“I’ve got it,” he says, not looking at me. “Just give me a second.”
“I can help,” I insist, wanting to do something right. I reach out to grab the tray of roasted fennel sitting on the counter next to him, intending to move it to the plating station.
But I misjudge the distance. My hand, still wet from the sink, slips. My wrist grazes the edge of the hot tray he just pulled out.
“Ow!” I snatch my hand back, a searing line of pain burning across my forearm.
Knox spins around, eyes wide. “Putain!Amber!”
I look down at my arm. A bright red stripe is blooming across my skin. “Shit. I… I didn’t mean to do that.”
Knox drops the oven mitts and grabs my arm, inspecting the burn. “It’s not blistering, but it’s going to hurt. Fallon! Get the burn gel from the kit!”
“On it!” Fallon yells again.
Knox doesn’t let go of my wrist. His grip is firm but surprisingly gentle. He leads me away from the heat of the ovens, back toward the office.
“Come with me,” he says. “You need to sit down.”
He guides me down the hallway, his hand warm on my shoulder. I blink, my vision still blurry from the pepper tears, trying to navigate the hallway.
“In here,” he says, opening the door to his office.
He ushers me inside and closes the door, shutting out the noise of the kitchen and the sound of Sarah’s voice. The office is cool and quiet, smelling of old paper and Knox’s crisp scent.
He points to the leather chair. “Sit.”
I sit, wincing as the fabric of the chair rubs against my arm.
Knox kneels in front of me, his height bringing him eye level with me. Fallon comes in with a tube of gel and hands it to Knox before slipping back out, closing the door.
Knox opens the tube and squeezes a cool dollop onto his fingers. He looks up at me, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.
“This might sting,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper.
He applies the gel to my arm. The sensation is cool and soothing, instantly calming the angry heat. He works it in with slow, circular motions. His hands are strong, his fingers long and elegant.
I watch him as he tends to me. Up close, he really is handsome. He looks severe with his sharp jaw and tight lips, but right now, with his head bent in concentration, he looks… devoted.
He’s wearing his chef’s whites, the crisp fabric contrasting with his dark hair. The uniform suits him. It commands respect, but there’s a grace to his movements that I hadn’t noticed before.
He looks up, catching me staring.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“Not anymore,” I say, sounding breathless to my own ears. “Thank you, Knox.”
He wipes the excess gel from his fingers with a tissue. He doesn’t stand up immediately. He stays there, kneeling between my knees, looking at me.
My eyes are still watery, my vision swimming. I feel vulnerable, exposed. But I also feel safe.
We both begin to speak. He stops and motions for me to go first.
“You’re French?”
That must take him by surprise. “French-Canadian. Did you not know this about me?”
