“I didn’t believe anything Jessica told me, you know,” she says softly. Stubbornly. “I don’t care what she says. I just care about you.”
“Great. Glad to hear it.” I turn back to the stove, hands shaking. We’re still behind. More behind every moment I spend talking instead of working. “But either way, you’re front of house. Keep your friends entertained until we can catch the hell up back here.”
I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. The moment her eyes go wide, her lip quivering.
Before I can apologize, get out any of the jumbled words crowding my throat, Poppy and I collide.
A plate breaks at our feet, sending pasta everywhere. She jumps as the sauce splatters up her shins, nearly losing her balance. I reach forward on instinct to steady her, and in the process knock a knife onto the floor. It skitters across the tiles, barely missing us.
We stare at each other, panting. Behind us, the kitchen is silent.
I let go slowly. “Just go,” I say hoarsely.
This time, she listens.
Chapter 42
Hibiscus
Poppy
The rest of the event goes off without a hitch.
The guests loved the food. The dessert was a huge hit. Floating around the dining room, I get pulled into so many conversations, they blur together. When I finally manage to check my phone during the clean-up, I see story after story tagging Fable, me, and Jack.
And Jack, despite everything, came out of the kitchen again around dessert, making everyone give me a round of applause for the dish. I know it was a success, I could see people savoring it—but I couldn’t find it in me to enjoy the praise. We pose for photos, we take reservations for opening night, and throughout it all, I smile as wide as I can.
Inside, though, I feel like a collapsing star. I want to tear off this dress and these heels and throw them in the lagoon. I want to run until my lungs burn, and then burrow myself into blankets with Gator in tow. I want Jack to smile at me, and to feel like we did this together.
It was amazing, for that brief moment, watching him move in the kitchen. I could practically taste the air, dozens of flavors melding together in the activation of heat. Jack was effortlessly in command, expediting orders and finishing plates while at the same time handling three steaming pans and a grill. He was focused, face shining with perspiration, hair curling over his forehead from the heat.
He was doing what he loves again, finally, after it all came crashing down for him. And as I watched, it hit me with perfect clarity: he belongs here. Not just in any kitchen.Thiskitchen.
I should’ve gone back to the dining room without a word.
When the last guests leave, we clean up, sticking to our respective spheres. Jack and the crew work on the kitchen until it’s spotless. I bring the dining room back into order with the servers, Chester, and Kiara, wiping down every surface and sweeping the floors.
It’s early morning by the time we stumble to the houseboat. Jack disappears into the shower. I strip off my dress and shoes and lay across the bed in my underwear.
Eventually, the shower turns off. I don’t feel like dealing with my hair, so I throw on a pair of pajamas and head above-deck.
It’s not time for sunrise yet, but I can feel the world slowly coming to life again. The moon, a mere sliver, hangs low in the sky. A bird wings over my head. It’s odd to think of Jack having nights like this all the time. Getting to work when other people are just winding down for the evening. Working well into the night, and then morning, and finding enough quiet to sleep while the rest of the world starts the day.
It must be lonely.
I think he’s always been lonely, and he feels like he deserves it.
I braid my hair to give my hands something to do. Then I unbraid it, and start all over again. I should feel elated right now. We both should. Aside from the hiccup of Jessica and getting backed up during service, nothing went wrong. We already have three interview requests and rumors that Bret Whittaker, the reviewer who skewered Jack’s food his last night at Pastiche, will be coming to Fable’s opening night.
And Jack called me his girlfriend.
“Hey,” I hear him say.
I sit up, letting go of my hair. He looks refreshed from the shower, or at least as fresh as a man can be while also half-dead on his feet. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of gray sweats. A trail of dark hair leads beneath the waistband.
I bite my lip. “Hey.”
“I’m sorry.” He sits beside me with a tired groan, hand dragging over his jaw. “I acted like a jackass.”
