She moves to the prep station, and I force myself to look away, to focus on the duck breast I'm prepping, and not watch the way she moves through the kitchen like she belongs here.
Like she's always belonged here.
Maya starts on the vegetables for tonight's sides while I work on the protein prep, and somewhere in the routine, my nerves settle slightly.
This is what we're good at. Working together. Moving in sync. Creating something beautiful out of raw ingredients and heat and skill. Maybe the conversation tonight won't be as terrifying as I'm imagining. Maybe the words will come easier when we'realone, when the pressure of service is behind us, when I can just be honest without overthinking every syllable.
"Chef?" Maya's voice breaks through my thoughts. "The galettes for tonight… Do you want me to prep the dough now or closer to service?"
Right. The galettes. Her dessert that's now on the menu, that thirty people have already reserved.
"Prep the dough now, let it rest in the fridge. We'll roll and fill closer to service so they're fresh." I glance over at her. "You good with making thirty in the middle of dinner rush?"
"Absolutely." That smile again, bright and eager. "I won't let you down."
"I know you won't."
She holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to her work, and I catch the faintest hint of color rising in her cheeks.
Fuck. This is going to kill me.
Four hours. I just have to make it through four hours of service without losing my mind, without pulling her aside and blurting out everything I'm feeling, without ruining our biggest night yet because I can't control myself.
Four hours, and then I'll tell her everything.
Jenny arrives at four to start setting up the dining room. Tommy and Marcus show up at four-thirty for dish duty. By five, the kitchen is humming with pre-service energy, everything in its place, everyone ready.
"Alright," I call out, checking the clock. Five-thirty. Doors open in thirty minutes. "Let's review. We've got the short rib, the duck, the coq au vin, and pan-seared trout as entrees. Sidesare roasted root vegetables, Brussels sprouts, and garlic mashed potatoes. Dessert is Maya's apple galette with cardamom cream. Questions?"
Silence. Everyone knows their stations, knows what's expected.
"Good. Let's make this the best service yet." I meet Maya's eyes across the kitchen. "Ready?"
"Ready, Chef."
The first ticket comes in at six-oh-seven. Table four: two short ribs, one duck, one trout.
"Ordering!" I call out, and we're off.
The next three hours blur together. Tickets flow in, plates flow out, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I lose myself in the work. This is my element: the heat, the pressure, the need to execute perfectly under impossible constraints.
Maya moves through her station with growing confidence, handling the galettes like she's been doing this for years instead of weeks. I watch her plate the first one—rustic crust, caramelized apples, that perfect dollop of cardamom cream, and feel a surge of pride so intense it nearly stops me mid-motion.
She's fucking good. Better than good. She's exactly the kind of cook I've always wanted to work with: talented, creative, detail-oriented, passionate.
And in a few hours, I'm going to risk losing all of that by telling her I want her.
"Chef, table twelve wants to know if we can do the galette with vanilla cream instead of cardamom," Jenny says through the pass. "Allergy concern."
"Yes," Maya answers before I can, already reaching for the vanilla. "I'll make a fresh batch of cream. Five minutes."
I catch her eye and nod. Good call. Quick thinking. She flashes me a smile that makes my heart stutter, then turns back to her work.
Seven-thirty. Eight o'clock. Eight-thirty. The tickets keep coming, the kitchen keeps moving, and I keep watching the clock tick toward the moment when I'll have to find the courage to be honest.
"Last ticket," Jenny finally calls at nine-forty.
Relief and anxiety hit simultaneously. We're through service. Another successful night, another step toward proving Juniper's can sustain itself. But now comes the hard part.