Page 161 of With a Cherry On Top

Dinner service is finally over.

After four hours of constant shouting, the metallic clanging of pans, and heat pressing in from all sides like a damn furnace, I’m done. My take? Cooking in a restaurant is completely different from being a private chef. There’s no time to think, no space to breathe, just a relentless rush, one plate after another.

It’s nothing like the calm of cooking at your own pace, putting love and care into every plate, knowing exactly how the person you’re cooking for likes their food.

This was more like...being a cog in the machine. Or like being stranded at sea, and I spent the entire night treading water.

And yet, somehow, I fucking did it.

“Thanks for a great service, Chef,” Oliver says, smacking my shoulder playfully, his helmet dangling from his other hand. “You still owe me that beer.”

“Yeah. Next time.”

The door swings shut behind him, and as soon as the restaurant is silent, the adrenaline that’s been propelling me all night drains from my body like someone pulled the plug.

I set my chef’s hat on the counter and stretch my neck.

My body aches—the sharp sting of burns on my fingers, the dull throb in my legs, the buzzing exhaustion in my skull.

I fish out my phone. I should text Amelie, let her know everything went well—not that she needs me to. She probably had spies reporting every detail.

Just as I tap on our conversation, the scuff of footsteps echoes behind me. I turn, expecting to see one of the busboys or a lingering chef. Instead, I’m met with fire-red hair, a constellation of freckles, and green eyes that make my skin burn hotter than the kitchen did.

“Charlotte?”

“Hey, Chef. Or should I call you . . . Head Chef?”

“Pro Tempore Head Chef at best, but I guess that’s a bit of a mouthful.” I set my phone down, forgotten. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” she says, like she’s not rewriting my entire day with just three words.

I step closer. I hate that I had to leave her like that this afternoon. She couldn’t stop crying no matter how many times I reassured her we were fine. That we’d talk about this, and that we were not over.

And though I haven’t had time to think about any of it, seeing her feels good. Understanding her better feels great. I can see the parts of her personality she shares with her sister—her determination, her confidence, her insecurities.

I just wish she’d told me sooner.

“And I wanted to see how tonight went.”

I press my tongue against my molars. “It was...a lot, honestly. I’m wiped, but I think I did a pretty decent job.”

“I’m sure you did more than that.”

Her body presses against mine. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her, my nose sinking into her hair. The scent of her shampoo—fresh, a little sweet—makes my exhaustion recede, even if just for a moment.

“Are we okay?” she asks against my chest. “I didn’t break you?”

“No.” Closing my eyes, I breathe in her smell. “I’m right here.”

When she looks up at me, she seems far more relaxed.

“But we do need to talk, Charlotte, so here’s what we’re going to do.” She steps back with a nervous glance. “We’ll have a conversation, and it might even turn into an argument. What we’re not going to do is raise our voices at each other, say hurtful things, or?—”

“I’m sorry, Aaron. I’m—I’m the worst.”

“I’m not talking about you, baby.” I cup her cheek, wishing I could stop the tears already forming in her eyes. “I need you to know that sometimes we’ll fight. Sometimes, we’ll fuck up. But we’re not walking out of here alone, all right? We’ll go home together. I need you to know that.”

“Promise?”

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