Page 2 of The Accidental (Redemption Inc.)

One

The week before...

Feb spun on the barstool in her chef’s nook, flipping her pen around her thumb and watching through the interior glass window as her staff glided around the kitchen.

No service tonight; just an afternoon of planning and mise en place for the week ahead.

The music was turned up, the vibe relaxed, all smiles and shit talk, everyone productive without the stress of incoming tickets.

Would the bomb Feb was about to drop destroy a perfectly good Monday?

A flash of icy blue drew Feb’s gaze to her head bartender weaving through the rows of stations, sampling this or that bite the chefs offered.

Dylan Jacks had joined them three months ago, and they’d spent more time in the kitchen than any bartender Feb had ever worked with.

They didn’t need to be at the restaurant more than a couple of hours each Monday.

Just enough time to prep and stock the bar and let Feb know if they were running low on anything.

But Dylan was usually there longer, spending extra time in the kitchen, chatting and tasting and taking notes on their personal tablet, and then like clockwork, the cocktail menu was updated every Tuesday to reflect the week’s ingredients.

Expertly so. All of Dylan’s drinks were amazing, sophisticated but edgy, surprising yet comforting, and all exactly the vibe Feb wanted for Under the Table.

Exactly the vibe Feb would use to describe Dylan as well.

Their mohawk defied gravity and had been candy-cane striped for the holidays before the pale wintery blue it was now.

The tunnels and plugs in their ears were usually jeweled to match whatever lipstick Dylan wore that day.

And their wardrobe straddled a seemingly impossible line—on off days and prior to service, they dressed the part of nerd in button-downs and funny ties, always with their tablet tucked under their arm, but behind the bar, they were the coolest person you’d ever meet in head-to-toe leather.

They’d once offered to dress more formally for service, but Feb had shot the suggestion down.

Contradictions fascinated her. She’d decorated UTT’s entire dining room with them, from the painted black cement floors and soft pewter walls, to the navy, magenta, and purple velvet booths and chairs, to the bright white shiplap roof that arched over the entire space.

Dylan, an equally fascinating contradiction, fit right in behind the room’s centerpiece, a bar made from the same live edge wood as the tables in the rest of the dining room.

Together, the two—Dylan and the bar—had starred in more than a few of Feb’s dreams lately.

But as Feb glanced again at her chef’s notebook, at the blank page under the scribbled heading V-day Menu , she wondered if her obsession with contradictions had gone too far.

Had her determination to be contrary outpaced the practical, at least where her culinary imagination was concerned?

Because her subconscious sure as fuck hadn’t provided any inspiration on the V-day menu since she’d decided to be, well, contradictory.

Thankfully, she’d surrounded herself with chefs more talented than herself.

Drawing her phone out of her pocket, she opened the app that controlled the restaurant’s music and lowered the kitchen volume.

Heads swiveled in her direction as she slid off her stool, exited the nook, and came to stand in front of the expeditor’s station.

She tossed her notepad onto the slab of colorful mosaic tile she’d laid by hand, her own finishing touch made three years ago, finished barely in time to open the doors.

She felt more nervous—more lost—now than she’d ever been then. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Her sous-chef, Adi, straightened from where she and Dylan were sampling a kohlrabi noodle bowl she’d been working on the past few days. “Do what?”

“A Valentine’s Day menu.”

Adi dropped her spoon, Dylan choked on their slurp of noodles, and more gasps echoed around the kitchen. At the pastry station in the cold nook, a surprised Lacey cursed and squeezed her piping bag so hard she drowned a cupcake in yuzu frosting. “We’re working Valentine’s Day?” she squeaked.

“If you’ve already made plans, keep them.

” This was the third V-day since UTT had opened, and Feb had been staunchly opposed the past two years.

If she opened without a prix fixe, she’d catch hell from the special occasion diners who managed to snag a reso, only to balk at the price tag and too adventurous ingredient list. If she opened with a prix fixe, her conscience would revolt, and their regular clientele would whisper she was selling out.

Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t, so for the past two years, she’d noped out altogether.

Her staff had no reason to think this year would be any different.

Hell, she’d said as much when Dylan had asked her about it last week.

Feb wouldn’t penalize Lacey or anyone for their absence on what was typically a night off; she wouldn’t say no to any extra hands, though.

“But if you’re available that night, yes, we’re going to open, and I could use your help. Assuming I can sort a menu.”

“Well,” Juan said from his sauce station, “what do you love about Valentine’s Day?”

“Nothing.”

“About romance?” Chloe asked as she slid a bowl of roasted chickpeas onto the tiles beside Feb’s notepad.

“I’ve had two relationships. Both went about like hollandaise.

Pretty for a hot minute before it breaks.

” She tossed a few of the crunchy chickpeas into her mouth and delighted at the pop of flavor on her tongue, smoky heat from the ancho chili powder but with a touch of spicy brightness on the finish.

“These are excellent, Clo. The sumac is a nice touch.”

“Thank you, chef.”

“Isn’t your birthday on Valentine’s Day?” Adi asked.

“Let me tell you how much fun that was growing up. The amount of pink stuffed toys I received from relatives...” She rolled her eyes with a groan, then gestured at herself.

“Have you ever seen me wear a scrap of pink?” Black constituted ninety percent of her wardrobe, the other ten percent blues and grays. Even UTT’s chefs’ coats were black.

“What did you do with them?” Juan asked. “All the pink toys?”

“Sent them with my mom to the animal hospital.”

Adi served up an “Aww” with a heaping side of sarcasm, and Feb flicked a chickpea at her for the sass.

Everyone laughed, including Dylan, who strolled across the kitchen to the opposite side of the expeditor’s station. They gestured at the notepad. “May I?” At Feb’s nod, Dylan picked up the pad and pen. “What do you hate about Valentine’s Day?”

“Pink.”

More laughter, but all of Feb’s attention was riveted on the upturned corners of Dylan’s plum-painted lips. She idly wondered if they were soft and if they tasted like plum too. “Okay, what else?” Dylan asked.

“What else what?”

Dylan smirked, hitching that smile higher. “Valentine’s Day. The bad.”

Blinking, she wrenched her attention from Dylan’s lips and met their gaze as she began ticking off “the bad” on her fingers.

“It’s so commercialized. It makes people believe that’s the only night someone deserves to feel special.

It makes people without partners feel not special.

And it makes aromantic and some ace folks feel wrong. ”

The kitchen went silent, Dylan scratching notes on the pad the only sound in the rarely so quiet space. After another moment, Dylan laid down the pen and handed the pad to Feb.

Solo resos. Local ingredients. No pink.

Feb glanced back up, her lips lifting to match Dylan’s smug smile. “I like it.” She slapped the notepad against her palm, then addressed her chefs. “We only do solo reservations, we use local ingredients, and nothing remotely pink leaves this kitchen.”

“I like it too,” Adi said with a nod, then spun on her heel and clapped her hands. “All right, let’s get to work. Contest kitchen. Dishes in forty-five.”

Dylan’s eyes grew wide as chaos erupted around them, chefs running between stations, the pantry, and the fridges.

Chuckling, Feb pulled Dylan to her side of the station before they got run over.

“Adi is a food competition junkie,” she explained.

“Whenever we need to conceptualize something, she goes into contest mode. It usually produces spectacular results, so I’ve got no qualms with it.

In fact”—she handed the pad back to Dylan—“I might get in on this one. I’ve got an idea. ”

“I can’t wait to taste it.” The heat in their sparkling green eyes sent Feb’s mind racing a different direction, fantasies unspooling of the bar, Dylan, and what else they could taste. Dylan’s next words unraveled more. “I’ll also toss that bottle of pink hair dye I bought yesterday.”

Now that was something pink Feb would love to see—the ultimate contradiction.

She lifted a hand to push back a strand of Dylan’s mohawk that had fallen forward but caught herself at the last second.

By the flare of fire in Dylan’s gaze, she was pretty sure the contact would be welcome, but she was also pretty sure she shouldn’t be doing so here, in front of the rest of the staff.

“I like it this frosty blue,” she said, lowering her hand to rest next to Dylan’s on the tiles, their fingers brushing.

“But I think if anyone is edgy enough to temper some pink, it’d be you. ”

Dylan’s fiery gaze melted into something darker and more elemental. “Not sure temper is the word you’re looking for.”

Each week at the restaurant had a natural, familiar rhythm to it. Monday planning and prep, then a steady ramp-up to the weekend rush. This Thursday, though, felt more like a Friday, the restaurant packed, the kitchen in high gear, the team working best when they were innovating.