“The door is right there.” He says it almost pleasantly.
I cross my arms, hip cocking. “Change the music.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I’m trying to help you, you know.” I tear off the hairnet. I need something to do with my hands. As I untie my braid, I add, “You’ve barely said anything to me since this morning. You need to give me something to work with if I’m going to create buzz. I don’t even know yet if you’re going to change the restaurant’s name.”
“Why does that matter?”
“I can’t make a website or set up handles for social media accounts without a name. Which you’d know if you asked me.”
He studies me. “Did you finish the ovens?”
“Go see for yourself, Chef.”
He strides away. I follow, re-braiding my hair frantically. He leans down, using the flashlight function on his phone to peer inside each oven.
“Not good enough.”
“What?”
“You missed a spot,” he says flatly, pointing to a minuscule speck of grease. “Clean it again, Princess. And when you’re done with that, you can tackle the bar.”
“Fine. I mean, heard.” I slide past him, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves. “But will you please, please turn down the music, at least? I can’t hear myself think.”
He fiddles with his phone, and the volume drops significantly.
“Thank you.” I swallow, looking into those unreadable forest-green eyes. “Look, I have ADHD too. I get it. Sometimes it’s almost impossible for me to focus. Or get places on time. Although I promise that I’m really going to set a million more alarms—”
An expression I can’t quite read crosses his face. I stop, bracing myself for his laughter, or scorn, or worst of all, an ignorant comment about ADHD only being a thing for little boys. I’ve gotten that one a bunch, despite an official diagnosis and two pill bottles with my name on them—Wellbutrin and Vyvanse, keeping me out of my head and on track with moderate success.
He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to chew me out, either. “Heard. I’ll wear earbuds tomorrow. It’s actually the music that keeps me focused when I want to jump out of my skin.”
I take a step closer, desperate for a hint of connection with him, a flash of what I felt when we were at the bar together. Like we really could be on the same side. Friends, even. “Thanks. That—it means a lot.”
“Don’t you hate when you feel like your head is full of bees?” he adds suddenly.
I rock on my heels, reeling in a strange urge to hug him. “I usually think of it like hamsters on wheels. Hundreds of them. All running at breakneck speed.”
“And then sometimes you follow one and suddenly it’s hours later and you don’t know what happened, but you’ve perfected soufflé?”
“Did you really?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I love soufflé. Doesn’t sound like a waste to me.”
He snorts, shaking his head.
“What about when you have so much energy, you wish you could do parkour on the ceiling?” I add.
“Or when you can’t seem to find fucking anything?”
“God, yes. My purse is a black hole.”
He laughs. After a moment, I join in. It’s not much, but it’ssomething. Jack Hartman is infuriating beyond belief, but we have at least one thing in common.
So much more about his attitude in the kitchen falls into place.It must be something he can hyperfocus on. Something to throw himself into, at the exception of nearly everything else. I know how thrilling it can be, and how frustrating, all at the same time.
