Shit.
I ignore it, focusing on the brûlée. The sugar’s almost there, that perfect moment right before it goes from caramelized to—
It rings again.
“Genevieve.” Chef Michel’s voice is a razor, his blue eyes homed in on me. “If you’re going to let your phone interrupt my service, you can leave my kitchen.”
“Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef.” I set down the torch and pull out my phone, fingers trembling, and silence it.
But the message on the screen makes me smile.
ART:
Landing in Boston tonight. Something important with your dad and Freddy, blah blah, lawyer shit. Dinner tomorrow? Miss you.
I bite my lip, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
We’ve been doing this long-distance dance for over a year now—him visiting when his family’s lawyer has business with my dad. What “business” a mayor’s lawyer has with a criminal defense attorney, I have no clue. But I learned a long time ago not to ask questions.
Art’s and my relationship progressed naturally, despite it being a dinner for my dad where we met, and it’s easy. He’shandsome. Nice. He remembers the small things: my schedule, my coffee order, the name of the line cook who annoys me.
ME:
Can’t wait. Usual place?
ART:
Wherever you want. I’m buying.
Chef Michel clears his throat, and I shove my phone into my pocket, my spine straightening like I’ve been electrocuted.
“Sorry, Chef.”
I focus back on my crème brûlée, but there’s still a skip in my heart because Art’s coming into town.
My hands move without conscious thought.
“Runner!”
The plate disappears down the line, and I’m already reaching for the next ticket, the next challenge, the next chance to prove I belong here.
By the time service ends, my feet are screaming, and my whites are splattered with enough butter to constitute a health code violation. But I’m grinning as I break down my station, still riding the high that only comes from a flawless service.
“You killed it tonight.” Danny, one of the other sous-chefs, bumps my shoulder as he passes. “That duck on table twelve? The guest sent compliments to the kitchen.”
My heart swells. “Seriously?”
“Chef Michel wants to see you in the office,” he says with a wide grin.
I try not to let the hope show too much on my face, but it’s hard. Three years I’ve been working toward this. Senior sous-chef at twenty-four, at one of the most respected restaurants in Boston isn’t just a promotion; it’s proof I deserve everything I’ve dreamed of. I change out of my whites in the back room, checking my phone as I pull on my jeans.
ART:
How was work tonight?
I smile at the screen.
ME: