*I can't stop thinking about you.*
Too intense.
*Want to grab dinner sometime?*
Too casual, doesn't acknowledge the reality of our situation.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, unlocking my apartment door. "You're a disaster."
But I'm a disaster who's going to be honest tomorrow. Who's going to take the risk. Who's going to find out if Maya Sutton sees me as just her boss or if there's a chance, even a small one, that she feels this too.
I fall into bed still planning what I'll say, how I'll say it, when I'll say it. Sleep is a long time coming, my mind too wired with endless possibilities. But when I finally drift off, I dream of green eyes and cardamom whipped cream and a future where I'm brave enough to reach for what I want.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I'll tell her.
And whatever happens after that... we'll figure it out together.
Or I'll survive the rejection and find a way to keep working with her professionally, even if it kills me. Either way, at least I'll know. At least I'll have tried.
And maybe, just maybe, she'll say yes.
Next Day
The next day arrives too fast and not fast enough.
I'm at Juniper's by six-thirty, running on three hours of sleep and enough nervous energy to power the entire kitchen. The prep work becomes my anchor: breaking down vegetables, checking inventory, reviewing the reservation list that Jenny sent over last night.
Sixty-two covers. Our biggest night yet.
I should be focused on that. On making sure every dish is perfect, every table happy, every detail executed flawlessly. Instead, I'm watching the clock tick toward three o'clock, when Maya's shift starts, and my stomach is in knots.
I still don't know what I'm going to say.
Owen's advice loops through my head: *Stop being an idiot and go for it.* Simple in theory. Terrifying in practice.
Every time I try to formulate the words, they sound wrong. Too formal, too casual, too intense, not intense enough. How do you tell someone that they've completely upended your world in two weeks? That you can't stop thinking about them? That you want to know if this connection you feel is real or just your own desperate imagination?
The answer is: I have no fucking idea.
But I'm doing it anyway. Tonight. After service, when the kitchen is quiet and we're alone and I can't chicken out because I'vealready promised myself, and Owen, and apparently Ivy by extension, that I'm going to be honest.
I just have to survive dinner service first.
At 2:47, I hear the back door open. My heart slams against my ribs.
"Afternoon, Chef," Maya's voice carries across the kitchen, bright and warm.
I turn to find her tying on her apron, her hair already braided, a smile on her face that makes something in my chest ache. She looks happy. Relaxed. Like last night meant something to her too, even if not in the same way it meant something to me.
"Afternoon," I manage, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. "Check the prep list. We're at sixty-two covers tonight."
Her eyes widen. "Sixty-two? That's amazing!"
"It's a lot of pressure. Everything needs to be perfect."
"It will be." She says it with such confidence, such absolute certainty, that I almost believe her.