“We should check the walk-in,” I say when there’s a natural pause in the conversation. “Make sure the temperature’s holding with all the extra stock.”
It’s not a complete lie, we do need to check the walk-in, but it’s also a chance to get a minute alone, to think through the implications of Vex’s visit without Mei’s worried eyes on my face.
The walk-in is, as expected, holding steady at 38 degrees, the shelves neatly organized with the day’s prep. I’m checking the thermometer when Mei says, “It’s Grishnak, isn’t it? The guy in the purple suit.”
I look up, surprised. “How did you...”
“Greta’s face when she mentioned him.” She shrugs. “And the fact that you immediately changed the subject. Not exactly subtle, Big Guy.”
I should have known better. Mei doesn’t miss much. It’s part of what makes her such a good chef, that attention to detail, the way she notices when something’s even slightly off. “It’s complicated,” I say finally. “But yes, probably Grishnak. Or someone working for him.”
“And that’s bad because...?”
“Grishnak doesn’t play fair.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “He’s got three restaurants in the casino district, all of them doing well, and a reputation for stealing recipes and poaching staff. He’s been circling The Drunken Dragon for months, making lowball offers and thinly veiled threats about what happens to businesses that don’t adapt to changing markets.”
Mei’s expression hardens. “He can try. I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in my throat loosens at the certainty in her voice. “Good,” I say, meaning it. “Because neither am I.”
We’re standing closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in her dark eyes, the small scar at the corner of her mouth from a childhood accident she mentioned once in passing. The walk-in is cold, it has to be, with all the perishables, but the warmth radiating from her is impossible to ignore.
“I should check the fridge,” I say, stepping back before I do something stupid. “The compressor’s been making that noise again.”
It’s not a complete lie. The compressor has been acting up, the particular whine that means the wiring’s fraying. But it’s also a convenient excuse to create some space between us. What Ineed is perspective, a reminder of why Mei is here, what this arrangement actually is.
It’s business. She needs a kitchen and a way to pay off her debt. I need a chef and a way to save my bar. That’s the deal. Straightforward, mutually beneficial, and absolutely not complicated by the fact that I may or may not be developing feelings for a woman who’s been in my life for less than a month.
The compressor is, as suspected, the problem. A fray in the wiring that’s causing the motor to struggle. It’s a simple fix, replace the damaged section, reconnect the leads, but it requires getting on my back under the prep table, reaching into the narrow space where the compressor lives.
I’m halfway through the repair, screwdriver between my teeth and sweat beading on my forehead despite the cold, when Mei slides onto the prep table above me. Not on purpose. She’s reaching for the container of chili paste on the shelf behind. But the effect is the same. Suddenly she’s there, her thighs bracketing my head.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just need the...”
“No problem,” I manage, my voice slightly strangled. “I’m almost done.”
She nods, but doesn’t move. Can’t move, really, not without stepping directly on me. Instead, she reaches for a knife and begins dicing scallions, her movements precise and controlled despite the awkward angle.
I focus very intently on the wiring, on the particular pattern of stripped and reconnect that will get the compressor running smoothly again. Not on the fact that Mei is literally above me, her thighs inches from my face. Not on the text, or the way she watched me move the kegs.
It takes twenty minutes to finish the repair. Twenty minutes of careful, deliberate focus on anything but the woman working above me. By the time I slide out from under the table, my backis stiff from the cold floor and my face is hot with something that has nothing to do with exertion.
“Fixed,” I say, standing carefully to avoid knocking into Mei. “Should hold for a while.”
She nods, not looking up from the scallions. “Thanks. I was worried we’d lose the dumpling filling.”
There’s a note in her voice. Deliberately casual, like she’s trying not to make a big deal out of something that feels like one. I’ve spent enough time in kitchens to know how chefs think. Equipment is just equipment; it’s the food that matters. The fact that she noticed, that she sees value in something outside her wheelhouse...
“We’re good,” I say, matching her tone. “Back in business.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of activity. Prepping for the taste test, setting up the dining room, answering questions from the staff as they arrive. By two-thirty, we have a proper spread: eight different bar snacks arranged on platters, each with a card listing ingredients and heat level. The staff, Greta plus our two bartenders and the part-time server who helps on weekends, circulate through the options, making notes and comparing favorites.
“The wings are good,” says Dex, our Friday night bartender. “But the popcorn’s going to sell better. People like eating with their hands while they drink.”
“The dumplings are my favorite,” adds Kara, the weekend server. “But they’re messy. Maybe offer a fork option?”
Mei nods, making notes on her phone. “Good point. I can do a smaller version that’s easier to eat one-handed.”
It’s fascinating to watch her work the room. Not the performative charm of her social media presence or the focused intensity she brings to the kitchen, but something in between. Confident but receptive, sure of her vision but willing to adapt. She moves through the space with the easy assurance ofsomeone completely at home in their skin, stopping to answer questions and explain techniques without ever making the asker feel foolish.
