I reach up to kiss him, but Jack stops me with a look that could melt ice.
He goes back to the kitchen without a word.
Chapter 41
Hands
Jack
I storm back into the kitchen so fast, the door hits the wall.
“Jesus,” Owen says, briefly looking up from his station. “That bad out there, huh?”
“Are we behind?” I wash my hands, the water so hot it nearly scalds. “It feels like we’re behind.”
“What happened?” Hazel asks.
“Hit a speed bump?” calls Herman.
The shock of seeing Jessica—no, the shock of seeing Jessicawith Poppy—hasn’t faded. For half a second, I thought I was looking at a ghost. I went into the dining room to play nice with the guests, like Poppy asked, and found my past and my present wound together like some cosmic joke.
Staring at the two of them, all I could see was how Poppy fits right in with this crowd—elegant and polished to perfection, even flustered by Jessica’s presence—and how little I do.
It felt like a knife to the gut. A reminder that when push comes to shove, women like Jessica—successful, rich, connected—don’t look at guys like me and think about forever.
I stride to the pass, where the ticketing system is spitting out dupe after dupe. We’re behind, like I thought. I yank them out, scanning them quickly. “We need to hustle. Two fish, one carrot, one beef, pink.”
Hazel comes to my side. “Jack, seriously, what—”
“Two beef all day, one pink. Kill the other.” I scowl. Well-done filet mignon should be a crime. “Do you hear me?”
“If something’s wrong, tell us.”
“Do you hear me, Chef?”
She sighs. “Heard.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
I’m expediting and plating tonight in addition to handling the fish, so I slide back to my station, focusing on my work, all while watching for the next dupe. The ticket spits out with a flourish.
“Two carrot all day, two pasta.”
“Heard!”
“How long on the beef, Chef?”
“Give it another three,” comes Owen’s reply.
“Heard, Chef.” I glance over my shoulder. “Time, Hazel?”
“I’m on pace.”
“Heard. Thank you.”
Exactly three minutes pass. Our dishes come together like an orchestra playing in harmony. I tweeze on garnish expertly, wipe the rims of the plates so they gleam, and call for service. One of the servers steps up immediately, taking the plates away to the dining room.
“Behind,” Owen says, scooting by me to grab a set of tongs. He gets to work on his next table, the two beef dishes. I grab the plates for him, helping with the various components.
