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“Fucking hell,” Feb cursed. How had she missed them? She couldn’t recall seeing any of the local Eater crew in the dining room or on the reservation list, and she’d been watching both like a hawk since the Render news. An out-of-town reviewer, maybe? Had they visited when she’d been at AB’s with Dylan? She wouldn’t trade those couple hours away for anything. She’d needed them—probably wouldn’t have the glowing early reviews without them—and she certainly didn’t regret the brush of lips and promise of more the impromptu break had netted. But what had she missed during her absence? What if everything had gone wrong instead of right? Had it gone right?
“Well, what’s it say?” Adi asked, beating Feb to the question.
Lacey dumped the butter on the cold block at her station, then read from her phone, voice raised for the entire kitchen to hear. “While only an early glimpse of what Chef Winters has in store for her Valentine’s Day diners, this foodie wishes they were among those on the list for the culinary wooing Under the Table promises Tuesday night. Our most exciting new entrant to the San Francisco V-day scene.”
Adi cheered and pumped her fist. “Fuck yeah!”
Feb high-fived Juan’s oven-mittened hand, then again when Chloe shouted out their mentions in Cyn Eats and SFGate.
“Ooh!” Lacey piped up again. “Coverage in InsideHook too. ‘Chef Winters’s V-day menu is a uniquely satisfying approach to the industry’s second worst day of the year.’”
“They better not expect the same for Mother’s Day.” Despite her change of heart on V-day, Feb would forever refuse to do anything but her annual found family staff meal on the industry’s absolute worst day. “Hard pass.”
“Hear, hear!” rang out around the kitchen, as did laughter and cheers, everyone riding the high of the positive early reviews.
Maybe they could pull this off; V-day, the UTT way. The way a certain talented, sexy bartender had helped Feb see. If only Dylan was there to celebrate too. They’d called out yesterday—a text sent to Mo, asking him to cover their shift. And now it was less than an hour to Sunday’s first seating and no sign of them.
Had Feb been too forward at AB’s by pulling Dylan into that kiss? She didn’t think so. Dylan had agreed to the date Tuesday night, but even rewinding further, they’d been flirtatious on the sidewalk outside AB’s, whispering hotly in her ear and pressed all along her backside. Then inside, they’d been tactile the entire time, even in front of folks they knew. And they’d returned that kiss. Feb was ninety-nine percent sure it would have veered toward indecent if Mia hadn’t shown up at their table. Was Dylan having second thoughts now? Or if the kiss wasn’t the thing keeping Dylan away, then was it Feb leaving Friday night without saying goodbye?
She’d been dead on her feet that night. Adi had put her in a cab, and she’d slept the entire ride home. Once there, she’d fallen into bed, fully dressed, asleep without a second thought, including to call Dylan, which she did finally remember the next morning. But then she’d decided it would be better to apologize in person, except Dylan hadn’t been at UTT yesterday for her to do so. Had she let things go too long now without saying something? Wouldn’t be the first time she’d been waiting for the right time to do something, only for the right time to fly right by, usually to disastrous consequence. See Brett D’Moine and the restaurant that should have been. Feb did not want to miss her opportunity with Dylan; folks who got her on the level they did came around so seldom, even less so ones that also sparked such a fiery attraction. Something in her gut told Feb that Dylan was special, and as a chef, she’d learned to trust what her stomach told her. And the way it was dipping now... she was increasingly terrified she’d fucked things up. Were they still even on for their date night? Feb hoped so, but if Dylan didn’t show today, and with tomorrow just being prep?—
Adi appeared beside her, a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry.” She gave her head a shake. “Was just going over the menu again.”
“We’re not making more changes, are we?” Adi asked with a quirked brow. “I think all the positive coverage proves we’re on the right track.”
“She’s right,” said the voice Feb most wanted to hear. She jerked her chin up, her gaze locking with the confident green one across the room. Dylan stood at the entrance to the locker room, their grin full of pride. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Exhaling, Feb returned Dylan’s smile, the first real one since Friday. Until smoke tickled her nose and Chloe’s “Fuck!” drew her attention elsewhere.
The line cook yanked a tray of smoking, charred veg from the oven. “That’s the butternut squash gone for tonight.”
Dylan’s smile morphed into a knowing smirk, and Feb hoped like hell she wasn’t imagining the same heat that had bubbled between them Friday. She didn’t think so, as Dylan’s eyes heated just before they nodded for her to get to it. With the countdown clock to their date ticking again, Feb was more than happy to do just that, time passing faster when she was busy. Calmer, more focused, she turned her attention back to her chefs. “All right, let’s work the problem. We need a different soup tonight.”
“Sunchokes?” Chloe said, coming back strong. “Relatively simple soup. Should be ready in time for service.”
“Let’s do it.”
Feb was in her chef’s nook, scribbling after-service notes, when a drink appeared beside her notepad. The color was the same bright blue as the nails of the person who delivered it. Miami was the first thought that popped to mind, and a second thought later, Feb laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Dylan asked, a smile in their voice.
Feb closed her notebook, picked up the drink, and rotated on her stool toward where Dylan was leaning against the doorless nook’s molding. They’d changed out of their service leather into their casual nerd attire, which clashed even further with the Miami Vice of it all, causing Feb to giggle again. “The color of this”—she lifted the glass—“made me think of Miami, and then I saw your nails were painted the same, and I thought of you in Miami.” Dylan scrunched up their nose and pursed their lips, a sour expression that made Feb laugh harder. “I didn’t think you’d be a fan.”
“Correct,” Dylan said. “Too much sun.” They gestured with a hand in the air at their surroundings. “I come from the land of fog.”
“And yet this”—Feb shimmied the glass, the little umbrella in it tipping from one side to the other—“appears distinctly tropical.”
“Umbrella was to make you laugh.”
“Succeeded.”
Dylan’s shy victory made Feb want to lean forward, grab them by their T-Rex printed tie, and haul them in for a kiss, but they started talking again before Feb could act on the simmering desire.
“As for the drink, it’s actually Texan.” At Feb’s raised brow, Dylan explained further. “Visited a friend of the family from down that way last year, and I had one of those while I was in town.” They nodded toward the glass. “They call it a Blue Rose. I made a few tweaks. Classed it up a bit.”
“I won’t tell your Texan friend you said that. And the nails?”
