I step under the spray, letting it hammer against my shoulders. I scrub the sweat from my skin, the smell of iron and chalk washing down the drain. I use soap that smells of cedar and sandalwood, scrubbing until my skin is red.
I stand there for a long time, letting the water run over me. I think about the dream again. Her smile.
I turn off the water and towel off roughly. I dress in clean clothes—dark slacks, a pressed button-down, my apron rolled in my hands.
The whole drive home, I think of her.
I walk to the office, my domain. The desk is mahogany, heavy and imposing. The chair is leather. I sit down, the leather creaking under my weight.
I boot up the computer and the screen glows to life, displaying the inventory logs and the reservation list.
I pick up a pen, clicking it open.
I scan the produce order. We’re low on microgreens. The halibut price is fluctuating. The linen service delivered the wrong size napkins yesterday.
I make notes. I adjust orders. I plan.
This I know how to do. This, I can control.
But as I work, I catch myself glancing at the door, waiting for her to come in as I make myself busy cleaning up the kitchen.
The stainless steel table glows under the harsh overhead lights. I run a microfiber cloth over the surface for the third time, erasing an imaginary smudge. It’s a compulsion, this need for order.
The kitchen is clean. The prep is organized. The inventory is logged.
But I can’t settle.
The back door opens. I don’t have to turn to know who it is. The air shifts, carrying a scent that overrides the lemon cleaner and the lingering odor of coffee grounds.
I turn, tossing the rag into the bin.
Amber walks in. She looks soft and vibrant. She’s wearing a thick, cream-colored cable-knit sweater that swallows her hands, and a long, woolen skirt in a deep forest green.
Her brown boots are dusted with snow. Her hair is loose today, falling in waves over her shoulders.
She looks like warmth personified.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is cheerful, but her eyes dart around the room, checking for Fallon or Eli.
“They’re not here,” I tell her. “Fallon is dead to the world. Eli went to the apothecary.”
“Oh.” She steps further in, the door hissing shut behind her. “Good. I mean... I just came in to pick up my checkbook. I left it here yesterday.”
I round the island. The distance between us vanishes in two strides.
“You’re wearing a skirt,” I observe. It’s a stupid thing to say, a Captain Obvious remark, but my brain is stuck on the curve of her hips under that wool.
She laughs, a bright, breathy sound. “I know. Risky, right? Kitchens are dangerous.”
“Very.”
She steps closer, reaching out to adjust my collar. It’s a intimate gesture, practiced and easy. “You look tired, Knox. Did you sleep?”
“I slept.” I catch her wrist, my thumb pressing over her pulse. It beats fast, a frantic little bird against my skin. “And I dreamed.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “Yeah? Me too.”
She rises up on her toes and presses her lips to mine.
