Page 91
Simon
Heather always comes in when the kitchen is trying to kill me.
The first time I laid eyes on her, I told her she ordered wrong. The second time, I made the sauce hotter after she said the original was fine. Last week, I took away her dessert before she finished it because she’d spent ten minutes pretending she wanted another bite.
Tonight, she’s in her usual seat before I decide what I’m going to do.
The kitchen is already fucked. The dining room has been full since six, the ticket rail is out of space, and Luis is trying to send bass that still has opinions about being cooked.
A pan shifts when I grab it. The rim catches the inside of my wrist, hot enough to leave a clean red line. I finish the sauce before I put it down. When I look toward the counter, Heather’s attention is on the mark.
I tell Luis the bass needs another minute.
“It doesn’t need one.”
I press my thumb into the center of the fillet. The heat bites deep enough to hurt. I hold it there until Luis swears and knocks my hand away.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Still under.”
“You could use a thermometer like a person.”
“Or you could cook it right the first time.”
I push the plate back toward him. Luis mutters something in Spanish that probably involves my mother.
“Use words I understand if you want credit.”
“Ben,” Mara snaps from the other end of the line. “Do that again and I’ll put you on salads for a week.”
Everything in me that’s been dragging sideways for the last hour snaps back into place. “Yes, Chef.”
Heather’s watching from the counter. Most customers stare at the flames because they think an open kitchen exists for entertainment. Heather watches the pan that burns me. The server who tells me to fuck myself. The second after Mara threatens me and my hands stop trying to break everything they touch.
Her lipstick is dark tonight. Black earrings hang almost to her jaw. They move when she tips her head, considering me.
I finish the plate in front of me and send it.
A server stops in front of Heather and offers a menu.
“I’ve got her,” I say.
“You have thirty-six covers.”
“And yet I still noticed my customer before you did.”
The server drops the menu onto the counter. “Try not to insult this one until after she tips.”
“No promises.”
Heather opens the menu after the server leaves. I wait. She reads the first page. Still no reaction. I move two orders down the line. Tell Luis to send the bass. Wipe my knife. Check Heather again. Same page. She knows I’m watching now.
“You going to order?”
“Eventually.”
“We close at eleven.” I reach across the counter and take the menu.
