Page 27 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

Jumping from the newbie pool straight into the deep end isn’t easy, and despite my best efforts not to drown in orders, I start to fall behind.

Patrick swoops in to see why his new sous chef is floundering. "Tucker, you’re holding up the damn show. Let’s get those dishes moving," he demands, every inch the boss. Each time he gets close to me, I catch a whiff of his scent, a mix of cologne and kitchen spice.

Then, he accidentally brushes my arm, and it sends a shockwave through me. "Sorry," he mumbles, stepping back as if he had touched a hot stove. Our eyes lock, and the air crackles with the electricity between us.

But it's Friday night, and there's no time for long, lingering looks. We break eye contact, diving back into our work, but the moment stays with me, albeit in the back of my mind.

Despite the relentless pace, that accidental touch and the tension-filled apology fuel me through the evening, adding an extra sizzle to my step.

As plates fly out and the kitchen buzzes with energy, I can't help but feel a thrill. Between dodging flames and Patrick's eagle-eye supervision, I'm proving I've got what it takes and then some. The night's a blur of flavors, fires, and fleeting touches, each moment building on the last, creating a heady mix of professional pride and personal interest. Patrick calls out over the clamor, his earlier sternness giving way to a hint of something that feels more intimate. "Great recovery, Tucker. Keep that fire burning,"

Who would've thought that a pressure-cooker environment could be such an aphrodisiac? But I’m slicing, dicing, and simmering in more ways than one, all under the watchful gaze of Savor's culinary king.

The kitchen is crazy busy, but I’m giving it my all, tossing everything I’ve got into the mix. When the last order finally goes out and the kitchen's frenetic pace eases, I feel exhilarated.I lean against the counter to catch my breath, my gaze drifting over to Patrick, who is plating something that looks incredible.

Curiosity wins out over exhaustion, so I meander over, not wanting to miss a chance to learn from the master. But when I draw near, he throws me an irritated look and says, "I don’t particularly enjoy an audience hovering over me while I’m working."

"Sorry, Chef," I mutter quick on the apology and slowly move away. "I just couldn’t help but be curious about what culinary magic you’re conjuring up."

He pauses, then perhaps sensing my genuine interest, begins to describe the dessert with a passion I wasn’t expecting. "It’s a deconstructed lemon tart," he explains, his hands moving with precision and grace that's utterly captivating. "Instead of a traditional presentation, I’ve separated the elements to play with the textures and flavors."

I’m hooked as I watch in awe as he zests a lemon with the finesse of a seasoned artist. His technique is flawless, and his focus is unwavering.

"That sounds incredible," I say, genuinely impressed by the creativity and thought he put into the dish. "I mean, who thinks to deconstruct a lemon tart?"

He cracks a rare smile, pleased with my interest. "Only someone trying to push the boundaries of traditional dessert," he quips, his earlier annoyance seemingly forgotten in the shared moment of culinary appreciation.

As he plates the final component, I can't help but marvel at the beauty of it all—the dish, the dedication, and, yes, maybe the chef as well.

"You make it look so easy," I say, my tone laced with admiration and a hint of playfulness. Patrick chuckles, a sound that warms me. "Well, it takes practice, Tucker. Lots of it," he replies, offering me a glimpse of the hard work behind his effortless skill.

“You don’t have any food allergies, do you?” Patrick suddenly asks.

Caught off guard, I blink up at him. "Uh, nope. All clear on that front." Then, before the words fully land, Patrick's already in motion. With the grace of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he scoops up a bit of his masterpiece and, in one fluid motion, presents the spoonful of dessert like an offering, holding it out for me to taste. The flavors explode in my mouth.

"That's incredible," I say once I've managed to collect myself. "Is this what you whip up when you're bored?"

He chuckles again, a sound that sends a delightful shiver down my spine. "Just something I've been playing around with," he admits.

It's so ridiculously good that I'm momentarily worried my knees might give out. How does one stand after such a culinary revelation? But then, Patrick's gaze shifts past me, landing on the aftermath of my dinner service hustle—to my workstation, which currently looks like a disaster zone.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you before you leave," he observes, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Heat floods my cheeks as I glance back at my war zone. "Yeah, things got a bit explosive in the heat of the moment," I quip, already mourning the loss of my brief moment in dessert heaven.

He surveys the chaos with a critical eye, then locks eyes with me again. "But you kept up. That's what counts. I'll let the mess slide—this time."

He turns and strides away, and my heart does flip-flops, not just from the taste of that lemon tart but from the thrill of earning Patrick's nod of approval—even if it comes with a hint of a reprimand for making a mess.

Armed with a dishcloth and a newfound zest (pun totally intended), I tackle my station. But cleaning somehow feels less like a chore and more like the rewarding aftermath of a successful performance. Patrick's parting words, "this time," echo in my mind. It’s like he’s challenging me, and I'm more than ready to accept.

As I scrub and sort, I can't help but look forward to my next shift. If I can survive nights of kitchen chaos with Patrick occasionally feeding me bites of dessert, then there’s a lot to look forward to.

After a while, I scrub away, lost in thoughts of lemon tarts and lingering glances; I realize I’m the last one left in the kitchen. Patrick is probably buried in paperwork in his office, which presents a dilemma. Patrick's rule is that no one walks to their car or the train station alone. It's a safety thing, and it’s much appreciated. But after the charged atmosphere between us all evening, I'm hesitant to knock on his door. Yet the thought of navigating the dark streets by myself scares me, so I find myself outside his office, knocking softly on the open door.

Stepping inside, I catch him in mid-thought, his intense focus shifting to me. That familiar jolt of connection zaps through the air, making the room feel smaller and warmer. "Everything okay?" he asks. His voice is smooth yet laced with mild concern.

I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the small yet charged space between us. "Uh, everyone’s gone, and I was wondering if you could walk me to the station," I manage, feeling oddly vulnerable yet bold under his gaze.

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