, by staying busy, by channeling everything into something productive.
It's worked for fifteen years. It'll work now.
I climb out of the truck and head inside, taking the stairs to my second-floor unit. My new apartment is dark and sparse. I haven't had time to do much decorating, and honestly, I don't care. There's a couch, a bed, and a coffee maker. That's all I need.
I drop my keys on the counter and pull out my phone, scrolling through the day's receipts that Jenny emailed over.
Good numbers. Better than good, actually.
We're averaging ninety percent capacity, which for two weeks in is almost unheard of.
The reviews have been positive, the word of mouth strong.
I should feel relieved. Proud, even.
Instead, all I can think about is the way Maya's voice sounded when she asked why I hired her. Shy, almost vulnerable, like she genuinely didn't know her own worth.
*You understand what Juniper's is supposed to be.*
I meant it. Every word. When she talked about her grandmother's cooking in that interview, about making food that mattered instead of food that impressed, I knew I'd found someone who got it.
Someone who understood that cooking isn't about ego or recognition.
It's about connection, about creating moments that people remember.
That's what Grandma June taught me. That's what this restaurant is supposed to honor.
But letting Maya contribute, letting her ideas shape the menu, means trusting someone else with that vision. Means admitting I can't do this alone, can't control every aspect, can't guarantee the outcome if I share the creative direction.
And if we fail, when we fail, because restaurants fail all the time, especially in small towns, it'll be because I wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough, wasn't careful enough.
Not because I trusted the wrong person.
I strip off my clothes and fall into bed, knowing sleep won't come easy. It never does anymore. But I close my eyes anyway and try not to think about green eyes and a smile that makes my chest tight and the way Maya said my name.
Just my name. Not Chef. Just Levi.
Like maybe I'm more than the role I play in the kitchen.
Like maybe she sees something in me I'm not sure exists anymore.
Next Day
The next day starts the way every day starts: too early and with too much coffee.
I'm at Juniper's by seven, going through the delivery that arrived at six-thirty. Produce from Promise Ranch, and their stuff is exactly what I need. Fresh, local, the kind of quality you can't get from a corporate supplier.
I'm checking the mushrooms, making sure everything's up to standard, when my phone buzzes.
*Car's at Casey's. He says it needs a new battery and some other stuff. Going to be $400.* Maya.
I wince. Four hundred's not terrible for what's probably multiple issues, but I know from the neighborhood she lives in that four hundred might as well be four thousand.
*He's good. He'll make it last.*
Three dots. Then: *Thanks for the referral.*
I should leave it there. Keep it professional, transactional. Instead, I text: *How are you getting to work?*
*Mom's lending me her car. She's off tonight so it works out.*
*Good.*
I pocket the phone and get back to the delivery, signing off on everything and starting the day's prep list. There's a rhythm to this that I love: the quiet of the kitchen before service, the work of breaking down ingredients, preparing components, setting up stations.
This is where I'm in control. Where everything makes sense.
By the time Maya arrives at three, her shift starts at three on service days, I've got most of the initial prep done and I'm working on the sauce for tonight's short rib special.
"Afternoon, Chef," she says, tying on her apron.
I look up. She's wearing her hair in that same braid, her chef's whites clean and pressed, and there's something different in her expression. More guarded than usual, like she's not sure what version of me she's going to get today.
Fair enough. I haven't exactly been consistent.
"Afternoon," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Check the prep list on the board. We need to get the vegetables broken down for service and I need you to prep the spaetzle batter."
She stills, her hands pausing on her apron strings. "Spaetzle?"
"For the special." I don't look up from the sauce. "Chicken braised in red wine with mushrooms, pearl onions, and bacon. Served over herbed spaetzle. I talked to one of the guys at Promise Ranch about sourcing the chicken and mushrooms from their farm."
The silence stretches long enough that I finally glance over. Maya's staring at me, her eyes wide, something like shock written across her face.
"That's... that's my idea. From last night."
"It's a version of your idea." I turn back to the sauce, whisking steadily.
"I made some adjustments. We're doing a streamlined coq au vin instead of a full traditional preparation.
It's faster for service and the flavors are cleaner.
The spaetzle stays, but we're adding fresh herbs from the garden behind the restaurant. Chives, parsley, thyme."
"We have a garden?"
"Small one. Grandma June always said fresh herbs make the difference.
" I can feel her eyes on me still, can sense the question she's not asking.
"The idea was good, Maya. You were right.
It's exactly the kind of thing Juniper's should be doing.
Familiar but elevated, local sourcing, seasonal.
I should have listened instead of shutting you down. "
"Oh." Her voice is soft, almost wondering. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for doing what I should have done in the first place." I set down the whisk and finally meet her eyes. "You know food. You understand the vision here. I need to trust that more."
A smile breaks across her face. It’s bright, genuine, the kind of smile that does dangerous things to my heart and cock. "Does this mean you'll actually listen to my ideas from now on?"
"It means I'll consider them. If they're good." I pick up the whisk again before I can do something stupid like smile back. "Don't let it go to your head. Now get started on that prep list. We've got fifty-three reservations tonight and I need everything perfect."
"Yes, Chef."
She moves to the prep station, pulling out the vegetables that need to be broken down, and falls into the familiar rhythm of work. But there's something different in the way she moves now, an energy that wasn't there yesterday. Like she's lighter somehow, more present.
Like she feels seen.