“Gotta move quicker,” I mumble, sliding the specialty burgers onto the awaiting toasted buns and pushing the plates closer to him for fries.
“Get off my ass, man. I don’t usually do this. Besides, it’s not like you allow any of us in here to help anyway. Maybe if you did, we’d be able to jump in and help when needed without getting our asses chewed for not knowing what to do,” Isaac retorts, finishing up the plates and yelling, “Order up!”
The shitty part is I know he’s right. I’ve never allowed them to really work in my kitchen. If they can’t do it, it’s not for lack of asking or trying. It’s because I’ve always insisted they get out and pushed them away. This is my kitchen, and I’m damn territorial. Yeah, Isaac may be correct in his angry outburst, but I refuse to admit it.
Not happening.
Just then Jameson slaps through the doors, the familiar scowl on his face. “There’s a line to the door,” he declares, glancing around at the chaos surrounding me.
“Yes, I know. We’re doing the best we can, but it’s hard to keep up when you’re short-staffed,” I argue, throwing six more patties on the grill with aggression.
“Okay, geez, settle down,” he replies, throwing both of his hands up in surrender.
“It’s a Friday night, Jame, and we’re busy as fuck. I’m short an assistant, which is why I’m relying on Numbers and trying not to yell at him for not knowing the salt to fries ratio. Shit, we’re producing food, man. That’s all I can say.”
He scratches his scruffy jaw and glances between Numbers and me. “Don’t say shit and food in the same sentence. Okay, I have an idea. Be right back.” Then, he’s gone.
I huff a deep breath and return my focus to the task at hand, trying to ignore the way Isaac whistles a little tune. Is he doing that just to annoy the hell out of me? Well, it’s working, especially since he’s whistling “Don’t Go Away Mad,” and no doubt, it’s meaning is directed at me.
Fucker.
Just as I’m about to lay into him for ruining Mötley Crüe for me for the rest of my life, the kitchen door flies open once again. I assume it’s one of the servers coming in to collect completed plates or submit more orders, but I realize quickly that’s not the case. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I swear I can feel her presence without even glancing up from the grill.
“What are you doing here?” Numbers asks, the happiness evident in his voice.
The water turns on as she replies, “Jameson just said you guys needed help, so I’m helping.”
I turn, my eyes drawn to the curve of her ass in a pair of flour-speckled leggings. I’m pretty sure I can actually see a white handprint on the side of her thigh. My cock gives an appreciative little twitch in my pants.
I strain to hear as Isaac goes over and gives her a rundown. Something he says makes her laugh, a sound that both settles the storm raging inside of me, but also burns my gut with jealousy.
Jealousy.
When did I become this man?
The day Lyndee Gibson walked back into my life.
She steps up beside me and gives me a hesitant smile. “Hi.”
“What are you doing?” It comes out much gruffer than I mean.
Reaching for a fresh bowl of cut potatoes, she dumps them into the basket and drops it into the grease. “Jameson said you guys needed help. So I’m helping.”
“I don’t need your help.” I cringe at my automatic response.
She shrugs and glances around. “I’m sure you’d manage fine, but it’s busy out there and he said you’re short an assistant chef. It’s been a while since I’ve worked in this type of kitchen, but I can handle it,” she replies, lifting her chin ever so slightly and meeting my intense gaze.
I flip my patties and spread more seasoning before moving on to the ones ready to come off. I don’t ignore her—there’s no way in hell I can, especially when she smells all sweet and delicious—and it takes all my focus to keep my eyes where they belong.
On my grill.
“You’re also in charge of grilling the buns there,” I state, pointing my spatula toward the device that toasts the buns. “Put them in the top and press down the lever, like a toaster you’d have at home. The buns will come out the bottom on the tray.”
She doesn’t reply, just does as she’s told. Lyndee moves around easily.
“Do you have a ratio?”
I stop. My wide eyes turn to look at her as she dumps the basket of fries and reaches for the seasoning bottle. “What?”
Lyndee shrugs. “Well, I remember how crazy you were in school about making sure there was the right amount of seasoning on whatever you were making, so I figured you had some weird system for seasoning your fries.”
I swear, I just fell in love with her.
“Uh, yeah,” I answer, wiping my hands on my apron and reaching for the bottle. “Like this.” I demonstrate my perfected technique for spreading seasoning across the hot fries. It requires you to move and shake in two long passes, instead of just haphazardly throwing the flavoring and leaving big globs.
I see the corner of her lip curl upward. “I can handle that,” she replies, reaching for the shaker in my hand. Our fingers touch and electricity shoots up my arm.
“No doubt you can,” I mumble, stepping back and severing contact.
“You just stay on your side of the kitchen, you hear me, chef?” she asks, a hint of laughter in her voice. “I don’t need you coming over here and messing up my system. I got this,” she declares, holding up her hand dramatically in my direction in the universal stop sign gesture.
As a grin spreads across my mouth, I turn to face my grill, the tightness in my chest finally starting to ebb. Even though we’re busier than hell, I relax and let Lyndee help. It may look like nothing to everyone else, but to me, this is everything. An olive branch has been extended; one I’ve grabbed on to with both hands.
I’ve never been so grateful.
***
I keep stealing glances. She’s leaning against the counter and chatting with Katelyn, the high schooler who works a few evenings a week as a dishwasher on the nights she doesn’t have cheerleading. I have no idea what they’ve been talking about for the last twenty minutes or so, but there’s been a few giggles and a lot of smiles. Considering Katelyn already put away the final dishes, it’s not like I can get mad at her for talking on the job. Technically, she’s done.
A few minutes later, I head for the lights, ready to shut down the kitchen. “You ready, Katelyn?”
“Yep! All done.” Her reply is upbeat, as is her bouncy walk as she moves to the doorway. “It was nice to meet you, Lyndee. I’ll stop by the bakery soon.”
“Good night, Katelyn. Drive safely,” Lyndee responds with a warm smile.
I glance her way and hold up a finger. “I’m going to walk her to her car. Stay here.” If she’s upset by my gruff demand, she doesn’t show it, just gives me a small grin and nod.
It only takes me a few minutes to make sure Katelyn gets off okay before I’m returning to the kitchen. The sounds of Jameson playing guitar filters down the hallway, making me smile. That man is crazy-talented, and I love to listen to him play.