“I touched my face!” I gasp, tears already streaming down my cheek, mixing with the chili oil to make it worse. “It burns, Knox!”
“Fallon! Milk!Grouille-toi!” Knox barks over his shoulder.
“I’m on it!” Fallon yells back.
“Merde.” Knox drags me over to the sink, his grip firm on my arm.
Before he touches me again, he scrubs his own hands with lightning speed, the soap suds flying. Once clean, he guides my head under the faucet.
“Flush it with cold water first.”
The cold shock does little to quell the heat. The capsaicin is oil-based; water isn’t cutting it.
“It’s not working!” I cry out.
“Here!” Fallon appears with a carton of whole milk.
Knox grabs a clean cloth, soaks it until it’s dripping, then presses it gently over my eye.
“Ne bouge pas.Hold still,” he commands. His voice is less sharp now, more urgent. He’s close—too close. I can smell the scent of him, that clean, cold smell mixed with the tang of the peppers he’s been handling.
The cool milk soaks into my skin, and slowly, agonizingly, the fire begins to recede. I let out a sob of relief, leaning into his hand without realizing it.
“Are you okay?” Fallon asks from the side, looking anxious. “That looks painful.”
“She’ll be fine,” Knox says, not taking his eyes off my face. He swaps the cloth for a fresh one soaked in milk. “The milk neutralizes the capsaicin.Drette là.Keep it there for a minute.”
“I’m so stupid,” I whisper, my eye squinting open slightly. My vision is blurry, watery. “You told me not to touch my face.”
“T’inquiète. People make mistakes,” Knox says, his tone surprisingly gentle.
He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. The blue light from his glasses hides his eyes, but I can feel his gaze boring into mine.
I blink, the milk-soaked cloth cool against my skin. I’ve heard him drop little phrases before—bits of “chef-speak” or a quick “merci,” but he barely talks to me so I never really thought much about it.
Now, hearing the smooth, melodic roll of the vowels coming from deep in his chest, the realization hits me. Knox is French.
“Is she okay?” Sarah’s voice cuts in, floating from the doorway. “Oh no, what happened? Is she allergic to something?”
She really needs to stop talking,I think, a spike of irritation piercing through the pain. She sounds like she’s watching a soap opera, not a kitchen accident.
“She got pepper in her eye,” Fallon tells her. “She’ll be fine.”
“Oh, poor thing,” Sarah coos. “Maybe she should go lie down? We don’t want her ruining the vibe for the guests if she’s all red and puffy.”
I bristle.Vibe?I’m the one who has been cleaning this place for two days.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice coming out stronger than I feel. I pull away from Knox’s hand, testing the skin around my eye. It still throbs, but the agony is gone. “I’m going to wash my hands again.”
I walk to the sink, scrubbing my hands with soap, trying to scrub away the humiliation along with the spice.
I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. One eye is red and puffy, tearing up uncontrollably. I look like a mess.
I turn back to the kitchen, determined to redeem myself. I need to be useful. I need to prove I’m not just a liability.
Knox is back at the oven, checking on the halibut. He’s roasting it at high heat to get a crust. He pulls the heavy tray out, the heat waves distorting the air around him.
“Do you need help plating those?” I ask, stepping forward. “I can start arranging the fennel.”
