*Yeah. Maybe.*
I won't. Owen knows it, I know it. I've never been good at talking about things, never been the type to spill my guts just because feelings are complicated. I deal with problems by working harder, by staying busy, by channeling everything into something productive.
It's worked for fifteen years. It'll work now.
I climb out of the truck and head inside, taking the stairs to my second-floor unit. My new apartment is dark and sparse. I haven't had time to do much decorating, and honestly, I don't care. There's a couch, a bed, and a coffee maker. That's all I need.
I drop my keys on the counter and pull out my phone, scrolling through the day's receipts that Jenny emailed over. Good numbers. Better than good, actually. We're averaging ninety percent capacity, which for two weeks in is almost unheard of. The reviews have been positive, the word of mouth strong.
I should feel relieved. Proud, even.
Instead, all I can think about is the way Maya's voice sounded when she asked why I hired her. Shy, almost vulnerable, like she genuinely didn't know her own worth.
*You understand what Juniper's is supposed to be.*
I meant it. Every word. When she talked about her grandmother's cooking in that interview, about making food that mattered instead of food that impressed, I knew I'd foundsomeone who got it. Someone who understood that cooking isn't about ego or recognition. It's about connection, about creating moments that people remember.
That's what Grandma June taught me. That's what this restaurant is supposed to honor.
But letting Maya contribute, letting her ideas shape the menu, means trusting someone else with that vision. Means admitting I can't do this alone, can't control every aspect, can't guarantee the outcome if I share the creative direction.
And if we fail, when we fail, because restaurants fail all the time, especially in small towns, it'll be because I wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough, wasn't careful enough.
Not because I trusted the wrong person.
I strip off my clothes and fall into bed, knowing sleep won't come easy. It never does anymore. But I close my eyes anyway and try not to think about green eyes and a smile that makes my chest tight and the way Maya said my name.
Just my name. Not Chef. Just Levi.
Like maybe I'm more than the role I play in the kitchen.
Like maybe she sees something in me I'm not sure exists anymore.
Next Day
The next day starts the way every day starts: too early and with too much coffee.
I'm at Juniper's by seven, going through the delivery that arrived at six-thirty. Produce from Promise Ranch, and their stuff is exactly what I need. Fresh, local, the kind of quality you can't get from a corporate supplier.
I'm checking the mushrooms, making sure everything's up to standard, when my phone buzzes.
*Car's at Casey's. He says it needs a new battery and some other stuff. Going to be $400.* Maya.
I wince. Four hundred's not terrible for what's probably multiple issues, but I know from the neighborhood she lives in that four hundred might as well be four thousand.
*He's good. He'll make it last.*
Three dots. Then: *Thanks for the referral.*
I should leave it there. Keep it professional, transactional. Instead, I text: *How are you getting to work?*
*Mom's lending me her car. She's off tonight so it works out.*
*Good.*
I pocket the phone and get back to the delivery, signing off on everything and starting the day's prep list. There's a rhythm to this that I love: the quiet of the kitchen before service, the work of breaking down ingredients, preparing components, setting up stations.
This is where I'm in control. Where everything makes sense.