Page 141 of Knot Playing Fair 2

Mia

WHATWASI, if I wasn’t a Michelin-star chef anymore? The question sounded ridiculous, even inside my own head.

Eventually, I’d cried myself out, cradled in the pack’s arms. My head hurt. My eyes hurt. Even worse, the scent of stale fry oil that I’d been too upset to wash off earlier was starting to gross me out.

“I’ve let this thing turn into my entire identity,” I realized, not liking how that thought made me feel. My voice was raspy, as though I’d been shrieking out my frustration to the heavens, instead of crying quietly into Emiel’s neck. “That’s... that’s bad, right?”

“Mia,no,” Nat said, sounding upset.

“For what it’s worth, I never got that sense from you.” Zalen, who’d been smoothing his hand up and down my calf in a soothing rhythm, didn’t seem perturbed. “You were proud of the accomplishment, and rightly so. In my experience, people who are obsessed by their own news headlines don’t help track down missing cats, or hold pro-bono classes at the local youth center... or heal the hearts of a bunch of emotionally damaged men on their days off.”

I frowned, still not ready to lift my face away from Emiel’s warm skin.

“I still feel like a failure,” I admitted.

Nat made a noise of outrage. “Uh...hello? The first Michelin star restaurant in Missouri? The third Michelin star omega head chef...in the entire world? I don’teverwant to hear the word ‘failure’ come out of your mouth again, Mia. This was my fault, and frankly, the onlyfailurewas one of timing.”

“He’s got a point,” Luca said. “What were the odds that you’d have one bad night, andthatwould be the night the inspector showed up?”

It had been more than one bad night. But even so...

“The odds were one hundred percent, as it turned out,” I said dryly, finally surfacing from my hiding place against Emiel. I freed an arm, wiping at the wetness on my cheeks with the base of my thumb. God, I felt like crap—even if I’d needed the release of crying.

Emiel sat up, urging me to rest my head on his thigh so he could stroke blunt fingers through my hair.

“Does anything really have to change?” he asked. “For right now, I mean. The restaurant’s going good again, yeah? Except for some stupid guide book most people never even look at.”

“Yes,” Nat said firmly. “It is. Business has never been better. And we’ve got an employee who should probably be working in Silicon Valley, based on her social media marketing skills.” He paused, and then added, “Please don’t anyone tell Maleeka I said that. We can’t afford to lose her.”

I couldn’t help it; I let out a wet little laugh.

“My lips are sealed,” I promised.

“The point is,” Nat went on, “The Elderflower Inn is doing fine. We can keep going just as we are... or we can decide to do something different, if you’d rather. There’s no need to make a decision today.”

Everyone was quiet for a few moments, as I tried, without success, to picture whatsomething differentmight look like.

Byron had been awfully quiet, but now he cleared his throat—drawing everyone’s attention.

“Sometimes the shittiest moments of your life can be the catalyst for change.” The words were oddly choked, as though he was having to force them out.

I didn’t want to hear them any more than he apparently wanted to say them... but maybe that was because of how hard they hit me.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I managed. “But not now. I smell like a commercial kitchen. I want a shower.”

Emiel nudged me off his lap and rose, holding a hand down to me. “C’mon, then. I’ll wash your hair.”

The following day, I dragged myself to the restaurant with bloodshot eyes and a lingering headache. Nat was a silent and supportive presence at my side.

Shani was the first to arrive, and her expression crumpled into a frown the moment she set eyes on me.

“Boss? What’s wrong?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

I tried to muster a smile for her. “It’s not on the scale of ‘gang members are sabotaging the restaurant and kidnapping people,’ but yes, there’s bad news. The new Michelin Guide posted yesterday, and we lost our star.”

“Oh, Mia,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Clearly, the Michelin people areidiots.”

I huffed a tiny breath of a laugh. “In their defense, it was pretty shambolic on the night the undercover inspector must have showed up. Which, I hasten to add, happened before you were hired.”

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