Chapter 5 - Levi #2
I've spent fifteen years in professional kitchens. I can break down a fish in under a minute, can manage a dinner rush without breaking a sweat, can create dishes that make people close their eyes in pleasure.
But the thought of telling Maya Sutton how I feel makes my palms sweat and my heart race like I'm eighteen again instead of thirty-six.
This is ridiculous. I'm ridiculous.
But I'm also done waiting.
I park in my usual spot and head inside, already planning what I'll say. Something honest but not overwhelming. Something that makes it clear how I feel without pressuring her. Something that acknowledges the complications but also makes it obvious that I think she's worth navigating them.
*Maya, I need to tell you something. I know this is complicated because I'm your boss and there's an age gap and we work together, but I can't keep pretending I don't feel this.
You're incredibly talented and you challenge me and make me want to be better, and somewhere in the past two weeks I've started wanting more than just a professional relationship.
I understand if you don't feel the same way, and I promise your job isn't contingent on your answer, but I needed you to know. *
Too formal. Too much like a speech.
*I can't stop thinking about you.*
Too intense.
*Want to grab dinner sometime?*
Too casual, doesn't acknowledge the reality of our situation.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, unlocking my apartment door. "You're a disaster."
But I'm a disaster who's going to be honest tomorrow. Who's going to take the risk. Who's going to find out if Maya Sutton sees me as just her boss or if there's a chance, even a small one, that she feels this too.
I fall into bed still planning what I'll say, how I'll say it, when I'll say it. Sleep is a long time coming, my mind too wired with endless possibilities. But when I finally drift off, I dream of green eyes and cardamom whipped cream and a future where I'm brave enough to reach for what I want.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I'll tell her.
And whatever happens after that... we'll figure it out together.
Or I'll survive the rejection and find a way to keep working with her professionally, even if it kills me. Either way, at least I'll know. At least I'll have tried.
And maybe, just maybe, she'll say yes.
Next Day
The next day arrives too fast and not fast enough.
I'm at Juniper's by six-thirty, running on three hours of sleep and enough nervous energy to power the entire kitchen. The prep work becomes my anchor: breaking down vegetables, checking inventory, reviewing the reservation list that Jenny sent over last night.
Sixty-two covers. Our biggest night yet.
I should be focused on that. On making sure every dish is perfect, every table happy, every detail executed flawlessly. Instead, I'm watching the clock tick toward three o'clock, when Maya's shift starts, and my stomach is in knots.
I still don't know what I'm going to say.
Owen's advice loops through my head: *Stop being an idiot and go for it.* Simple in theory. Terrifying in practice.
Every time I try to formulate the words, they sound wrong.
Too formal, too casual, too intense, not intense enough.
How do you tell someone that they've completely upended your world in two weeks?
That you can't stop thinking about them?
That you want to know if this connection you feel is real or just your own desperate imagination?
The answer is: I have no fucking idea.
But I'm doing it anyway. Tonight. After service, when the kitchen is quiet and we're alone and I can't chicken out because I've already promised myself, and Owen, and apparently Ivy by extension, that I'm going to be honest.
I just have to survive dinner service first.
At 2:47, I hear the back door open. My heart slams against my ribs.
"Afternoon, Chef," Maya's voice carries across the kitchen, bright and warm.
I turn to find her tying on her apron, her hair already braided, a smile on her face that makes something in my chest ache. She looks happy. Relaxed. Like last night meant something to her too, even if not in the same way it meant something to me.
"Afternoon," I manage, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. "Check the prep list. We're at sixty-two covers tonight."
Her eyes widen. "Sixty-two? That's amazing!"
"It's a lot of pressure. Everything needs to be perfect."
"It will be." She says it with such confidence, such absolute certainty, that I almost believe her.
She moves to the prep station, and I force myself to look away, to focus on the duck breast I'm prepping, and not watch the way she moves through the kitchen like she belongs here.
Like she's always belonged here.
Maya starts on the vegetables for tonight's sides while I work on the protein prep, and somewhere in the routine, my nerves settle slightly.
This is what we're good at. Working together.
Moving in sync. Creating something beautiful out of raw ingredients and heat and skill.
Maybe the conversation tonight won't be as terrifying as I'm imagining.
Maybe the words will come easier when we're alone, when the pressure of service is behind us, when I can just be honest without overthinking every syllable.
"Chef?" Maya's voice breaks through my thoughts. "The galettes for tonight… Do you want me to prep the dough now or closer to service?"
Right. The galettes. Her dessert that's now on the menu, that thirty people have already reserved.
"Prep the dough now, let it rest in the fridge. We'll roll and fill closer to service so they're fresh." I glance over at her. "You good with making thirty in the middle of dinner rush?"
"Absolutely." That smile again, bright and eager. "I won't let you down."
"I know you won't."
She holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to her work, and I catch the faintest hint of color rising in her cheeks.
Fuck. This is going to kill me.
Four hours. I just have to make it through four hours of service without losing my mind, without pulling her aside and blurting out everything I'm feeling, without ruining our biggest night yet because I can't control myself.
Four hours, and then I'll tell her everything.
Jenny arrives at four to start setting up the dining room. Tommy and Marcus show up at four-thirty for dish duty. By five, the kitchen is humming with pre-service energy, everything in its place, everyone ready.
"Alright," I call out, checking the clock.
Five-thirty. Doors open in thirty minutes.
"Let's review. We've got the short rib, the duck, the coq au vin, and pan-seared trout as entrees.
Sides are roasted root vegetables, Brussels sprouts, and garlic mashed potatoes.
Dessert is Maya's apple galette with cardamom cream. Questions?"
Silence. Everyone knows their stations, knows what's expected.
"Good. Let's make this the best service yet." I meet Maya's eyes across the kitchen. "Ready?"
"Ready, Chef."
The first ticket comes in at six-oh-seven. Table four: two short ribs, one duck, one trout.
"Ordering!" I call out, and we're off.
The next three hours blur together. Tickets flow in, plates flow out, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I lose myself in the work. This is my element: the heat, the pressure, the need to execute perfectly under impossible constraints.
Maya moves through her station with growing confidence, handling the galettes like she's been doing this for years instead of weeks.
I watch her plate the first one—rustic crust, caramelized apples, that perfect dollop of cardamom cream, and feel a surge of pride so intense it nearly stops me mid-motion.
She's fucking good. Better than good. She's exactly the kind of cook I've always wanted to work with: talented, creative, detail-oriented, passionate.
And in a few hours, I'm going to risk losing all of that by telling her I want her.