He opens the fridge, staring blankly at the shelves. “I need to make a grocery run. I need more butter, more cream, more eggs. I have to go out.”
“I can do it,” I offer immediately. “I have my car. I can go to the store while you prep the new shells.”
Eli turns to me, shaking his head. “No. I need to get out of here, Amber. I need to clear my head. The kitchen feels… stuffy today. I need air.”
I search his face, seeing the tension etched there. He’s usually the calm one, the mediator. Seeing him this rattled worries me.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Go. Take your time.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be back in an hour. Keep an eye on Knox for me, will you? He’s in a mood.”
“I will.”
He grabs his coat and walks out the back door, the cold air swirling in before it clicks shut.
I turn back to the main kitchen. Knox is a machine. He’s moving with terrifying precision, mincing jalapeños with a speed that makes my eyes water just watching him.
He hasn’t said a word to anyone since he came in. He’s in his zone.
In the dining room, Fallon says something to Sarah. She throws her head back and laughs, a high-pitched, tittering sound that goes on for what feels like two full minutes.
Is he really that funny?I think irritably.He’s not a stand-up comedian.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the annoyance. I know why I’m feeling this way. It’s not just Sarah. It’s the dream I had.
The dream where the three of them—Knox, Fallon, and Eli—were all over me. The dream that woke me up gasping and flushed, my body thrumming with a pleasure that felt entirely too real.
It has thrown me off-kilter. I look at Knox, and I don’t just see my boss. I see the man from the dream, pinning me against the fridge. I look at Fallon, and I remember the feel of his hands on my hips.
It’s inappropriate. It’s dangerous. I need to keep it together.
I need to keep busy.
I walk over to the prep island where Knox is working.
“Knox? Is there anything I can help with?” I ask. “I can chop vegetables, or peel potatoes? Anything to get out of the dining room.”
He pauses, his knife hovering over a pile of habaneros. He glances at me, then at the dining room, where Sarah’s voice is drifting in.
“Yes,” he says. “These habaneros need to be deveined and seeded. Don’t touch your face while you’re doing it. Wash your hands thoroughly before and after.”
“I can handle it,” I assure him, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “I’ve dealt with roses with thorns. I can handle a few peppers.”
He nods and slides a cutting board over to me. I pick up a knife and get to work. The routine is soothing—slice, scrape, scrape. Slice, scrape, scrape.
I’m about halfway through the pile when I feel a tickle on my nose. A stray hair.
Without thinking, I reach up with my gloved hand and brush the side of my nose.
Fire.
Instant, blinding fire erupts on the sensitive skin of my nostril and under my eye.
“Ah!” I drop the knife, both hands flying to my face. “Oh my god, it burns!”
Knox is there in a second. He drops the fish he’s holding onto a plate and grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away from my eye.
“Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais?What did you do?” he demands.
