Page 32 of Joy
“I don’t know. I never considered being a chef. I’d always been so set on being an artist and failed.”
“You didn’t fail.”
I snorted.
“Youdidn’t,” Silas continued quietly. “Part of life is accepting there’s always someone better than you at something. It’s no reason to run away.”
I frowned and stared at my lap. “I guess running across the country was stupid.”
Silas didn’t respond right away. When I looked up, he appeared thoughtful—being a silent sort of man, he carefully weighed his words so he didn’t need to speak more than necessary.
“I’m glad you did, though. Maybe you have a calling to be a food artist instead.Here.” He shrugged.
I’d never gotten compliments like this, and suddenly here they were, from everyone I knew in this town. Praise for a skill I didn’t know I had.
“George is letting me help with the lunch orders,” I said. “Not just the ones from your crew.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “And he’s getting some ingredients he usually doesn’t stock so I can make new dishes. It’s really exciting, honestly. I like it.”
“You should ask George about cooking full-time.”
“I should?”
“If you like it,” Silas answered.
“That sounds like I’d have a permanent job here in Lancaster,” I pointed out.
Silas shrugged a shoulder again. “Yes.”
Shy talk for…please stay?
Our wine was brought to the table before I could think of the right thing to say. Silas picked up his glass and held it out to me. “To… moose.”
I laughed. “Moose?”
He smiled, and it was enough to warm even the coldest of hearts. “Without them we’d have never met.”
Oh fuck it.
“To moose,” I agreed.
We touched glasses, and I’d barely put the rim to my lips when a fire alarm started wailing. I jumped and spilled the wine all over the fucking place. Silas was on his feet as noise came from the kitchen and several staff members came running out. I heard someone shout “Grease fire!” and then waiters were urging patrons to step outside as smoke began billowing out from the hallway.
Silas grabbed my hand and led the way out the front door and across the parking lot to stand by his car. His hand moved to my lower back and slid to my waist, holding me in a protective manner.
“Hell,” he murmured.
“What?”
“There’s smoke coming from the back.”
I fumbled for my cell phone, ready to call 911, but heard sirens from the other end of town before I’d even unlocked the screen.
“Let’s get out of the lot before we get boxed in. It’s not safe,” Silas said, letting go and unlocking the vehicle.
I climbed into the passenger seat, he started the car, and we pulled out just as the local fire department arrived.
