Page 65 of In a Pinch

“Not even a little. I’m already yours.”

The smile that pulls makes my face hurt. A rush of relief comes through me. I feel like I haven’t belonged anywhere or with anyone in such a long time. It took me forever to find good friends and I’ve only got, like, two. But when I look at Addie, I can’t help but feel I was meant to be hers. Her soul is soft in all the right ways, and it’s filled with such a fire that I find myself wanting to be closer to feel some of its warmth.

I drop my shoes and pull her in close. She drops hers alongside mine. Pulling her up into my arms, she wraps her legs around my waist. My arms hold her tight against mine. I can feel the rapid beating of her heart. Her gentle hands find my face and she leans in. For a dude who doesn’t have a fucking romantic bone in his body, I think I’m getting the hang of this whole wine anddine thing. It’s easier with her. Maybe that’s why it’s felt gross and torturous with everyone else.

When she pulls back, she smiles, and I return it.

“Good answer.”

She laughs and I feel the last little piece of me fall. The part that was waiting for the other shoe to drop or for her to decide that my family is right and I’m not worth it. But she hasn’t and she doesn’t, and fuck, that feels good.

Chapter Thirty

Sam

Rolling my neck, I step out of the shower. Chef asked me to come in early for a talk, so I will be in at 3 p.m. instead of 5 p.m. Nothing good ever happens from a “Can we talk?” message from your boss. And, apparently, one of the prep team guys called out sick on our busiest day—Friday night.

I slide into my black slacks and long-sleeve button up. The fact that we wear such nice clothes just for them to get completely destroyed by the end of the night is really fucking stupid to me, but I don’t make the rules. The head chef does wear a cooking coat of sorts, but the rest of us get to aggressively spray stain remover on our white shirts at the end of every shift. If I ever get to be in charge, we are switching to black shirts and pants and calling it a day.

Grabbing my freshly washed apron off the counter, I make my way down to where I parked and hop on the bike. The motion reminds me of the last time I got to take her for a ride, with my favorite girl in tow. I thought I liked riding before, but feeling her arms around me while we ride makes me feel unstoppable.

The weather is finally nice enough that I can ride my bike on a regular basis, and it has me feeling a bit more free. The sun warms my face as I stash my apron in my little back storage box. I feel my bike come to life underneath me, the rumble of the engine vibrating through me. It’s one of my favorite things to feel. Kicking off the brake, I twist the throttle and am on my way.

The anxiety is eating at me. The whole drive to Flambé is spent thinking of all the things I could have possibly fucked up in the last couple of weeks. I haven’t called any of the new hires fucking morons in weeks. Though, some of them are seriously missing critical-thinking skills. My patience is tested on a daily basis. I should get a fucking award for not stabbing anyone with a fork.

I’ve tried to work on my patience and remember what a complete and total asshat I was at nineteen and twenty, like the rest of these kids we’re hiring. I’m only a few years older than them, but I feel like the last few years—between clawing up the ladder and the whole shit storm with my family—have aged me and made me grow up a hell of a lot faster than most.

The gravel gives way to my tires as I park my bike in the back lot. Grabbing my apron, I head in. Even after the drive, I come up empty on things I could possibly be in trouble for. So, maybe today will be fine.

Walking from the back door through the kitchen, I make my way up to Chef’s office, located right behind the double swinging doors the waitstaff comes through from the dining room. His office is enclosed with see-through windows, and I’m pretty sure that was done so whoever is sitting there can make sure we’re not all burning the place down.

Chef is sitting in his office, and I gently knock on the wood framing of his open door. “Hey, Chef. You wanted to see me?” I ask, trying to steel my voice and not be a little bitch.

“Yeah, thanks so much for coming in early. Please, take a seat.” He points toward the gray, metal folding chair in the corner, and I feel like I’m in time-out. Fuck me.

“No problem.” I shrug and the chair squeaks underneath my weight as I take my seat. “A couple hours aren’t a big deal.” It really isn’t in the grand scheme of things.

“Good, glad to hear. How do you think things have been going the last few weeks, since we’ve added more to your plate?” His eyes give no indication as to what emotions he’s got going on. If he’s mad, I sure as hell can’t tell.

And as for his question, well, up until I was put in time-out, I felt like I had been making Chef’s job my bitch during our little trial run. Now, not so much. But we’re going to lead with confidence.

Taking a few seconds to make sure I’ve got my thoughts together, I respond, “I’ve been learning a lot. I feel like it has been going well.”

He levels me with a stare that makes me feel about two inches tall, but I still cannot read the look in his eyes. Is he trying to intimidate me? And fuck me, it’s working.

Not being able to take the pressure of his stare, I cock my head to the side and ask, “Has it not?”

“It hasn’t been going well.”

The air leaves my lungs. Complete and utter panic fill my body. Fuck, I cannot lose this job. For one, I genuinely enjoy it, and two, it pays really fucking well.

“It’s been going better than really well, actually.”

“You couldn’t have led with that?” I ask, air finally finds my lungs and I fight to convince my body we are not dying, and that this fight-or-flight response is a bit much. My hands rest oneither of my knees, and I drop my head to reregulate and turn the corner on this half-ass panic attack.

“I’m an old man. Let me have my fun.” He laughs. Reaching forward, he pats my shoulder. I’d smile back, but I’m still salty from him scaring the shit out of me.

Deadpanning at him, I add, “Glad I can be the source of your entertainment.” Well, at least I am not fired.

---