“I stay open pretty late,” I interrupt gently. I don’t want to let her off the hook that easily. “Dinner service usually dies down around eight or nine. You could come after? Or even bring your daughter. We have a great kids’ menu.”
I reach out, unable to stop myself, and take her bandaged hand again. Her skin is warmer now. “I really want you to, Amber. You seem like you’ve had a bad day. And I make it a mission to fix bad days with food. It’s kind of my thing.”
She looks down at our joined hands, then back up at my face. The walls she’s put up are trembling. I can see the war behind her eyes—the instinct to run versus the desire to stay, to be comforted.
Finally, she lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I want.” I smile at her. “Just try.”
I force myself to let go of her hand. The loss of contact is immediate and jarring. I need to go. If I stay any longer, I’m going to say something stupid, or I’m going to kiss her, and she’s definitely not ready for that.
“I have to go,” I say, though I make no move to open the door yet. “My partner will kill me if I’m late for prep. He’s… intense about schedules.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
“It was really nice meeting you, Amber. Despite the concussion.”
A huff of laughter escapes her. “You too, Eli. Thanks for the bandage.”
“Anytime.”
With a herculean effort, I open the car door and slide out into the cold. The wind is biting now, but my blood is running hot. I close her door gently and turn back toward the market.
I take a few steps, then pause. I can’t help it. I turn around.
She’s still watching me. Through the windshield, I can see her silhouette, her face turned toward me. She isn’t driving away. She’s just… sitting there.
A warmth slides down my spine, settling in my gut. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. Not just attraction. Recognition.
Yeah. I’m definitely in trouble with this woman.
I raise a hand in a small wave. She lifts a hand in return.
I turn and walk toward the store entrance, my mind already racing. I need to get the butter. I need to check the proof on the croissants. And I need to make sure I have enough cinnamon for that batch of buns.
The bell above the door chimes as I step back into Blade & Butter, the familiar scent of yeast, roasted garlic, and strong coffee wrapping around me like a second skin. The kitchen is already busy with the morning prep. The stainless steel counters are gleaming, and the ovens are preheating, casting a warm glow over the back of the house.
I head toward the office to stow my coat and bag, but I don’t make it far. Fallon is at the large butcher block island, breaking down a side of beef. He pauses, the cleaver hovering mid-air, and narrows his eyes at me.
“Why do you have that look?” he asks, the knife coming down with a solidthwack.
I pause, hand on the strap of my bag. “What look?”
“Like you just got laid or won the lottery.” Fallon wipes his hands on his apron, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re smiling. It’s creepy. Stop it.”
“I’m not smiling,” I lie, though I can feel the traitorous curve of my lips. I try to school my expression into something resembling professional stoicism. “I’m just… focused. We have a lot to do today.”
“Right. Focused.” Fallon doesn’t believe me for a second, but he loses interest quickly, turning back to his meat. “Well, focus on grabbing some onions from the walk-in. Knox is already in a mood about the produce delivery being light.”
“On my way.”
I escape into the cooler, the blast of cold air raising goosebumps on my arms. I lean against the metal shelf for a moment, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hand is still tingling where I touched Amber’s skin. I can still smell the phantom scent of jasmine and rain.
She’s coming tonight. Maybe.
The thought sends a jolt of anticipation through me that has nothing to do with the dinner rush.
I grab the crate of onions and head back out. The next few hours are a blur of controlled frenzy. The morning rush hits us like a tidal wave. The printer spits out tickets in a relentless staccato rhythm, the white paper curling onto the floor.
