She looks up, surprised. "Thank you, Chef."
"The duck was perfect. Good recovery on the temperature."
A smile breaks across her face, bright and genuine, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like smile back. Instead, I turn to the prep list for tomorrow, scanning through what needs to be done, what ingredients I need to pull from the walk-in.
"I was thinking," Maya starts, and I tense. "About the weekend special. What if we did a play on chicken and dumplings? But elevated, maybe a coq au vin style braise with herbed spaetzle instead of traditional dumplings? We could source the chicken from Promise Ranch, use their mushrooms too, and—"
"No."
The word comes out flat, final, and I watch her deflate in my peripheral vision.
"It's a good idea," she says. "Seasonal, local sourcing, familiar enough for the regulars but interesting enough to feel special. That's your whole philosophy."
"My philosophy. My restaurant. My decision." I'm being an asshole again, I can hear it in my own voice, but I can't seem to stop. "We're two weeks in, Maya. Now's not the time to mess with what's working."
"I'm not trying to mess with anything. I'm trying to help."
"I don't need help. I need you to focus on execution, not creative direction."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. I force myself to look at her, to meet those green eyes that are bright with frustration and something that might be pain. Her jaw is set, her hands clenched at her sides, and I can see her fighting to keep her expression professional.
"Understood, Chef," she finally says. "Is there anything else you need tonight?"
"No. Go home. Get some rest."
She strips off her apron, hangs it on the hook by the back door, and grabs her jacket from the small office that's barely more than a closet. I listen to her footsteps crossing the kitchen, hear the back door open and close, and only then do I let myself exhale.
My hands are shaking.
I brace them against the counter, staring down at the scarred stainless steel, the burns and cuts on my knuckles that are part of the job. These hands have broken down hundreds of chickens, filleted thousands of fish, prepared countless meals for people I'll never meet.
These hands have no business imagining what Maya's skin would feel like. How soft. How warm.
"You're an idiot," I mutter to the empty kitchen.
Her idea was good. Really good. Exactly the kind of elevated comfort food that Juniper's is supposed to be about, using local ingredients, playing with familiarity and surprise. I should have at least listened to her full pitch, should have discussed it, maybe suggested tweaks or refinements.
Instead, I shut her down because listening to her talk about food with that passion in her voice makes me want to close the distance between us and find out if she kisses with the same enthusiasm.
Which I can't do. Won't do.
She's my employee. She's too young. She's just starting her career and I'm not going to be the cliché older boss whotakes advantage of proximity and power dynamics and a young woman's admiration.
Even if the way she looked at me tonight, frustrated and defiant and refusing to back down completely, made something in my chest ache.
I finish the closing routine alone, moving through the tasks on autopilot. Trash out, floors swept and mopped, equipment checked, lights off in sequence. The restaurant settles into silence around me, just the hum of refrigeration and the tick of cooling metal.
Through the pass, I can see the dining room in the dim emergency lighting. Empty tables, chairs tucked in, everything ready for tomorrow. The framed photo of Grandma June is just visible in the shadows.
"I'm trying, Grandma," I tell her quietly. "I'm really trying."
Trying to make this work. Trying to build something that matters. Trying not to screw up the best thing that's walked into my kitchen in years by wanting something I have absolutely no right to want.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Owen: *How'd service go?*
*Fine,* I reply. *Solid night.*
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally: *You sound thrilled.*