“I fucked up,” she whispers, guilty tears tracking down her cheeks. “Right in front of Knox.”
“He’s over it by now, I promise.” I squeeze her hand. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Does the arm hurt much?”
“Throbs. But Knox put the gel on it. It helped.”
“He’s good at that.” I pause, studying her face. “Do you want to go home? I can drive you.”
She shakes her head vigorously. “No. I can’t. I need to be here. I need to help. Ruth will be here soon.”
“Okay.” I stroke her knuckles with my thumb. “How about you come sit by me in the kitchen? You can help with the tart crusts. It’s easy work. Mindless. And you’ll be close to me.”
She manages a weak smile. “That sounds nice. Thank you, Eli.”
“Anytime.”
I help her up, keeping a hand on her lower back as we walk out of the office. When we enter the kitchen, the atmosphere is thick.
Knox is at the stove, his movements stiff and jerky. He doesn’t turn around when we enter.
Amber clears her throat. “Knox? I’m sorry again about the tray. And… everything.”
Knox pauses, his hand hovering over a pot of boiling water. He turns slowly. His gaze flickers from her face to her bandaged arm, then to me.
For a second, there’s something in his eyes that I can’t read. It’s not anger. It’s heavy and charged.
“It’s handled,” he says, his voice clipped. “If you’re staying, wash your hands. Eli needs help with the dough.”
“Right.”
I guide her to the pastry station. I feel a weird tension in the air, a static electricity that seems to spark between Knox and Amber.
Is it just me? Am I projecting my own insecurities because I left her alone? Or is there something actually going on there?
Knox turns back to his stove, dismissing us. I watch him for a moment, trying to read his body language. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set.
He’s stressed about the dinner. That must be it. I push the thought away. We have a service to execute.
“Okay,” I say to Amber, handing her an apron. “Let’s get these tarts done.”
The next two hours are a blur of activity. Amber is good company. She’s quiet, focused, and her hands are surprisingly gentle with the dough.
She helps me line the tart shells, pressing the crumbs into the pans with a precision that rivals my own.
It’s strange, but her presence seems to calm the kitchen. Even Knox seems to settle, moving from his rigid state into his usual fluid rhythm.
At seven o’clock, the front door opens and Ruth Evans arrives with her family. I can hear Sarah greeting them, her voice bright and professional.
To my surprise, she actually sounds competent. She seats them in the private dining area, and within minutes, the first ticket prints.
Appetizers: 3 orders lamb meatballs, 2 orders shishito peppers.
“Showtime,” Knox mutters.
The service begins.
It’s like a dance. I finish piping the chili chocolate mixture into the tart shells and slide them into the oven to set. Fallon is on the grill, searing the lamb. Knox is plating.
Amber is on the line with me, acting as the expeditor. She calls out the orders, her voice clear and steady, no longer shaky.
