Page 48 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

Liam chose that moment to stroll by, waving a spatula like a sword. “If you die of a spinal injury, can I have your knives?”

“Sure,” I said dryly. “Bury me with the Japanese ones, though. I want to be sharp in the afterlife.”

That earned a laugh from half the kitchen. Not forced. Not awkward.

Just… real.

Somehow—between the disaster catering, the fourteen-hour prep days, and Ada yelling at me like she’s been doing it her whole life—I’d become part of the damn team.

It snuck up on me.

First it was Mia handing me an extra croissant during morning prep without saying a word. Then it was Liam rigging the pantry door to play a dramatic violin sting every time I opened it—because, apparently, I wastoodramatic for his taste.

He paid for that one. I switched his onion flakes with ghost pepper powder in his lunch the next day.Respectfully.

And the interns?

They called meChef Parisbehind my back. Like I didn’t know.

At first, I thought it would irritate me. The teasing. The closeness. The…pack-nessof it all.

But truth be told?

It felt good.

To be seen. To bewelcomed.

The kitchen ran like clockwork that day—if the clock occasionally caught fire and screamed.

I started with the lunch prep for the downtown contracts. Nothing fancy, but that didn’t mean I slacked. I made sure the grilled lemon-pepper chicken was properly marinated overnight, seared to golden perfection before it went into the holding trays. Paired it with rosemary roasted potatoes, a light arugula salad with shaved parmesan, and a lemon vinaigrette I whipped together with exactly the kind of precision that would’ve made my instructors back in Paris weep with joy. Or jealousy.

I didn’t cut corners.

Inevercut corners when it comes to food.

Even if the orders were bulk, even if no one saw the difference—Iknew.

By late morning, I was at the second station, helping one of the newer kids finish prepping the saffron mushroom risotto for the Thursday tasting event. He had the temperature all wrong, letting the rice get gummy, and his knife cuts were more like war wounds. I stepped in, corrected the stock-to-rice ratio, and saved the whole pot from tasting like regret.

He thanked me with the reverence of someone who thought I walked on olive oil.

The rest of the afternoon blurred—chopping, tasting, correcting, plating,leadingwithout stepping on toes. I caught Ada’s silhouette once or twice through her glass office, but I didn’t linger. I couldn’t.

Not after the last time. Not when I still remembered the exact sound she made when she unraveled for me. Not when the ghost of her scent still lived under my skin.

By the time we hit cleanup, my body ached and my legs felt like they’d been replaced with bricks—but the work had been good. Honest.

That was when Mia found me, arms crossed, one brow raised like she was about to make me do something I wouldn’t like.

“You doing anything tonight?”

I wiped my hands on a towel. “Not much.”

“Good. You’re coming with me and Peter.”

“The delivery guy with the beard and the Spotify playlist of doom?”

“That’s the one.” She tossed me a set of keys. “We’re heading to the warehouse.”

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