What if I'm not alone in this?
"She's twelve years younger than me," I say, but it sounds weaker now.
"So? You're both adults. Age gaps matter a lot less when everyone's over twenty-one and knows what they want."
"I'm still her boss."
"I’m going to say it again. Just be really fucking clear about consent and boundaries. Make sure she knows she can say no. Make sure she understands that her job isn't contingent on how she feels about you." Owen takes a breath. "Look, I'm not saying there aren't complications. There obviously are. But if you feel this strongly about her after two weeks, that's not nothing. That's worth exploring."
"What if it ruins everything? What if I tell her and she's uncomfortable and I lose the best kitchen helper I've ever worked with?"
"What if you don't tell her and spend the rest of your life wondering?"
Fuck. He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is.
"When did you get so wise?" I mutter.
Owen laughs. "Around the time I stopped being an idiot about Ivy. Speaking of which, she's threatening to come take the phone and give you her own lecture if you don't promise to talk to Maya tomorrow."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Tell her I promise."
"You better mean it. She's protective of people she cares about, and apparently that includes Maya now." He pauses. "For what it's worth, I think you should go for it. Life's too short to play it safe with everything. Sometimes you have to take the risk."
We hang up after a few more minutes, and I'm left standing in the parking lot with my phone in my hand and my brother's words repeating in my head.
*Sometimes you have to take the risk.*
Fifteen years. Owen and Ivy wasted fifteen years being afraid, and I watched it happen, watched them hurt each other with their silence. I don't want that. I don't want to look back in a decade and realize I let fear keep me from something real.
Maya is talented and beautiful, and she challenges me to be better. She sees Juniper's not as my vision but as our potential. She makes me believe that collaboration isn't weakness, that trusting someone else doesn't mean losing control.
She makes me want things I thought I'd given up on.
And tomorrow, today, technically, since it's past midnight, I'm going to tell her.
I have no idea how. No idea what I'll say or how she'll react or what happens if she looks at me with pity or discomfort or polite rejection. But I'm done being a coward. Done hiding behind professional distance and age gaps and power dynamics that can be addressed if we're both willing to be honest.
I want her. Not just in my kitchen but in my life.
And she deserves to know that.
I lock up the restaurant and climb into my truck. The drive back to my apartment is automatic, my mind already racing through possibilities. Should I tell her before service? During prep? After close when we're alone?
Should I just pull her aside first thing and blurt it out, or should I try to be smooth about it?
I've spent fifteen years in professional kitchens. I can break down a fish in under a minute, can manage a dinner rush without breaking a sweat, can create dishes that make people close their eyes in pleasure.
But the thought of telling Maya Sutton how I feel makes my palms sweat and my heart race like I'm eighteen again instead of thirty-six.
This is ridiculous. I'm ridiculous.
But I'm also done waiting.
I park in my usual spot and head inside, already planning what I'll say. Something honest but not overwhelming. Something that makes it clear how I feel without pressuring her. Something that acknowledges the complications but also makes it obvious that I think she's worth navigating them.
*Maya, I need to tell you something. I know this is complicated because I'm your boss and there's an age gap and we work together, but I can't keep pretending I don't feel this. You're incredibly talented and you challenge me and make me want to be better, and somewhere in the past two weeks I've started wanting more than just a professional relationship. I understand if you don't feel the same way, and I promise your job isn't contingent on your answer, but I needed you to know.*
Too formal. Too much like a speech.