She gives me a little wave and turns to go. I watch her walk out, the bell chiming again as the door closes behind her.
I look down at the flowers in my hand. Eli has done well for himself. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, sure, but she also seems… kind. There was a softness to her that I think Eli needs.
I shake my head, walking back into the kitchen. I place the bouquet on the stainless steel counter, right in the center where Eli can’t possibly miss it. The scent of jasmine fills the sterile kitchen.
I lean in and inhale the scent again. Yeah, this is definitely the one.
The back door swings open, letting in a blast of cold air. Knox walks in, already dressed in his chef’s whites, his face set in its usual expression of focused intensity. He’s carrying a tray of herbs he must have harvested from the garden box out back.
He stops dead when he sees me standing there, staring at a bouquet of flowers.
“What is that?” Knox asks, his eyes narrowing. He sets the tray down on the counter with a clatter. “We don’t allow non-essential items on the prep stations, Fallon. You know that.”
“Relax, it’s not a permanent fixture,” I say, leaning back against the butcher block. “They’re for Eli.”
“Eli?” Knox walks over, inspecting the bouquet like it’s a bomb about to go off. “Who is sending Eli flowers at seven in the morning?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I can’t help it. I love seeing Knox thrown off balance.
“You won’t believe who was just in here,” I say.
Knox looks up, his eyes locking onto mine. “Who?”
I nod toward the flowers. “Amber. From the flower shop.”
Knox stills. “Jude’s sister?”
“The very same.” I cross my arms, enjoying the moment. “How do you know her?”
“She’s eaten here before, fool.”
Oh yeah! But that was such a long time ago I’m even surprised Knox remembers. “Well, she came by to drop these off. Said she wanted to thank him for something he did last night. She was wearing this dress, Knox. And boots. And she smelled… well, let’s just say our boy Eli is in deep.”
Knox stares at the flowers, then at me. For a second, I think he’s going to explode. I expect a lecture about rules, about distractions, about the integrity of the kitchen.
Instead, he reaches out and adjusts the angle of the bouquet, straightening it perfectly on the counter.
“The roses are nice,” he says gruffly. “Good color. They complement the eucalyptus.”
I blink. “That’s it? ‘Good color’? That’s all you have to say?”
Knox turns back to his tray of herbs, picking up a sprig of thyme. “Eli is an adult. If he wants to receive flowers from a beautiful woman, that’s his prerogative. As long as he finishes the croissant dough on time,je m’en fichewho sends him flowers.”
For the past three days, the bouquet of red roses and eucalyptus has sat in the center of our dining table. It’s wilting now, the petals curling at the edges, losing that crisp vibrancy they had when Eli first brought them home, but he refuses to throw them out.
Every morning, he trims the stems and changes the water, treating them like a fragile guest rather than a decoration. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing.
What is slightly annoying is that Eli has barely said two words to me about where they came from. He comes home later and later these days, leaving the restaurant the second the dinner rush dies down.
And when he does come home, he carries that scent with him—jasmine and rain. It clings to his sweater, lingers in the bathroom after he showers.
It’s the smell of her. The florist. Amber.
I’m happy for him, I am. But the dynamic in the pack has shifted.
I’m stuck closing the restaurant every single night, scrubbing the grease traps and mopping the floors while he’s off playing house. And to make matters worse, we can’t seem to hire a competent dishwasher to save our lives.
The interviews have been a disaster.
