“Don’t think about him, then. Think about you. Think about what this place could become.”
His body is as taut as a bowstring. When I try to hug him, he stands stiffly, neither a rejection nor encouragement.
“Please,” I whisper. I reach up, kissing his wiry cheek. “Promise me you’ll think about it. Imagine what we could do together.”
He sucks in a breath. The tightness in his body eases, just slightly, but enough that I notice. He kisses me on the lips, hard and quick. His hand finds my braid and gives it a loving pull.
“Let’s see how tonight goes first.”
Chapter 45
Fleur De Sel
Jack
The first wave of diners come in right at five.
My mouth quirks upward as I peer out at the dining room. Old people. A full seating at five in the evening is pretty much guaranteed this time of year in South Florida.
Poppy moves amongst the tables like a sleek fish, greeting diners with a wide smile. She went to change before service and came back in low heels and a navy dress with silver buttons at the throat. Her hair flows over her shoulders in loose waves; she braided thin pieces around her temples like a crown. Normally I can’t tear my eyes away from her hair, but tonight, I’m focused on her lips. She’s wearing bright red lipstick, glossy and perfect like apple skin. Her mouth looks good enough to nibble on. If she kissed me, she’d leave marks.
I’d very much like to earn those temporary tattoos.
I shake my head slightly. Now isn’t the time to get distracted. In just a few minutes, appetizer orders will roll in, and we’ll be off to the races. I stretch a little, adjusting my mise en place yet again. I resharpened my knives earlier. We’re fully stocked and prepped. The battlefield is set, and there’s nothing left to do but conquer.
Despite what she told me earlier, it feels impossible that Poppy would actually choose Florida over New York.
Then again, I’ve underestimated her from the beginning, and she’s proven me wrong every step of the way. There’s a fire inside herthat refuses to be doused. In the deepest, most honest part of my heart, I know I want to make my home beside it.
I just don’t know if I deserve to.
I give the crew a nod as the first orders come in. At Hazel’s suggestion, we’re doing timed seatings to make things neater. Appetizers, main courses, desserts, rinse and repeat. Hazel and the guys fall into their work like it’s a form of meditation. I’m far jumpier, my attention caught between the mountain of tasks ahead of me and the weight of the deal with Douglas.
The truth nearly spilled out of me, the night of the pop-up, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Poppy. Not after hearing what Jessica shared with her. I should’ve done it earlier, but all the wrong things came out of my mouth the moment she mentioned keeping the restaurant.
I’m telling her tonight. After service.
She thinks she wants me now, wants a future in a place like this, but I know better. This was never meant to last. She belongs back in New York. I don’t know where I belong, but I know it’s not with her.
She deserves the truth. And I deserve what follows.
“Chef.” Owen spits out the word like he’s said it several times in a row. “What the fuck’s going on?”
I startle, rushing to turn down the stove so I won’t burn the food cooking on it. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“Get your head in the groove, man. Are you running expo or what?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. I press my sleeve to my forehead to blot the sweat threatening to spill into my eyes. I need to stop thinking about Poppy. Nothing matters right now but the dishes we’re putting out. That’s the beauty of the kitchen; a busy service demands every ounce of your attention and then some. There isn’t room for anything else, not unless you want to drown. “Five duck all day, three scallops all day, fire it all, let’s catch up, let’s hustle.”
We all fall into a quiet rhythm punctuated only by the clatter of equipment and my expediting. Cook, plate. Cook, plate. The servers come to take dish after perfect dish away.
Every second of experimenting, developing, and tasting has come down to this, a lean but varied menu, just a touch seafood-heavy in a nod to the locale, each dish plated like museum artwork. My cutfinger throbs from the heat as I sauté and sear. Memory after memory crowds my mind, threatening to pull away my focus. I think of each barb Poppy and I traded in this kitchen, and every bite of food I gave her to taste. I think of Sal, and how he commanded this space like his own personal pirate ship, and how small it seemed when I had the entire world waiting.
I call out another slew of dupes, arranging them over the pass. An entire table of scallops is the most pressing; I fire them all at once, the smell of butter and herbs mingling with smoke from Owen’s grill and the earthiness from Hazel’s pasta station.
Chef de cuisine is one thing.
Owning a restaurant is another.
