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He grins, backing away. “Just wait till you see what they write tomorrow.”
Before I can tell him where to shove tomorrow’s reviews, Elijah appears. Christ, it’s like a family reunion in my kitchen.
“I’m working here guys.” I slide the plate onto the counter.
Elijah leans against the steel, watching. “The scallops were perfect.”
“Thanks.” I adjust the heat under a pan. “Now move your ass before you fuck up my flow.”
“Father would be proud.”
My knife halts mid-chop. The words settle somewhere deep in my chest, not as painful as they once were. “Yeah.” I look up at the framed apron. “Maybe he would.”
Every dish that leaves my kitchen tonight is a goodbye. The osso buco, perfectly tender like Mom used to make. The bread, crusty and aromatic, worthy of that Paris bistro Dad never shut up about. The scallops, seared exactly how he liked them.
This is for you, Dad. Everything I wanted you to taste. Everything I wanted to prove.
“Brandon—”
“Chef.” I point my knife at him. “In here, it’s Chef.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “Chef, then.”
“Chef.” Alex appears, fidgeting with his apron. “That guy you showed us the photo of? Pretty sure he just walked in.”
“David Smith?”
“He’s asking for a table.”
They didn’t talk since she quit. My eyes snap to Naomi through the pass. Her plate’s empty. Not a single bite left. That shouldn’t make my chest feel tight, but it does. Every time. Because I know what it means. That this isn’t just her liking the food. It’s her choosing to stay. To let herself have this.
She catches me staring and rolls her eyes like I’m the one being weird. Like she doesn’t realize what it means that she’s actually eating.
“Chef?” Alex shifts his weight.
“Tell Marco to watch the line. And bring?—”
Too late. Naomi’s spine goes rigid, her wine glass frozen halfway to her lips.
I’m halfway to ripping off my apron when Blake gives me one sharp shake of her head.
My fingers clench in the fabric. Blake’s right. Naomi isn’t that broken girl anymore.
“Marco,” I bark, turning back to the line. “Fire me a lamb. Medium rare. And that burrata starter Naomi likes.”
David approaches Naomi, and she meets his eyes, chin lifted. No trembling, no fidgeting with her dress. Just pure steel in her spine as she nods once, gesturing to an empty table.
“Chef.” Marco’s voice snaps me back. “The lamb’s ready.”
I plate it myself, adding the perfect drizzle of sauce and a sprig of fresh herbs. Everything has to be perfect. Not for David Smith’s approval, fuck that, but for Naomi to watch her father eat at her table in her restaurant, knowing she got here without him.
“Send this to Mr. Smith’s table.” I hand the plate to Alex. “And the burrata after.”
Elijah’s still hovering. “You’re different in here.”
“And you’re staring,” Sebastian appears at my elbow with two glasses of scotch.
“I’m working.” I take the glass anyway. “And you’re still in my fucking kitchen.”