Page 57 of A Perfect Match
Piper makes an exaggerated face at the exchange, and I can't help but laugh.
"See?"I nod toward Rafael."Respect."
"Or you could call it hero worship," she counters.
"You worshipped me a time or two before, if I recall correctly.”When her cheeks pinken, I add, “Say it once.You might like how it feels."
She cocks her head, considering.Then, with deliberate slowness, she leans in closer."No."
Something about her defiance, the sparkle in her eyes, the closeness of her—it short-circuits my brain.Without thinking, I close the distance between us and kiss her.Right there, in the middle of my bustling kitchen, with orders piling up and staff all around.
It's brief but electric, and when I pull back, her eyes are wide with surprise.It takes a second for reality to crash back in—the realization that I just kissed her in front of my entire staff and, more importantly, the cameras currently capturing every moment of our dinner service.
"You need to get out of here," I murmur.
Piper grabs the ladder and bolts out of the kitchen just as Rafael says, "Uh, Chef?I’m missing a salmon for table six…"
Rafael’s words jar something loose inside me.The hair on the back of my neck stands up as a quiet voice inside me whispersthis is what happens.
I knew it once before.And I’ve forgotten already.I’m fucking up orders my opening week because I’m letting myself get swept away in a bad idea.
This shit stops now.
"My bad, Raf.Won’t happen again.Coming now.”
"Was that planned for the show?"Pat, the producer, asks as he sidles up next to me.
"Nope," I admit, already back to preparing the next dish."More of an accident than anything."
"The viewers are going to eat this up," he says gleefully."Rival business owners falling for each other?This is ratings gold."
I don't bother correcting his "falling for each other" assessment.Mostly because I'm not sure he's wrong.
The rest of the dinner service flies by, and it's nearly eleven when we finally clear the last table.My body aches from standing all day, but it's the good kind of tired, the satisfaction of a job well done.
Once the kitchen is cleaned and the staff has gone home, I take a moment to check my phone.There's a notification from the Bayshore Best page—yes, I signed up for daily updates—and I open it to check the updated standings.
My lobster tail with asparagus risotto is now up to fifth place.Fuck yes.My Bayshore dudes are loving it, despite my late start to the competition with the soft launch gone awry.Piper's strawberry s'mores torte is in second.And sitting pretty in first is The Golden Pear with their brown butter apple croissant with blue cheese and honey.
I frown at the screen.The Golden Pear's dish sounds good—really good.The kind of sweet-savory balance that people go crazy for.It’s got me thinking.I’m not sure how to leverage that for my dish or if I even can.
But then something Piper told me at the fence one night comes back to me.You’ll need to add a marshmallow to make it better.
I start mulling over that possibility.Marshmallow additions to the recipe fill my head as I shut the kitchen down.I’m itching to test some things out.Maybe Piper was right.That could be a pivot that snags me number one.
Once all my final closing tasks are completed, including pocketing one of my home knives that somehow drifted here to the restaurant, I notice a light from the Cloud Nine side.Surprising, given the hour.I don’t think I’ve ever seen Piper here this late.I walk through our shared storage space and peek into her shop.
Piper is hunched over a table covered in papers, a laptop open in front of her, lo-fi electronica pumping through the speaker.Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she sketches something out on paper.There are paint swatches and fabric samples scattered around her.She’s too absorbed in whatever she's planning to notice me walk in.
"Dang, you’re here late tonight."
She startles, her hand flying to her chest.The pencil she was using flies through the air."Kru!”
"Sorry," I say, lifting my palms.“Four older brothers, I remember.”I head for the tossed pencil, picking it up and placing it gingerly on her table.As I do, I take a glance at what she’s working on.
Blueprints.
She leans back, stretching her arms above her head.The movement makes her shirt ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin at her waist.My mouth goes dry, but I remind myself that there can be no more of this.
