He lifted his head, just a little, just enough to look me in the eyes again.
“I don’t think I should say.”
The words were just a whisper, a pained one laced with so much insinuation that I wasn’t sure if I was reading too much into it, or convincing myself it was innocent when I knew it wasn’t.
He licked his bottom lip again.
And this time, his gaze fell to my mouth when he did it.
“Finn…” I warned.
He moved, just a centimeter closer, but then froze at the sound of a harsh voice ringing through the quiet galley.
“Right, they’re happily distracted with an Eli special at the moment,” Bernard said, swinging into the kitchen. He slid to a halt at the sight of us, his eyebrow ticcing up, but he didn’t falter. “But there’s only so much a shirtless South African and a round of neon blue vodka shots with dry ice fanatics can do.”
Gisella came in on his heels, and when she saw me and Finn on the floor, an unreadable expression darkened her gaze.
I cleared my throat, breaking all contact with Finn and pushing to stand. I didn’t rush it. I didn’t act guilty even if somewhere inside me I felt it. I just ignored the stares drilling holes into my back and extended a hand down for Finn.
“You can do this,” I promised him again. “Now get off the damn floor, Chef. We’ve got a dinner to finish.”
For a long moment, he stared at my hand. When his eyes met mine, I wondered if he felt the same heat buzzing through him that I did from our close proximity.
This was exactly why I’d stayed away from him.
And it was exactly why I couldn’t stay away for long.
Finally, Finn took my hand, though he barely needed my help as he jumped up from the floor. His eyes flicked between mine for a quick second before he clapped his hands, swiping his hat off the floor.
“Right.” Finn’s voice was stronger now, more certain, like he was snapping back to the chef I knew he was.
He tugged his hat back on, adjusted his apron, and turned to the crew like a general before battle.
“We’re scrapping the original main,” he said, rolling his shoulders back. “I want halibut fillets out and thawed now — gently. Palmer, can you handle that?”
Palmer was already moving toward the freezer.
“Em, I want you to prep the sous vide. We’ll do a miso-butter glaze with a charred corn and shishito hash. I want it plated on that black ceramic, minimal garnish.”
I couldn’t fight the smile that spread on my face. “Yes, sir.”
He was alight again, his eyes sparkling a little as he smirked at me and winked.
“Gisella, we’re adding an intermezzo,” he said next, turning to face her. “Grab the cucumbers and fresh mint from the walk-in. Juice the cucumbers and I’ll blitz them with mint and a touch of lime. We need to get it in the freezer fast — we’re doing a cucumber mint granita in the coupe glasses. Ice cold. Clean.”
“And dessert?” I asked, already working on the sous vide. I pulled out the vacuum sealer as Finn handed me spices.
“Lemon olive oil cake,” he answered without hesitation. “We’ll cut rounds and toast them. Mascarpone whip, honey drizzle, thyme. Light, floral. It’ll feel like the Amalfi Coast whispering goodnight.”
The corner of my mouth climbed again, and I shook my head.
I knew he could do it.
Finn clapped once, loudly. “I need all of you if we’re going to make this happen. Let’s move!”
The galley came alive again — knives tapping, burners igniting, steam rising. Each word from Finn was a spark, each movement a gear locking into place. The kitchen was a machine, and he was its heartbeat.
In the chaos, he paused and found me.