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“I’ve had two relationships. Both went about like hollandaise. Pretty for a hot minute before it breaks.” She tossed a few of the crunchy chickpeas into her mouth and delighted at the pop of flavor on her tongue, smoky heat from the ancho chili powder but with a touch of spicy brightness on the finish. “These are excellent, Clo. The sumac is a nice touch.”
“Thank you, chef.”
“Isn’t your birthday on Valentine’s Day?” Adi asked.
“Let me tell you how much fun that was growing up. The amount of pink stuffed toys I received from relatives...” She rolled her eyes with a groan, then gestured at herself. “Have you ever seen me wear a scrap of pink?” Black constituted ninety percent of her wardrobe, the other ten percent blues and grays. Even UTT’s chefs’ coats were black.
“What did you do with them?” Juan asked. “All the pink toys?”
“Sent them with my mom to the animal hospital.”
Adi served up an “Aww” with a heaping side of sarcasm, and Feb flicked a chickpea at her for the sass.
Everyone laughed, including Dylan, who strolled across the kitchen to the opposite side of the expeditor’s station. They gestured at the notepad. “May I?” At Feb’s nod, Dylan picked up the pad and pen. “What do you hate about Valentine’s Day?”
“Pink.”
More laughter, but all of Feb’s attention was riveted on the upturned corners of Dylan’s plum-painted lips. She idly wondered if they were soft and if they tasted like plum too. “Okay, what else?” Dylan asked.
“What else what?”
Dylan smirked, hitching that smile higher. “Valentine’s Day. The bad.”
Blinking, she wrenched her attention from Dylan’s lips and met their gaze as she began ticking off “the bad” on her fingers. “It’s so commercialized. It makes people believe that’s the only night someone deserves to feel special. It makes people without partners feel not special. And it makes aromantic and some ace folks feel wrong.”
The kitchen went silent, Dylan scratching notes on the pad the only sound in the rarely so quiet space. After another moment, Dylan laid down the pen and handed the pad to Feb.
Solo resos. Local ingredients. No pink.
Feb glanced back up, her lips lifting to match Dylan’s smug smile. “I like it.” She slapped the notepad against her palm, then addressed her chefs. “We only do solo reservations, we use local ingredients, and nothing remotely pink leaves this kitchen.”
“I like it too,” Adi said with a nod, then spun on her heel and clapped her hands. “All right, let’s get to work. Contest kitchen. Dishes in forty-five.”
Dylan’s eyes grew wide as chaos erupted around them, chefs running between stations, the pantry, and the fridges. Chuckling, Feb pulled Dylan to her side of the station before they got run over. “Adi is a food competition junkie,” she explained. “Whenever we need to conceptualize something, she goes into contest mode. It usually produces spectacular results, so I’ve got no qualms with it. In fact”—she handed the pad back to Dylan—“I might get in on this one. I’ve got an idea.”
“I can’t wait to taste it.” The heat in their sparkling green eyes sent Feb’s mind racing a different direction, fantasies unspooling of the bar, Dylan, and what else they could taste. Dylan’s next words unraveled more. “I’ll also toss that bottle of pink hair dye I bought yesterday.”
Now that was something pink Feb would love to see—the ultimate contradiction. She lifted a hand to push back a strand of Dylan’s mohawk that had fallen forward but caught herself at the last second. By the flare of fire in Dylan’s gaze, she was pretty sure the contact would be welcome, but she was also pretty sure she shouldn’t be doing so here, in front of the rest of the staff. “I like it this frosty blue,” she said, lowering her hand to rest next to Dylan’s on the tiles, their fingers brushing. “But I think if anyone is edgy enough to temper some pink, it’d be you.”
Dylan’s fiery gaze melted into something darker and more elemental. “Not sure temper is the word you’re looking for.”
Each week at the restaurant had a natural, familiar rhythm to it. Monday planning and prep, then a steady ramp-up to the weekend rush. This Thursday, though, felt more like a Friday, the restaurant packed, the kitchen in high gear, the team working best when they were innovating.
Feb had been so engrossed in the kitchen that she hadn’t made her usual guest rounds, which was how she’d almost missed two of her favorite people dining with them tonight. If she hadn’t been standing next to Lacey when the dessert order came down the line—mango white chocolate panna cotta, no mint—she would have missed her friends completely.
“Amanda, so good to see you.” She set the dessert plates on the table, the yuzu custard cupcake for Amanda, the panna cotta sans mint for her husband. “And Justin, you’re glowing.” She leaned in to hug them both, then slid into the chair across from Justin. “Everything good with the twins?”
He patted his extended belly, the baby bump prominent under his lavender suit and tie. Last time Feb had seen the married chefs at their restaurant, Diamond, Justin had just started showing. “Rooter and Tooter are great,” he said, unleashing the Texas drawl he usually reined in.
Amanda rolled her eyes and stole a bite of his dessert. “We are not naming our children Rooter and Tooter.”
He popped the back of her hand with his spoon. “Keep stealing my sweets, and we’ll see about that.”
Their laughter only subsided when Dylan appeared at their table with a tray of drinks, a flute of sparkling plum wine for Amanda, decaf coffee for Justin, and a whiskey for Feb. “You need anything else?” they asked.
“You two good?” Feb asked their guests. At her friends’ nods, she smiled again at Dylan, coveting tonight’s wine-red lipstick and matching gauge earrings. “We’re good, thanks.”
Justin’s gaze tracked Dylan all the way back to the bar before he swung his dark, knowing stare Feb’s direction. “So,” he drawled. “Valentine’s Day have anything to do with the cute bartender?”
