Page 59 of Ours to Lose
I frowned at the message. “I don’t know.” Work crisis in a kitchen could mean anything from a burst water pipe to being in the hospital with third-degree burns and a missing finger.
I dialed her number.
I could call Evan. If she was hurt, he’d want to know. Then again, her message didn’t sound like she was hurt. She’d have told me if she was, right?
The call went to voicemail, and I pocketed my phone. “Sorry, man. I have to go.”
“Yeah, sure.” He climbed out of the ring. “Still on for tomorrow?”
“Definitely.” I grabbed my sweatshirt off the mat and jogged for the door. I didn’t bother changing into pants. I’d worry about the cold after I knew Aubrey was okay.
Chapter Fourteen
Aubrey
Everything was fucked.
The chef I’d hired two days ago was a no-show. He’d done well enough during his trial shift that I was going to have him work the wedding reception with me tomorrow, but now he wasn’t here, which meant I’d be working it by myself, which meant I needed to get even more prep done tonight since I wouldn’t have the extra hands to handle it on-site.
Then the food delivery had gotten messed up. I’d ordered parsley but gotten cilantro, and they’d left out the artichokes entirely, meaning the braised artichoke hearts with duck jus that was the favorite of the bride’s, whose two-hundred-guest wedding I was now catering alone, wasn’t going to happen.
I could try getting the artichokes at a supermarket, but by the time I ran around to enough of them to get the number I needed, I wouldn’t have the time to prep them and the hundred other items on my list.
It was miss out on the artichokes but havesomethingor get the artichokes and sacrifice the quality of everything else. Either way, this couple would be disappointed, and everyone in attendance would likely know it.
Fuck Jeff, the fucking new hire, fuck weddings, fuck artichokes, and fuck fuckfuckwhoever’s idea it had been to package this parmesan in plastic so tight you needed a fucking chainsaw to get it open.
I shoved the tip of my knife into the corner of the plastic and pushed. It went right through, nicking the tip of my index finger on the way.
“Fuck.” My finger flew to my mouth, the tang of copper sharp on my tongue, and a scream lodged in my throat.
I forced my eyes closed and breathed deep through my nose. I needed to calm down and regroup before I did anything else careless that landed me more than a scratch.
The anger dissipated slightly with my next breath, making space for my eyes to burn. I squeezed them tighter and swallowed the tears of frustration. They wouldn’t help now either.
Three blunt knocks pounded on the door.
When I opened my eyes, Gabe was there. He strode toward me in his gym shorts, hoodie, and sneakers, brow creased as his gaze fell to my bleeding finger.
“You’re hurt,” he said, reaching for me. His hands were wrapped in boxing tape.
I gaped at him. “What are you doing here?”
He gently inspected my finger. “Your text was just vague enough to be ominous. I wanted to make sure you didn’t get caught in a deep-fryer explosion or something.” He surveyed the small kitchen. “Do you have a first-aid kit somewhere?”
I was still stuck on the him-being-here part. “You came because of my text?”
He spotted the red plastic case on the wall and headed for it. “I tried calling, but you didn’t answer. I figured I’d check in and leave once I knew everything was okay.” He pulled out an antiseptic wipe, along with a bandage and finger cover. “I promise I’m not trying to pull a Ross and demand your attention at work.”
My lips lifted at theFriendsreference. His mom had always had reruns playing on their TV growing up. We’d probably seen every episode at least three times without actively trying.
The episode he referred to, Ross surprised Rachel at her office with a picnic when she had to work late on their anniversary. He’d been self-absorbed and controlling, and none of the things I thought of Gabe right now.
He’d also been Rachel’s boyfriend—a detail not relevant to our situation, but my brain felt the need to point it out anyway.
“Here, sit.” He unfolded the step stool I stored beneath the counter, waited for me to sit, and lifted my finger to the light, examining it closer before pressing the antiseptic wipe to the cut.
The sting hardly registered against the squeeze in my chest.
