I suddenly feel shy again. “Not really. I knew you had a foreign accent but never really placed it.”
“Ah. Born and raised in Ottawa.Franco-Ontarienon my father’s side,Québécoison my mother’s.”
“That’s so cool.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
We go silent again for a couple of seconds. This time, he’s the one to break it.
“You’re having a rough day,” he observes.
“I’m usually not this clumsy,” I say, trying to laugh, but it comes out as a choked breath. “I’m just… off today.”
“Everyone has off days,” he says. He reaches out, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from my cheek. His touch is tentative, as if he’s testing a boundary.
The dream flashes in my mind again—Knox pinning me to the fridge. The line between reality and the dream feels dangerously thin.
“Knox…” I start, not sure what I’m going to say.
He seems to realize the position he’s in—kneeling before me, touching my face. He pulls his hand back, his jaw tightening. He stands up abruptly, putting distance between us.
“Rest here for a minute,” he says, his voice returning to its professional cadence. “Until your eye stops watering. We open in two hours. I need you focused if you’re going to handle the front of house.”
“I will be,” I promise.
He nods once, gives me a curt look, and walks out.
I sit in the quiet office, listening to the muffled sounds of the kitchen. My arm throbs dully, my eye stings, and my heart is racing a mile a minute.
I press my hands to my cheeks. They’re burning. And I’m terrified that it has nothing to do with the chili peppers.
Then the dawning realization hits me.I might lose this job.
That’s when the panic kicks in.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eli
The wind howlsagainst the windshield of my car, the wipers working furiously to clear the slush that began falling halfway to the specialty market in Eugene.
The drive is usually a time for me to decompress, to let my mind wander through flavor profiles and pastry techniques, but today, my mind is blank. Just static.
I pull into the lot of the high-end grocer, grab the reusable bags from the passenger seat, and march inside. The store is brightly lit, the Muzak playing a smooth jazz version of a pop song I don’t recognize.
I move efficiently down the aisles—double cream, European butter, fresh organic raspberries for a garnish, heavy cream, and a dozen extra cartons of free-range eggs.
I’m in the checkout line, my mind already back in the kitchen, worrying about the tart shells, when I reach into my back pocket to grab my wallet.
My fingers brush against the denim. Nothing.
I pat my hip pocket. Nothing.
I freeze. The cashier, a bored-looking teenager with purple hair, looks up at me. “That’ll be eighty-forty, sir.”
I stare at her, my stomach dropping. I left my wallet on the counter in the office. I remember taking it out to check a receipt earlier and… just leaving it there.
