Page 16 of When Summer Returns

“Scheduled meltdowns are the hallmark of professionals,” he agreed. “I have mine every Tuesday at two seventeen. Like clockwork.”

The lunch rush hit like a tidal wave—sudden and overwhelming. Every table filled, the bar three deep with waiting patrons, the waitstaff moving at barely controlled sprint. Jessie found herself thrust into service despite her novice status, relegated to pouring beers and simple mixed drinks while Miguel handled the more complex orders.

Jessie was reaching for another clean glass when the sound of shattering came from somewhere down the bar. The sharp noise sent a jolt through her system that had nothing to do with surprise.

Broken glass on the kitchen floor. Her father’s voice, low and dangerous. “Clean it up.” Her hands trembling as she reached for the broom, knowing that no matter how carefully she gathered every shard, he would find one she missed. Would use it as an excuse.

She blinked, forcing the memory away. Fifteen years, and a simple sound could still transport her instantly back to that kitchen, to the feeling of being small and terrified and trapped. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she took a measured breath, reminding herself where she was. Who she was now.

Miguel was already sweeping up the broken tumbler, joking with the customer who had knocked it over. No tension in his movements, no fear of repercussions. Just an ordinary accident being handled with ordinary kindness.

“You okay?” Luke asked, materializing beside her with uncanny timing. “You went pale all of a sudden.”

“Fine,” she said automatically, the word a reflex as deeply ingrained as flinching at sudden movements. “Just remembered something I need to take care of.”

His expression suggested he didn’t quite believe her, but he didn’t press. Another small mercy she was still learning to expect from him—space when she needed it, presence without pressure.

Some broken things couldn’t be swept away so easily. Jessie pushed the memory aside and refocused on the task at hand, determined not to let ghosts interfere with her present.

Her first solo gin and tonic earned a raised eyebrow from Luke as he passed behind them carrying extra napkins. “Promotion already?”

“Battlefield commission,” Miguel explained. “She has surprisingly steady hands under pressure.”

“Unlike some people,” Jessie said pointedly, “I didn’t spend my college years playing beer pong.”

“That’s an unfair assumption,” Luke protested. “I was equally dedicated to quarters.”

She laughed despite herself, the sound nearly lost amid the cacophony of clinking glasses and overlapping conversations. Luke flashed a genuine smile—the first she’d seen since her return—before disappearing into the controlled chaos of the dining area.

By two o’clock, Jessie’s feet ached, her lower back protested, and she’d developed newfound respect for the stamina required in food service. Yet beneath the physical discomfort hummed a curious satisfaction. There was something gratifying about the immediate results of her labor—the appreciative nod from a patron enjoying their drink, the smooth coordination with Miguel as they established a working rhythm, the tangible productivity of empty glasses replaced with full ones.

Finance had offered delayed gratification—complex deals that took months to complete, investments that required years to mature. This was instantaneous cause and effect, with results measured in minutes rather than quarters.

“Break time,” Miguel announced as the lunch crowd finally thinned. “Go sit. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Jessie didn’t argue, grateful for the opportunity to rest. She claimed a small table near the kitchen, removed her apron, and stretched discreetly to relieve the tension in her shoulders. Looking around the now-quieter space, she felt a flutter of something unexpected—pride, perhaps, at having survived her first service without major catastrophe.

Luke emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates, which he set on the table before claiming the seat opposite her. “Staff meal,” he explained. “Mateo insists we eat properly between shifts.”

The plate contained a perfectly seared piece of fish atop a vibrant salad, accompanied by grilled vegetables and a wedge of crusty bread. Simple but immaculately prepared, the kind of meal that made institutional dining rooms across America weep with inadequacy.

“This is not what I expected from ‘staff meal,’” Jessie admitted, inhaling the aromatic steam rising from her plate.

“Mateo doesn’t believe in culinary hierarchies,” Luke said, breaking his bread. “Staff deserves the same quality as customers. Happy workers make happy food, according to him.

“So,” he said, breaking his bread. “I take it you haven’t spent the last fifteen years in food service.”

Jessie smiled ruefully, rotating her wrist to ease the strain. “Not exactly. Finance, actually. Investment management.”

“Finance?” Luke’s eyebrows rose. “That’s…unexpected.”

“I had a knack for numbers. And a desire for job security.” She took a bite of the fish, closing her eyes involuntarily as flavors exploded across her palate. “Oh my God.”

“I know.” Luke’s expression held genuine appreciation. “That’s his seabass with citrus butter and island herbs. Put us on the map with the foodie crowd.”

They ate in companionable silence for several minutes, the simple act of sharing a meal easing some of the tension that had lingered between them. Jessie found herself studying Luke when he wasn’t looking—the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there at eighteen, the confident set of his shoulders, the capable hands that moved with such assurance whether mixing drinks or directing staff.

He’d grown into himself in her absence, becoming the man those early promising qualities had only hinted at. The realization brought a confusing mixture of admiration and regret.

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