Jordan POV
The kitchen was almost silent, apart from the rhythmic sound of knives on cutting boards, the lazy bubbling of stocks, and the soft creak of fridge doors opening and closing. A strange kind of symphony — but oddly calming. Maybe because, unlike the rest of my life, everything here had its proper place. Even the steam seemed to rise at the perfect angle.
The three of us were prepping for lunch service. I desperately needed this moment of calm after the chaos of my morning. I still wanted to curl up and disappear just thinking about the flip-flop incident. Not that it was my fault. The real culprit had four legs, a tail, and a talent for choosing my shoes as chew toys. Not to mention the welcome gift I'd stepped on the day before.
Chef Adam wasn't saying much — just barking out short commands in that cold, precise tone that made me want to nail everything on the first try, just to avoid the death glare. Lorenzo, on the other hand… well, he was a different story. He was approachable, almost playful. He'd stop by now and then to check my work, offer tips, and flash those smiles that made me go a little dizzy. The rolled-up sleeves didn't help. Neither did the way he leaned in when he spoke, like we were sharing a little kitchen secret.
"Perfect," he said after inspecting my vegetable cuts. "Right on point."
I smiled back, couldn't help it. A big, proud smile. The kind of goofy grin a teenager gives their crush. Yep. Crush, Jordan. Congratulations. I almost wanted to bat my eyelashes like a cartoon. Ridiculous, I know.
Chef Adam's impatient grunt snapped me back to reality like a slap. The smile died instantly. I nearly apologized just for existing.
"Service starts in ten minutes." His voice echoed off the walls, deep and firm, and I nodded so fast I nearly lost balance. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Time seemed to be mocking me, racing ahead just to make me more nervous.
I took a deep breath and started mentally reviewing the menu. I was on plating duty. I knew it was because Chef didn't trust me with actual cooking yet, but fine. This was my chance — that final touch on each dish was where I could prove I wasn't all clumsiness.
That's when Lorenzo stood right in front of me and snapped his fingers — exaggerated enough to make me jump.
"We're fully booked today," he said with a half-smile. His eyes sparkled, almost excited. "Big group reservation. Ready?"
Ready. If he had any idea of the chaos happening inside me, he wouldn't ask that with such confidence. Still, I nodded, slightly dazed by his easy charm. Between the ogre Chef and golden-boy Lorenzo, it was pretty clear who made the kitchen bearable. And who made my stomach do flips that had nothing to do with hunger.
By the end of lunch service, I felt like I'd run a marathon. My legs were jelly, my arms weighed like sacks of potatoes, and my feet — dear God. My feet were sweating inside sockless sneakers, in that sticky discomfort that could only mean one thing: blisters. Especially in that evil little spot just above the heel. I could already feel it pulsing.
We all sat down to eat — Chef Adam, Clara, Lorenzo, Melissa, and me. One of those rare moments when the restaurant actually exhaled. Well… sort of quiet. Melissa practically did a one-woman show the entire time. She spoke with the breeziness of someone still in their twenties, cracking jokes, telling stories I sometimes couldn't even follow. But I liked her. She brought fresh air to this overly serious bunch. Loud, fearless, completely unfiltered… which, honestly, made me a little envious. I wished I could be that bold.
Chef Adam sat a bit farther away, next to Clara, eating with the same focus he worked with. I was between Lorenzo and Melissa. When Lorenzo helped serve my plate — casually but still kind — I blushed. Ridiculous.
"I saw you come in wearing flip-flops," Melissa blurted, no mercy whatsoever. I nearly choked. Lorenzo even patted my back gently to help, but it didn't save me from the humiliation.
"Didn't seem like your style to show up to work in flip-flops. What happened?" she asked, and somehow, the way she said it almost sounded like a compliment. I sighed. I really wanted that whole thing to die.
"Yeah… I had a bit of a shoe issue. Long story." I gave a tight smile, silently begging her not to push. Spoiler: she pushed.
"Please tell us," she pleaded, eyes sparkling with mischief.
And there I was. Sitting between the hottest sous-chef I'd ever seen and the boldest server on the planet, wondering how I was supposed to confess that I'd stepped on a dog turd, left my shoes outside, which gave the dog the perfect chance to eat them, didn't pack backup shoes, and therefore paraded into a Michelin-star restaurant… in flip-flops.
I sighed. No way out. Melissa looked at me like she was expecting the highlight of her day. Lorenzo wore a curious smile, leaning slightly toward me like he was already enjoying the embarrassment. Clara watched quietly — that unreadable, borderline amused expression that made me unsure if she was judging me or just mentally filing away another entry in my "disaster" record.
And Chef Adam… well, he seemed focused on his food, but I was pretty sure he was listening to every word. Which made everything even more mortifying.
"Okay. But no laughing… too much."
They exchanged a look that did not inspire confidence. I told the story as quickly as I could, trimming the details to spare myself further humiliation. Midway through, Melissa had to cover her mouth to stop from laughing, and by the end, everyone was cracking up.
I think I saw a smile on Chef Adam's face out of the corner of my eye. But I didn't dare check right away. I kept smiling, a bit sheepishly, and only after a moment did I glance up. He was serious again, eyes on his plate, shaking his head slightly. Disapproval? Amusement? Regret for letting me in his kitchen? Probably a bit of everything.
Melissa leaned back in her chair, still catching her breath, and Lorenzo casually draped his arm over the back of mine — a relaxed move, but it made my heart stutter.
When lunch was over, we all got up to clean. I still had a few hours to rest before dinner service, which sounded like paradise. But as soon as I started walking, I felt my heel protest. Somehow, the pain was worse now that I'd sat down. It made me limp slightly, but I tried to hide it while helping tidy up.
Of course, Lorenzo noticed immediately.
"What's wrong?" he asked, leaning in with a slight frown. "You're limping."
"It's nothing…" I tried to brush it off, but the way he looked at me — one brow raised, half amused, half concerned — made it impossible to lie.
"Jordan."
I sighed. "Blisters. I'm wearing sneakers without socks."
He let out a quiet laugh and shook his head, then stepped even closer. "Let me see."
"What? Now? Here?"
He glanced around, then motioned for me to wait and went to grab the first aid kit. He came back with a chair and gestured for me to sit.
"We'll put a bandage on it — it'll help," he said, already opening the box. I smiled, grateful but nervous. I took off my sneaker and we both stared at the blister — which was starting to look impressively gross.
"That's a masterpiece," he said lightly. Then he picked up the bandage and ointment, kneeling in front of me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My heart spiked. I immediately pulled my foot back, embarrassed.
"No. Thanks. I'll do it." There was no way I was letting this gorgeous man get near my sweaty foot. No. Way. That would kill whatever microscopic amount of charm I had left.
"I don't mind," he said, amused, flashing that half-smile like he found my resistance cute.
I just gave him a small smile and, before he could insist again, gently took the bandage and ointment from his hands.
Nope. Having a hot sous-chef care for me was tempting… but my sweaty foot was not romantic. If it had been something else — I don't know, like when Chef Adam patched up my knee. Not that that was romantic. Of course not.
But still. Just thinking about it gave me butterflies.
Ugh. What was I even thinking right now?