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I approach her and lower my voice. “I need to talk to you after your shift.”
It’s more than I’ve said to her at one time in two weeks, and she seems vaguely surprised. “Is that a command, boss?” Her words drip with sarcasm.
I know I’m playing with fire, so I choose caution for once. “It’s a request. I’d like to speak to you.”
She taps her foot, arms crossed. Then she finally nods once before turning and nearly whacking me with her bright red ponytail as she goes back into the kitchen.
Great, I think. Now I just need to figure out what the hell it is I’m planning to say to her.
I do my best to avoid the kitchen for the rest of the night. I know Zander is back there with Mia, and the idea of him working shoulder-to-shoulder with her while I’m out here like some asshole pisses me off.
I distract myself by interacting with guests and helping the serving staff when I can. After a while, it’s almost enough to keep me occupied. After all, the idea of seeing some of my own recipes coming out and the smiles on guests’ faces when they try the food is rewarding. It feels damn good, actually.
I think the only better feeling would be if I was back there running the kitchen myself.
That thought makes me imagine the looks on my teammates’ faces if I told them I was bailing on hockey to focus on the restaurant, though. It’s not a conversation I can imagine having, so I push it from my thoughts.
This has to be good enough.
I can live with a piece of the restaurant. But can I live with just a piece of Mia?
I’m feeling pissed all over again by the time I’m helping the servers close up and clean the dining room. I dismiss them and take over the final task of rolling silverware so they can go home early. Sending them home gives me the added benefit of being able to hear the conversation in the kitchen more clearly.
RIght now, Edgar is telling some story that must be raunchy, based on the reactions of Mia and Paisley. Zander occasionally chuckles, but he mostly barks orders or seems to be checking on everyone’s work.
I tuck a napkin around another set of silverware and set it in the tray a little too hard.
I only have myself to blame for this. I feel like the fucking orphan on Christmas Eve looking in yellow-lit windows at happy families while I wring my hands. It’s pathetic.
Zander comes out of the kitchen while I’m going around the tables and folding up the tablecloths. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“I was free tonight,” I say. It’s sort of true, anyway. “No point paying the servers to do something I can do myself.”
He hesitates, then joins me in pulling tablecloths and folding them. “I know we haven’t gotten off on the right foot.”
“No shit,” I say, but I laugh a little. Something about his blunt words make me feel just a touch less like I want to kill him.
He lowers his voice. “I want this job, Nolan. I fucking love it here. This staff is amazing. The town is ridiculous–like something off a postcard. And I’ll even admit the items you bring to the menu are challenging in all the right ways. People are loving your dishes.”
“If you want to suck me off, I hope you brought a condom,” I say, voice dry.
He chuckles. “I thought about what Mia said a few weeks ago. I get it, man. You’re some hotshot in the NHL, but you’re also a talented chef. And you feel like you can’t do either of those things halfway. So you’re stuck and frustrated. I get it. But if we work together instead of against each other, you can come scratch the itch any time you want here.”
I stop folding the tablecloth and look up at him. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m saying the kitchen is big enough for another chef. We could always use another pair of hands. So why not keep playing hockey, but whenever you get the itch to do this, you know there’s a place waiting for you?”
Zander is watching me carefully. It pisses me off that he’s the one trying to be the bigger person here and make peace. But I also can’t deny he’s making a solid point. If I knew I could step in and get my hands messy from time to time, wouldn’t that be an improvement? Maybe it would even be enough.
I nod my head slowly. “Alright,” I say. I should be thanking him, but it’s going to take me a little more time to clear the image of him trying to hit on Mia from my head. I stick my hand out. “I’ll try to stop imagining punching you in the face so often, then.”
Zander’s smile is crooked, showing one dimple. He shrugs. “That’s a start.”
We shake hands and he sets the folded tablecloth on top of my pile, then heads back into the kitchen.
It’s half an hour later before Mia, Paisley and Edgar all come walking out with their aprons folded and their chef’s jackets unbuttoned.
“...you should come,” Paisley is saying. “There will be hot guys,” she adds.
