Chapter Five
Belle
I carried a big plastic container of cookies as I approached The Gray.
The cuts on my palm were nothing more than stinging irritations, but I thought they might be less irritating if I kept them bandaged.
The cookies weren't much, just simple chocolate chip, but they were the only peace offering I could think of after last night's disaster.
Every time I closed my eyes, I still saw those thousands of dollars worth of scotch crashing to the floor, still felt the burning shame of kneeling in the puddle while everyone watched.
And that was on top of leaving my coworkers in the middle of a shift.
Then there was Dario Luca himself, his blue eyes intense as he'd bandaged my cut hand, his touch sending electricity through my body in a way I wasn't prepared to examine too closely and wasn’t sure I welcomed. There was no scenario where going down that road led to my happiness.
I'd spent half the night baking which probably compounded the whole leaving early because of an injury thing only to spend the night baking. I’d over-thought trying to bake something as a peace offering, too. I was still shocked I hadn't been fired on the spot.
The employee entrance loomed before me, tucked discreetly at the basement level of the grand building. I shifted the container to my uninjured hand and punched in my code, slipping inside an hour before my shift started.
I made my way toward the break room, my pulse quickening with each step. What if everyone was talking about me? What if they resented me for getting special treatment? The bandage on my palm felt like a spotlight, announcing my mistake and the unprecedented attention it had earned me from the boss.
"What's that?" asked one of the barbacks, Ricky, as I pushed through the break room door, nodding at my tray. I knew the guy and had brought him and his work husband, Ray, gingerbread cookie bars once. Ever since, the pair looked out for me. They said I could pay them in cookies.
"I just... I wanted to apologize for last night," I said, holding out the container. "I made cookies."
"Oh, my God. Gingerbread?” Ray’s gaze zeroed in on the box in my hands.
“No. Chocolate chip.” Now I really wished I’d made the gingerbread bars.
“Even better.” Sophia, a woman who’d taken me under her wing when I’d started a few weeks ago, gave me a bright smile. “Let me taste.” She sounded so demanding but she really was the nicest person.
I opened the lid and set the container on the counter. Sophia took one as everyone else descended on the sweet treat.
She took one, bit into it, and her eyes widened. "Oh my god, these are incredibly good."
"Really?" I laughed nervously, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.
"Didn't know we had a baker among us," said one of the security guys, his imposing frame somehow less intimidating as he delicately selected the smallest cookie on the tray.
I stood there, slightly overwhelmed by the warmth of their reception. No one mentioned last night's incident directly, but I caught a few curious glances at my bandaged hand, a few whispered comments I couldn't quite catch.
"Save some for the kitchen staff," I said as the tray lightened rapidly. "I made extra for them."
"Smart move." The security guy wiped crumbs from his mouth with a napkin. "Best way to their hearts."
As I headed toward the lockers to stash my things before my shift, I caught fragments of low conversation behind me.
"...never seen Mr. Luca do that before..."
"...on his knees in that whiskey..."
"...touched her like..."
I pretended not to hear, my cheeks burning as I fumbled with my locker combination.
The memory of Dario's fingers against mine, the intensity of his gaze as he'd cleaned my wound, it felt both too intimate to share and too significant to keep to myself.
I still didn't understand why he'd done it, why the notoriously cold owner had knelt beside me in spilled whiskey worth more than my monthly rent.
"Miss Belle."
I jumped, nearly dropping my bag as I turned to find Mr. Wilson standing behind me, his tall frame straight, his expression inscrutable. The kitchen manager had been polite but distant during my first two weeks, his green eyes missing nothing as he ran his domain with military precision.
"Mr. Wilson! I'm so sorry about last night," I blurted, the words rushing out before I could stop them. "Leaving in the middle of my shift was completely unprofessional. It won't happen again. I should have stayed. The cut wasn't even that bad, and I—"
He raised a hand, stopping my nervous babble. "Mr. Luca himself ordered you home," he said, his voice gentler than I'd heard it before. "I heard him myself so that's hardly something to apologize for."
I blinked, caught off guard by his tone. "Still, I feel terrible about the whiskey. And leaving everyone short-staffed."
The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.
"Though we try to be as careful as we possibly can, accidents happen.
As for being short-staffed, we managed." His gaze dropped to the nearly empty cookie tray I'd set on the bench.
"Though it seems you've found a way to get back in everyone's good graces. "
"Oh! Would you like one?" I offered the tray, suddenly feeling silly for not offering sooner. "There's still a few left."
To my surprise, he selected a cookie, examining it with the same careful attention he gave to the creations that left his kitchen.
"Chocolate chip. A classic." He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded. His eyes widened and he looked at the cookie, taking another, larger bite. "Dear Lord. Why didn’t you tell me you could bake?” Now he sounded a tad grouchy.
“Is this your one thing or do you have more in your repertoire?”
“I do a few things, but I really just know how to follow a recipe.”
This time his smile was unmistakable, transforming his weathered face. "Your shift starts soon. How's the hand?"
I flexed my fingers, wincing slightly. "It's fine. I can work normally."
"You will be careful and keep it covered. The bandage will protect your hand so you don’t injure yourself worse," he said, but there was no sting in the words.
"And Belle?" He paused, his expression softening further.
"The cookies were a very thoughtful gesture.
Unnecessary, but thoughtful. That kind of consideration. .. it's rare."
The warmth of his approval washed over me like sunshine and I couldn’t help but smile up at the older man. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson."
He nodded once more before turning away, his posture returning to its usual rigid correctness as he headed back toward his kitchen domain.
I closed my locker, a strange lightness filling my chest. The knot of anxiety I'd carried since last night hadn't entirely dissolved, but it had loosened considerably. I wasn't fired. The staff didn't hate me. And somehow, impossibly, I'd earned a smile from Mr. Wilson.
As I changed into my uniform, careful of my bandaged palm, I allowed myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, I could belong here after all.
Even if I still had no idea what to make of Dario Luca or the electricity that had passed between us when he'd touched me.
Probably just my own stupid imagination.
Because the man was seriously fine. In a scary, dangerous kind of way.
I emerged into the front of the kitchen area where we picked up our trays laden with whatever we were serving that evening, automatically checking that my hair was securely pinned back.
The Gray was coming alive around me as staff prepared for the evening rush.
Bartenders polished crystal glasses until they gleamed under the soft amber lighting, while security personnel conducted their final walkthrough, their watchful gazes scanning every corner of the space.
I flexed my bandaged hand, testing its limits.
The sting had dulled to a persistent throb, manageable if I was careful.
I'd survived the morning-after confrontation, now I just had to get through my shift without spilling anything else.
"Belle!" A voice called from behind me. I turned to find Sophia hurrying toward me, her dark ponytail swinging with each step.
We'd started at The Gray the same week, though she'd quickly established herself as someone who belonged here.
Unlike me, she moved through the space with confidence, her laugh easy and her smile quick.
"Hey," I greeted her, automatically reaching to adjust my bandage.
Her eyes locked onto the white gauze wrapped around my palm. "Oh my God, how’s your hand? Does it hurt?" Before I could answer, she glanced around and lowered her voice. "Come here, I need to talk to you."
She grabbed my uninjured wrist, pulling me toward the service bar tucked in a quiet corner near the kitchen entrance. The area was momentarily deserted, the bartender who normally manned it still in the stockroom gathering supplies.
"Everyone is talking about last night," she whispered, her dark eyes wide with excitement. "Like, everyone."
My stomach clenched. "It was just an accident. I was clumsy—"
"Not the spill," she interrupted, leaning closer. "Dario Luca. On his knees. Helping you clean up." She emphasized each point with a small, dramatic pause. "The boss never helps clean up spills, Belle. Never."
Heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks. I looked down at my bandaged hand, remembering how his fingers had felt against mine. "He was just being nice," I murmured.
Sophia snorted. "Nice? That man doesn't do 'nice.
' According to Elena, who's been here three years, he once fired a bartender on the spot for using the wrong glass for a whiskey pour.
" She leaned against the bar, her expression a mixture of curiosity and awe.
"And then he personally bandaged your hand?
In the break room? That's not normal behavior for him. "