Chapter 2 Allegra
ALLEGRA
He was doing it wrong.
I watched Hux attempt to dice an onion, his massive hands gripping my second-best knife like he was trying to murder it. The pieces coming off the cutting board were uneven at best, chunks at worst. Nothing like the fine, consistent dice I needed for the soup base.
But he was trying so hard—brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his teeth like a kid working on a homework assignment. Something about that expression made me hesitate to correct him. But finally, I had to speak up.
“You’re going to cut yourself,” I said, stepping closer. “Here. Hold it like this.”
I adjusted his grip on the knife, my fingers brushing against his knuckles. His hands were huge, rough, and still cold from the storm outside. When I looked up, he was watching my face instead of the blade.
“Like this?” He mimicked the motion I’d shown him, and this time the slice came off clean and even.
“Better. Keep the tip of the knife on the board and rock it. Let the blade do the work.”
He nodded, refocusing on the onion. I stepped back to my station at the stove, stirring the stock I’d started earlier. But I could feel him there, taking up space in my kitchen, and it was harder to ignore than I wanted to admit.
The firefighters had been in town for maybe two weeks.
I’d noticed Hux from the first night they came into the roadhouse, a pack of loud, flannel-wearing mountain men who’d made Kameron’s eyes light up with dollar signs.
Hard not to notice a man that size. He had to be at least six-three, with broad shoulders and the kind of build that made you think he could carry you out of a burning building without breaking a sweat.
Which, I supposed, was literally his job.
During his visits, he’d tried to flirt with me.
More than once. Tossed compliments my way when I came out to check on the kitchen’s ticket times.
Made jokes that had the whole crew laughing, his voice carrying over the noise of the bar.
He had one of those laughs that filled a room, making you want to be in on whatever was so funny.
I’d smiled politely every time. Then I’d retreated to the kitchen, where I belonged.
Because I’d seen guys like Hux before. Charming, easy, everyone’s favorite. The kind of man who lit up a room and knew it. They were great for a good time, but they weren’t serious. And I didn’t have time for not-serious.
I had a plan. A year here, maybe two, building my skills and my savings. Then I was gone. Asheville had a growing food scene. Charlotte had more opportunities. Either way, I wasn’t staying in Wildwood Valley forever. This job was a stepping stone, not a destination.
A flirty firefighter with a killer smile was not part of the plan.
“How’s this?”
I turned to find Hux holding up the cutting board, displaying a pile of diced onions that was actually pretty decent. Not perfect, but usable.
“Better,” I said. “Now do the celery. Same size pieces.”
He nodded and reached for the celery stalks I’d set out. I watched him for a moment longer than necessary, noting the way his forearms flexed as he worked, the sleeve of his thermal pushed up to his elbows. Then I made myself look away.
“How long have you been cooking?” he asked.
The question surprised me. Most people didn’t ask about the person behind the food. They just ate whatever I put in front of them and moved on with their lives. Even the regulars—the ones who complimented my specials and asked for extra bread—rarely wondered about the woman in the kitchen.
“Professionally? About two years. But I’ve been cooking since I was a kid.” I adjusted the flame under the stock pot, watching the surface shimmer. “My grandmother taught me. She had this theory that food was how you showed people you loved them.”
“Smart woman.”
“She was.” I paused, then added, “She passed a few years ago. Left me her cast-iron skillets and her recipe box. I still use both.”
I didn’t know why I told him that. I didn’t talk about my grandmother with anyone except my parents. But something about the quiet of the kitchen, the snow piling up outside the windows, made it feel safe to share.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
When I glanced over, his expression was sincere. No joke waiting behind his eyes. Just genuine sympathy.
“It’s okay. She lived a good life.” I cleared my throat. “Carrots next, after the celery. Same dice.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes. The only sounds were the knife against the cutting board, the bubble of the stock, the howl of wind outside.
It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. He fell into a rhythm, following my instructions without complaint, and I found myself relaxing into the familiar comfort of cooking.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked eventually. “You going to run this place someday?”
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “God, no. I mean, I love Kameron, and this job has been great experience. But the roadhouse isn’t exactly fine dining.”
“What do you want, then?”
The question was simple, but something about the way he asked it made me pause. Like he actually wanted to know the answer.
“My own place,” I said. “Eventually. Something small. Farm-to-table, seasonal menus, the kind of food that makes people slow down and pay attention.” I shook my head, embarrassed by my own earnestness.
“It’s a pipe dream. The restaurant industry is brutal, and most new places fail within the first year.
I’d need investors, a solid business plan, and years of experience at higher-end places first.”
“But you’re going to try anyway.”
It wasn’t a question. I looked over at him, and he was watching me again, the carrots forgotten. There was something in his expression I couldn’t read. Something warm and focused and entirely too intense.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m going to try anyway.”
“Good.” He held my gaze for a beat too long. “You light up when you talk about it. Like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. My chest felt tight, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. No one had ever described me that way before. I wasn’t the kind of person who lit up. I was the kind of person who stayed in the background, who kept her head down and did the work.
“Carrots,” I said, turning back to the stove. “Don’t forget the carrots.”
I could feel him still watching me. Then the sound of the knife resumed, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
Don’t, I told myself. He’s not serious. Men like him are never serious.
We finished the prep together. He helped me get everything into the pot, stirred when I told him to stir, and stepped back when I needed to adjust the seasonings.
He moved around my kitchen like he was trying not to take up too much space, which was almost funny given his size.
By the time the soup was simmering and the bread dough was rising under a damp towel, I had to admit he’d been genuinely helpful.
More than that—he’d made the work go faster, and he hadn’t annoyed me once.
That last part was surprising. I usually preferred to cook alone.
“You should get some sleep,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron. “You’ve been up for over a day. That can’t be good for you.”
“Probably not.” But he didn’t move toward the door. “Thanks for letting me help. And for the soup earlier. Best meal I’ve had in weeks.”
“You said that already.”
“Worth repeating.” His mouth curved into a half-smile, softer than his usual grin. “Seriously, Allegra. Thank you.”
The way he said my name did something to my stomach. A little flip that I immediately tried to suppress.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Now go sleep before you pass out on my counter again.”
He laughed at that, low and warm, and the sound settled somewhere in my chest. Then he pushed through the swinging door, and he was gone.
I turned back to the stove, checking the flame, adjusting the lid on the pot. My kitchen was quiet again. My space. My domain.
But I could still feel where he’d stood. Still smell the faint trace of woodsmoke and snow he’d left behind.
I thought about the way he’d watched me while I talked about my dreams. The way he’d said you light up like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The way his hands had felt under mine when I’d corrected his grip on the knife.
It didn’t mean anything. It was just the storm talking. Close quarters, forced proximity, two people stuck in the same building with nothing better to do. By the time the roads cleared, he’d be back to cracking jokes at the bar, and I’d be back to avoiding his flirting.
This was temporary. He was temporary.
I stirred the soup, checked the consistency, and added a pinch more salt.
It didn’t mean anything.
I repeated that to myself until I almost believed it.