She lightens my soul in a way that makes it easier to breathe.
How do I tether her to me without losing the iron-grip control on my emotions I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting?
How do I sate this lust, this bone-deep necessity, without letting the need for her become my new master?
I can feel tenderness for her rising like a tide, a warm, dangerous current that threatens to draw me under and drown the Ice Commander forever.
I want to protect the light in her, even as I try to discover what would cause it to burn out.
I turn back to the team before the force of my realization can choke me.
"Service in ten! I want every station thrice checked. If it isn't your best, it's not leaving this kitchen!"
I look down at my handheld device.
“We have tasting menu for one hundred and twelve. À la carte for the rest."
I scroll through the reservations.
"Table three. Mr. and Mrs. Yamamoto."
"Silver anniversary," Mark calls out. "Champagne on arrival. Complimentary mignardises with congratulations in silver leaf. Handwritten note."
"Wine pairing?"
"Pre-ordered the prestige selection. Six courses, matched."
I nod.
He knows his job. That's why he's still here.
"Table nine. Allergens?"
Leo steps forward. "Severe tree nut allergy for the wife. Shellfish intolerance for one of the guests. Separate prep station, separate pans. I'm handling it personally, Chef."
"If a single almond sliver touches that table?—"
"It won't, Chef."
I hold his gaze. He lasts four seconds before his eyes slide away down to his station.
"Look at me when you make a promise in my kitchen."
Leo's eyes snap back. His jaw works.
"Again. If a single almond sliver touches that table..."
Leo swallows. "It won't, Chef." This time he holds my gaze.
Better.
"See that it doesn't."
I move on.
"Table fourteen. Birthday. Six-year-old boy."
Silence.
