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Gina
“Get out!” Massi’s voice carries across the dining room. The bartender glances at me and then at the kitchen door.
The lounge music creates a pleasant backdrop to the fine dining experience, but it’s not loud enough to drown out whatever is happening in the kitchen.
For the tiniest fraction of a second, everyone freezes. A few patrons at the tables closest to the bar look toward the kitchen. I slide down from the barstool where I have been sitting and taking notes about the floor management and I smile toward the guests, but really at no one in particular.
I walk casually toward the swinging doors, but my spine is rigid. My posture results from the tension that fills me any time I have to face Massi. It has just intensified tenfold because I fear what I find when I open the door. By the time I reach the door, the dining room exhales and resumes its normal beat.
Through the nautical window, I assess the situation. Nobody is coming out, so I take a moment to inhale and let out a long breath. It does shit for my composure. I put on the generic smile that I’ve worn around here all day and push through the door.
I stop a foot from the entrance, careful not to get run over by the servers coming and going. My eyes dart around, and as much as I’m trying to comprehend what has just happened, I can’t figure it out.
The commotion in the kitchen resembles chaos. Well-orchestrated and probably quite logical for those performing the choreography. Still, it feels frantic. Lena is shouting orders. A pair of line cooks rush around the range, mixing, cutting, stirring. Other team members are all at their stations, bustling through their tasks.
Massi is finishing a plate at the plating counter. Holding a squirt bottle filled with an orange sauce, he’s drawing curves on the plate, adding finishing touches to the presentation.
A dark curl escapes from his man bun and bounces across his forehead. I can’t help but stare. Like an artist, he leans back for a brief second to assess his creation and immediately moves to the next plate.
A shadow of a smile lingers on his lips, and while there is a lot of activity around him he doesn’t seem impacted by the pandemonium. He thrives in the hectic buzz of his kitchen, drawing energy from it. Drawing joy from it.
He’s a tall man with impressive muscles, but he moves with a grace and elegance as if everything around him is sacred. If ever there was someone who’d found their true calling, it’s Massimo. I feel strangely jealous of anyone around him. It’s like working with a true master.
I shouldn’t be this attracted to him. I shouldn’t feel my chest tickled by butterflies and my core burning like I was sitting on the stove instead of standing at a safe distance. I shouldn’t be staring at him. But I’m unable to control my feelings, my body’s reaction or my thoughts.
He puts the squeeze bottle down and almost simultaneously dings the bell on the counter. It only takes a second before the door opens and a server comes to take the plates. New orders come in and Lena keeps everyone on task.
Before Massi leans over the next set of plates, he notices me. Our eyes lock and all the feelings flooding my system since I entered the kitchen engage in some weird tug-of-war.
I want to dash away, but his gaze captures me in a way I haven’t felt in a long time about a man. About anybody, really.
I’m marginally aware that everything and everyone is still whirling around, but for me time and space cease to exist for a second. Or a year. Or an eternity. It’s only me and him. His hooded eyes communicate so much, but I fear interpreting what it is.
Desire. Regret. Pain. Lust.
But it’s not what he’s saying with that look—it’s what his silent look takes from me.
Reason. Resolve. Rationale.
All gone.
I’m turning into a mushy mess, wanting him to eliminate the distance between us and kiss me.
And while I’m not sure what his eyes are saying, when he licks his lips I’m sure at least a fraction of his thoughts match mine. Perhaps more than that, but I’m a pessimist. Or a realist. Scratch that. I’m clearly insane.
The door swooshes open with more force this time and I have to jump away, breaking the moment. A moment I probably just conjured in my head.
“Sorry, Gina,” Sharon, one of the servers, says, but doesn’t stop, her hands full of plates.
I should say something, act like a normal person, but I don’t know how. I’m afraid to glance back at the plating station, so I just scurry through the kitchen, trying to avoid everyone, but mostly the dark eyes that still feel like scorching coals within me.
I shove the back door open and let out the breath stuck in my lungs. I lean against the brick wall, not minding the lingering smell of garbage.
I feel safer here. To a certain extent. Because I can escape Massi’s gaze, but I can’t escape my feelings. There is a lot of desire swarming through me, and some hope as well. A large red abort sign is flashing in my mind’s eye, but there is a big part of me that wants to get to know this Massimo. How different is he from the high school boy?
But I made a decision seventeen years ago, and as much as I regret it I can’t take it back. If Massi knew what I’d done, he’d be giving me a very different look. If he even cared to look at me again. He’d either resent me or be indifferent, and I don’t know which one would kill me faster.
The door opens and the saucier steps out. She’s on the phone, murmuring something. She stops when she sees me. Her eyes are red from crying and I want to ask her if she’s okay, but she keeps the phone up, so I don’t interrupt.
