I look over at Fallon, who is drying his hands on a towel, looking just as weary as Knox. The shadows under his eyes are darker than usual.
“Hey,” I start, leaning against the counter. “I’ve got an idea.”
Fallon looks at me warily. “Does this idea involve me doing more work?”
“Actually, it involves you doing less.” I gesture around the kitchen. “I’ll handle the full cleanup tonight. The floors, the restocking, the dishes. You go home. Sleep. Do whatever it is you do.”
Fallon’s eyebrows shoot up. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that you handle the grocery runs for the next three days. I need some time in the mornings to… work on a special project.” I don’t mention Amber specifically, but the implication is there.
Fallon considers this for all of two seconds. “Deal. I hate walking into the cold storage at six a.m. anyway. My bones are getting too old for it.”
“You’re thirty, Fallon.”
“Thirty and tired.” He grabs his coat from the hook. “You’re a lifesaver, Eli. Seriously.”
He heads for the door, pausing just before he exits. “Don’t work too hard, okay? And lock the door behind me. I’m trusting you with the fortress.”
“Go home, Fallon.”
He leaves, and suddenly, the restaurant is mine.
The silence is different now. It’s peaceful. It’s just me, the hum of the refrigerator, and the warmth of the ovens.
I move through the kitchen, turning off the burners one by one. I spot the container of lamb stew Knox left for Fallon on the counter. Fallon, in his haste to escape, completely forgot it.
I shake my head, popping the lid off. It smells incredible—rich, savory, comforting. I slide it into the warm oven to keep it hot, in case Fallon realizes his mistake and comes back, or in case I get hungry later. Knowing Fallon, he’ll probably realize he’s starving five minutes after he gets home.
Once the kitchen is tidy, the gleam of the steel reflecting the overhead lights, I allow myself to focus on the real reason I wanted to be alone.
The buns.
I gather the ingredients: high-gluten flour, fresh yeast, whole milk, brown sugar, butter, and a generous amount of cinnamon. I measure everything out with the precision of a chemist, but my heart is pounding with the excitement of an artist about to paint.
As I mix the dough, the scent of yeast blooming in the warm milk fills the air. It’s a smell that connects me to every generation of bakers in my bloodline.
I knead the dough, pushing it against the counter with the heel of my hand.Fold, turn, push. Fold, turn, push.
This is the meditation I need. But my mind betrays me again.
I should have gotten her number.
The thought hits me hard, stopping my hands for a second. I told her to come by. I said I’d be here late. But what if she changes her mind?
What if she goes home and the reality of the day crashes down on her, and she decides to stay in the safety of her own home? I have no way to check in. No way to remind her that I’m waiting.
It’s a maddening feeling. I’m usually so patient. Baking requires patience. You cannot rush the proofing of a dough, anymore than you can force a flower to bloom. But with Amber, I feel a strange urgency. I don’t want to wait.
I finish kneading, placing the smooth, elastic ball of dough into a lightly oiled bowl. I cover it with a damp cloth and set it in the warm corner near the oven to rise.
Now, I wait.
I lean back against the counter, wiping the flour from my hands. The restaurant is quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall. I clean up the mixer, scrubbing the bowl until it shines.
I glance at the clock. 5:30 p.m. School will be out. She’ll be picking up her daughter. They’ll go home.
I imagine her in her kitchen. Is she smiling? Is she still crying?
