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Pauly nearly crashes into me as I push through the kitchen doors, pulling off my chef hat. He snatches my injured hand by the wrist, holding it up for inspection. “What do we have here, Mr. Elliott? Workers’ compensation?”
I wince, the pain still fresh. “I’m good. Burned myself on a skillet like an idiot, but it’s only a first-degree burn. I’ll be fine.”
“Sometimes you do too much. You are too eager to please. That will be your downfall if you are not careful.”
He drops my hand, and I lift the opposite to scratch the back of my neck. I smile thinly. “Thanks. I’ll work on that.”
“I have no doubt you will, Mr. Elliott.” Pauly gives my shoulder a pat as he moves past me into the kitchen, repeating effectively, “Eager to please.”
In my year of working under the watchful eye of Pauly Marino, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned that he never abbreviates anything he says, only speaking in full, articulate sentences, and that he has never once called me by my first name. It’s always “Mr. Elliott.”
I’ve learned that when someone is on his good side, he’s a wealth of knowledge and inspiration.
And when someone is on his bad side, they don’t get a second chance at ever experiencing being on his good side.
I’ve also learned that Pauly Marino has more talent in his pinkie finger than every chef I’ve ever worked with combined, including myself, and watching him hone his craft has only made me hungrier to be better. Pauly struck me as the corporate type at first, nothing but a suit who drank overpriced scotch in a stuffy office while his employees sweated buckets in the kitchen.
But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Pauly busts his ass just like the rest of us, working long hours, staying late to clean and prep for the following day, and masterfully overseeing his kitchen with a strange mix of brash authority and imagination.
As I stare at my hand and splay my fingers, the flesh beneath the bandage still tingles, and I glare at the bumbling mistake. I’m about to step out of the kitchen when Pauly calls out to me once more.
“Mr. Elliott, I almost forgot. Your lovely sister is waiting for you up front.”
June is here?
She’s supposed to be teaching arabesques to nine-year-olds right now.
I smile my thanks and hurry out the doors, beelining toward the front of the building. As I weave through tables and waiters, Wendy comes into view first, perched at the hostess station, her thick mound of hair pinned back in a clip, recently colored from its natural auburn tone to a vibrant burgundy.
That’s right—Wendy works here now.
She needed a job after getting laid off from her customer service position at a call center, so she texted me, asking if we were hiring. We were, and I felt like I kind of owed it to her—not that I had intentionally hurt her or anything, but I did break her heart, and I’m not an asshole; I was sympathetic. Pauly seemed to like her well enough, so she was officially hired on three months ago, and so far things have been smooth sailing. We’ve kept our relationship cordial and professional.
Sweeping past her, Wendy lights up a little when I tap my knuckles on the wooden station and shoot her a friendly smile. But my attention is quickly pulled to June, who sits in one of the waiting chairs near the doors, her knees bouncing in opposite time, still dressed in her leotard with a pair of leggings and an oversized gray cardigan dangling off one shoulder. She also brightens when she spots me, her chin popping up, eyes glinting with splashes of sapphire and silver.
Both girls react in a similar, wide-eyed way when they see me.
My heart only reacts to one.
“Junebug,” I say, my smile blooming as she stands. “I thought you were working this afternoon.”
“I was, but I got off a little early and thought I might catch you on your break.” June holds up a brown paper bag, crumpled tight at the top. Her high ponytail swings side to side as she steps toward me, tresses billowing like the spiraled ribbon of a kite. Free and effortless, akin to the smile she gifts right back to me. “I brought you something.”
My attention lands on the bag. “Please say it’s loaded with carbs, great with tea, and rhymes with clones—hint, please tell me there are two.”
“Eerily perceptive.” She winks, chuckling under her breath. “Two blueberry scones, made with love by yours truly.”
“Wait, you made them?” I take the bag from her outstretched hand, then peek inside. “You hate baking, Junebug.”
She shrugs. “Mom jumped in before I accidentally added bleaching powder instead of baking powder, but otherwise I pretty much put Gordon Ramsay to shame.”
We stare at each other for a beat with identical grins, overly charmed, almost like we’re drunk on something, then I break the spell, moving toward the chair to set the bag down. When I spin back around, June’s eyes fall to my hand taped with gauze.
“Brant, your hand…” Her gasp spills out in a breath of tender turmoil, and she reaches for my clumsily wrapped palm, clasping it between both of her hands. Her touch is as delicate as her worry-filled features as she grazes an index finger over the bandaging. June doesn’t physically pull me closer, but I find myself moving in toward her anyway, and the longer she caresses my hand, the more the gap between us lessens. “What did you do?”
Her eyes are trained on my injury, while my eyes are trained on the way her brow furrows tight. The way she lightly nicks her bottom lip with her teeth. “Touched something I shouldn’t have and got burned.”
