Chapter 41 Hands
Hands
Jack
I storm back into the kitchen so fast, the door hits the wall.
“Jesus,” Owen says, briefly looking up from his station. “That bad out there, huh?”
“Are we behind?” I wash my hands, the water so hot it nearly scalds. “It feels like we’re behind.”
“What happened?” Hazel asks.
“Hit a speed bump?” calls Herman.
The shock of seeing Jessica—no, the shock of seeing Jessica with Poppy—hasn’t faded. For half a second, I thought I was looking at a ghost. I went into the dining room to play nice with the guests,
like Poppy asked, and found my past and my present wound together like some cosmic joke.
Staring at the two of them, all I could see was how Poppy fits right in with this crowd—elegant and polished to perfection,
even flustered by Jessica’s presence—and how little I do.
It felt like a knife to the gut. A reminder that when push comes to shove, women like Jessica—successful, rich, connected—don’t
look at guys like me and think about forever.
I stride to the pass, where the ticketing system is spitting out dupe after dupe. We’re behind, like I thought. I yank them
out, scanning them quickly. “We need to hustle. Two fish, one carrot, one beef, pink.”
Hazel comes to my side. “Jack, seriously, what—”
“Two beef all day, one pink. Kill the other.” I scowl. Well-done filet mignon should be a crime. “Do you hear me?”
“If something’s wrong, tell us.”
“Do you hear me, Chef?”
She sighs. “Heard.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
I’m expediting and plating tonight in addition to handling the fish, so I slide back to my station, focusing on my work, all
while watching for the next dupe. The ticket spits out with a flourish.
“Two carrot all day, two pasta.”
“Heard!”
“How long on the beef, Chef?”
“Give it another three,” comes Owen’s reply.
“Heard, Chef.” I glance over my shoulder. “Time, Hazel?”
“I’m on pace.”
“Heard. Thank you.”
Exactly three minutes pass. Our dishes come together like an orchestra playing in harmony. I tweeze on garnish expertly, wipe
the rims of the plates so they gleam, and call for service. One of the servers steps up immediately, taking the plates away
to the dining room.
“Behind,” Owen says, scooting by me to grab a set of tongs. He gets to work on his next table, the two beef dishes. I grab
the plates for him, helping with the various components.
Not long after, another pair of dupes pop out. I scan them, looking back at the crew to get a sense of their pacing. I call
the order out, they acknowledge, and we follow the same pattern as before. The pace is picking back up. I’m breathing a little
easier now.
“Hands!”
A server appears to whisk away the beef dishes.
Three minutes later, the same thing. “Hands!” I call again.
I look up to the sight of Poppy slipping into the kitchen instead of a server.
“What do you need?” I ask, turning my attention back to the cooktop. “We’re behind.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“She snuck in somehow—I don’t know how.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Or at all.
“Well, I do.”
I swipe my hand through my hair. “You should have gotten me the second you saw her.”
“Why? I was handling it.”
“Handling it?” I spare her a glance as I vigorously shake a pan of asparagus. “Handling it how? What did she tell you?”
“Does it matter?”
I wave her away as I take a smoking-hot pan out of the oven. “Fire on six.”
“Heard!”
Poppy is tying on an apron. She follows me as I pull down two shallow bowls. “You’re behind. Do you want me to help plate?”
“No.”
“I could take over expediting.”
“You’d ruin the flow.”
“Well, then, let me—”
“Poppy, stop.” I finally look at her, breathing out hard through my nose. My shoulders are tense; my entire body feels winch-wound.
“We’ve got this. Go back to the dining room and manage the guests we actually did invite.”
She lifts her chin. “What you said to her. Did you mean it?”
“Of course,” I growl.
Of course I wanted to claim her in front of Jessica. It was the only thing I could think to do, in that moment, even though
we haven’t spoken about it. It felt right. True. Something I desperately needed to speak into existence, even faced with how
fragile things truly are.
“Then let me help. Kiara is working the room. Chester has the bar handled. I’ll be more useful here.”
“You’re not dressed for it.”
“I’ll run and change.”
“I don’t need you back here,” I spit out, finally, like a hurricane hitting the coast. “I’m handling it. This is a real service,
not a lesson. You’ll just get in the way.”
“I didn’t believe anything Jessica told me, you know,” she says softly. Stubbornly. “I don’t care what she says. I just care about you.”
“Great. Glad to hear it.” I turn back to the stove, hands shaking. We’re still behind. More behind every moment I spend talking
instead of working. “But either way, you’re front of house. Keep your friends entertained until we can catch the hell up back
here.”
I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. The moment her eyes go wide, her lip quivering.
Before I can apologize, get out any of the jumbled words crowding my throat, Poppy and I collide.
A plate breaks at our feet, sending pasta everywhere. She jumps as the sauce splatters up her shins, nearly losing her balance.
I reach forward on instinct to steady her, and in the process knock a knife onto the floor. It skitters across the tiles,
barely missing us.
We stare at each other, panting. Behind us, the kitchen is silent.
I let go slowly. “Just go,” I say hoarsely.
This time, she listens.