Page 11 of The Proximity Effect

“That was one time!” Evan protested, gesturing wildly with his scorched pan. I ducked instinctively, having learned the hard way about his enthusiasm in confined spaces. “And technically, flambé means it’s supposed to flame up.” Leave it to Evan totry and spin nearly burning down our kitchen into a planned culinary achievement. If we survived this dinner service without the fire department showing up, I’d consider it a win.

“Not when you’re making a salad!” I shot back, abandoning my post at the stove to rescue what remained of our innocent lettuce from Evan’s pyrotechnic tendencies.

The ravioli demanded my attention too. Who knew pasta could go from perfect to paste in approximately three seconds? I’d spent years analyzing complex financial data, but timing al dente pasta was apparently beyond my skill set. At least in finance, nothing ever literally melted into mush while you watched helplessly.

The night continued in a blur of Jenny running interference, Archer micromanaging everything within reach, and Evan... being Evan. But after three hours of hard work, we’d somehow managed to get food out to every table, though I wasn’t entirely sure all of it was what they’d ordered.

“Last table is finished.” Jenny poked her head through the door, her usually cheerful expression looking decidedly nervous. “But, um, there’s a guest who’d like to speak with you.” The way she lingered in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, told me this wasn’t going to be one of those ‘compliments to the chef’ situations.

“They’ll have to wait.” I couldn’t deal with any disgruntled guests at the moment. Something about an angry diner critiquing food I’d helped massacre felt infinitely personal. Besides, my current state—sauce-splattered shirt, disheveled hair, and what I strongly suspected was butternut squash on my left shoe—wasn’t exactly the professional image I wanted to project.

Archer and Evan didn’t fare much better. We were a case study in how not to run a professional kitchen. An investmentbanker, an attorney, and a marketing guru should not be running a kitchen… or a resort.

Was this really what Gavin had wanted? Once upon a time, when we were young and stupid, we’d had grand plans of opening a resort together with Gavin in hopes of it turning into more. Those plans quickly fell apart, and we went our separate ways.

I still didn’t quite know what to make of the situation we were in. There had been very little explanation when Gavin’s lawyer had called each of us with the news that he’d left us the resort he’d renovated and made into the dream we’d all once had.

Of course, now it wasn’t any of our dreams to be stuck floundering with a multi-million dollar resort we couldn’t sell for one year and nine months. But who was counting?

Jenny disappeared again, leaving us to tackle the disaster zone that used to be our kitchen. An hour and several creative curse words later, we’d managed to restore some semblance of order.

“Never again,” Archer declared, hanging up his borrowed apron. The once-pristine white fabric now looked like modern art gone wrong. “First thing tomorrow, we’re calling every temp agency in a hundred-mile radius.”

“Agreed.” I followed him out of the kitchen, my muscles aching in places I didn’t know existed. Who knew cooking could be more exhausting than my most intense workout sessions?

Evan trailed behind us, still arguing that his black butter sauce wasn’t that bad. I was sure that the Titanic wasn’t that big of a navigation error either.

The dining room was empty except for... oh no.

Tessa sat at a corner table, completely absorbed in a book, one hand absently twirling a strand of hair. The soft lighting above her caught the hints of gold in her brown waves, and I stared longer than necessary.

She was like finding a rare bird in its natural habitat or catching the perfect sunset. Seeing her almost made me forget about the trauma I’d collected in the kitchen and apparently had turned me into a simpering romantic poet. Which was ridiculous because I had a strict ‘no distractions’ policy when it came to resort business. And Tessa? She was definitely a distraction.

Tessa had noticed us and was putting her book away. “Hi.” She stood up with an amused smile. “Interesting dinner service tonight.”

Archer yanked his tie out of his shirt where he’d tucked it for safekeeping, the expensive silk now sporting what looked suspiciously like a splash of butter despite his efforts to protect it. “We apologize. We had a slight staffing issue.” Slight was an understatement.

“I noticed.” Her eyes danced with barely contained laughter, and something about that sparkle made me want to explain exactly how three successful professionals had managed to turn a perfectly good kitchen into what looked like a Food Network blooper reel. “The salmon was... creative. I especially enjoyed the, um, artistic plating.”

“That was mine.” Evan proudly puffed up his chest like he’d closed a million-dollar marketing deal instead of mutilating perfectly good seafood. “I call it ‘Deconstructed Chaos.’” Coming from the guy who once tried to convince us that serving cereal for dinner in college was avant-garde cuisine, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Some things never changed, even after a decade of supposedly becoming responsible adults.

“I heard about your chef situation, and well... I might be able to help. I’m a trained chef; I mostly do personal clientele and parties now.” She waved her hand vaguely. “Anyway, if you need someone to get you through until you find a permanent replacement...”

“You’re a chef?” Archer asked, skepticism dripping from every word. He probably thought this was too convenient to be true. I’d seen that same dubious expression when I’d tried to convince him that skydiving was perfectly safe back in college.

Tessa’s chin lifted slightly, and there was a glint in her eye that suggested she’d faced down doubters before. “Would you like me to prove it?” The challenge in her voice reminded me of a boxer stepping into the ring, ready to show exactly what she was made of.

“Hell yes, I’m starving.” Evan rubbed his stomach with both hands like an overgrown kid. “I’d eat anything that isn’t covered in that black sauce I made.”

Tessa frowned, her nose crinkling slightly as she glanced between us. “You didn’t cook yourselves dinner?” She sounded like she’d discovered I’d been surviving on takeout for three months straight.

Archer cleared his throat. “It’s a liability issue to have a guest in the kitchen. Thank you for the offer, though.” He gestured toward the exit with a sweep of his hand.

I wanted to argue that he couldn’t make a unilateral decision without consulting us, but he’d been doing it for the past few months anyway. Plus, he was probably right. Tessa was a guest, and even without potential legal issues, she was here to enjoy her vacation.

“Oh, okay.” Tessa gave us a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, have a good night.”

She gave us a half-hearted wave before walking out, her shoulders slightly slumped in a way that made me want to call her back. Watching her leave felt like we were making a terrible decision.

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