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Henrique looks the staff over with a scowl. “Ms. Elizabeth Mack must be treated like a queen,” Henrique instructs. “Or she’ll crush us in her restaurant review.”
Elizabeth Mack is a brash local food critic known to descend on restaurants like a vulture on roadkill.
Jadyn elbows me in the ribs and nods toward the employee entrance. “Chef’s here,” she whispers. Lucas enters in a tight T-shirt and well-fitted pants. Why must he wear pants that fit like that?
Jadyn leans close. “He looks yummy.”
“He’s not a dessert.”
Henrique turns to me. “Gianna, do you have something to say?”
“Uh, no,” I say, my face heating. “Just noticing Chef Lucas is here,” I stammer, hoping to redirect everyone’s attention.
Henrique tightens his lips and checks his watch. “I see that.” The disapproval is thick in his voice.
Lucas glances at the clock. “I’m five minutes early, Henrique.” He slides on the chef’s jacket over his T-shirt as all the women eye him like a juicy steak.
“I asked everyone to arrive early tonight. Including you.” Henrique crosses his arms.
“As head chef, I set my schedule,” Lucas says firmly. “And I already know what you’re going to say. How important the Mack Attack is for our reputation.”
The actual name of Elizabeth’s column is “The Asheville Food Review,” but it’s been long known as the Mack Attack, aptly named for her scathing reviews.
Henrique glances over the staff with a scowl, like we’re barnacles on the bottom of a boat. “Excuse me while Lucas and I have a chat about the importance of tonight.”
As Henrique ducks around the corner with Lucas, Jadyn and I fold napkins. From this position, I can still see Henrique and Lucas, and I’m drawn to the way Lucas towers over Henrique. He sets his jaw and crosses his arms as Henrique continues to lecture him. It’s obvious from his body position who dominates.
As Lucas finally turns away and assembles ingredients for tonight, he seems distracted. He rushes around the kitchen, locating the ingredients he needs for tonight’s menu. Prepping his workstation is something that could easily be delegated to another staff member, so why hasn’t he?
In my head, I mentally calculate how I’d fix this, creating a workflow that would create a smoother system. It’s not that I’ve run a kitchen before. But I do have a gift for problem-solving, especially when it comes to systems and workflows.
But why would Lucas, or anyone, let me reorganize a kitchen? He doesn’t even know I’m alive, let alone understand how my brain works.
Henrique turns to a waitress nearby. “Pamela, I want you to take Ms. Mack’s table tonight.”
It’s no secret that Pamela is the most experienced waitress here. Jadyn and I glance at each other, relieved we escaped this stressful assignment.
“Everyone, take your places,” Henrique announces. “We’re opening the restaurant now.”
I glance at Lucas across the room. Everyone is circling around him, buzzing with nervous energy, while he remains a beacon of calm. He’s like the sun, and everyone else orbits him, pulling from his strength.
He pours olive oil into a pan and swirls it, like a choreographer who moves effortlessly across the floor. Under his hard-clenched jaw and the intense gaze, it’s easy to see how cooking is his first love. When you love something, it spills out of you like happiness.
“Don’t let him catch you looking.” Jadyn elbows me with a smirk.
“I wasn’t staring,” I insist.
Jadyn shakes her head. “If Henrique sees you, you’ll be in trouble.” She gives me a nudge toward the dining room.
“Why? Lucas is a freaking culinary rock star. Elizabeth Mack should give him bonus points for being the best-looking chef in town.”
“Jadyn,” one of the other servers calls. “You’re needed in the kitchen.”
As Jadyn hurries away, I finish giving the tables a final once-over. When I finish, the restaurant doors swing open as an elaborately dressed woman walks into the room. Elizabeth Mack looks to be around sixty, wearing a luxurious blue cashmere sweater with an understated tweed pencil skirt. The entire outfit is like something a first lady would wear, capped by an elegant diamond pendant. Her dynamic silver hair is twisted into a perfect chignon. Not flashy, but it reeks of old Southern money.
Pamela races over to me, a panicked look on her face. “I need you to take Elizabeth’s table. I wasn’t feeling well and thought it was just nerves. But then I got sick in the bathroom.”
“I can’t do it,” I say. “I’ve only been here a week.”
