“You have that loft,” he presses. “The one you share with your… friends. If you sold that, or leveraged it?—”
“I’m not selling my home, William. My pack lives there.”
There’s a pause on the line. The wordpackhangs in the air, a concept he doesn’t understand and disapproves of.
“Fine,” he says, his tone cooling. “I just wanted to give you the opportunity to get in on the ground floor. If you change your mind, the offer stands for another forty-eight hours.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“Comme tu veux.” He pauses, and I can practically hear the curl of his lip over the line. “Give my regards to… your friends.À bientôt, Knox.”
He hangs up.
I stare at the phone for a moment, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. It’s always the same. The disappointment. The implication that I’m playing house while he’s out conquering the world.
He doesn’t see the late nights. He doesn’t see the stress of the bottom line. He doesn’t see the satisfaction of a perfect service. He only sees the deviation from the plan.
I look out the window again. Eli is showing Amber the bag of basil he fought for. She’s laughing, her head tilted back, the sunlight catching the gold in her eyes.
She looks happy. Eli looks happy.
I’m the only one standing in the office with a headache and a brother who thinks I’m a failure.
But looking at them, at the life we are building here, I know William is wrong. I’m not wasting my mind. I’m using it to create something real. Something that matters.
I pick up my pen and underline the total cost for the Evans dinner. I need this gig to go perfectly.
Not for the money, though that helps. But to prove, if only to myself, that I made the right choice.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Amber
The kitchen at Blade& Butter is a different beast than Knightly Blooms. At the flower shop, the chaos is organic—stems snapping, water spilling, clients changing their minds.
Here, the chaos is structured, a violent symphony of steel and fire.
I’ve been here since seven in the morning, and my feet are throbbing, but there is a strange, addictive energy to this place.
Knox is the conductor. I’ve never seen anyone move like him. He doesn’t rush; he flows. He is a machine, a perfect engine of culinary efficiency.
He stands at the pass, his face a mask of concentration, plating food with the speed of a magician. He slides a plate of seared scallops to the left, reaches back to grab a pot of risotto without looking, and deposits a perfect quenelle of pea purée on the third plate.
“Two halibut, table four. Fire the lamb for table six,” he commands, his voice cutting through the noise of the sizzling grills and the ventilation hood.
“On it, Chef,” Fallon calls back from the grill.
I’m at the prep station, my hands moving in a blur. My job during the rush is to keep the line stocked. Clean plates, wiped rims, garnishes ready. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary.
I watch Knox adjust a sprig of rosemary on a steak, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He’s not satisfied. He flicks the rosemary off and grabs a fresh one, placing it with a slightly different angle.
“Better,” he mutters to himself.
He’s so serious. He doesn’t joke, he doesn’t banter. He just exists in a state of high-functioning perfection. It’s intimidating, but it’s also mesmerizing.
He catches every mistake before it happens. Once, I reached for a dirty spoon, and without turning his head, he tapped the counter in front of me, sliding a clean one into my path.
“Don’t break the flow,” he’d said quietly.
