Page 178 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector
"I can still fire you."
"No, you can't. Julian loves me."
"Julian loves anybody who shows up on time."
"Exactly."
I laugh and hug him. Then Tessa appears from the pastry station. Then Andre. Within minutes, half the kitchen seems to realize I'm here. There are hugs, questions, complaints, and an accusation that Julian ordered the wrong coffee.
"He bought medium roast," Tessa tells me.
I stare at him.
"It was one time," Julian says.
"You know better."
"I was under pressure."
I shake my head. Somehow, standing here feels as natural as if I left yesterday. Service doesn't stop because I've come back. Neither does the team. I stand in the middle of my kitchen and watch the people I hired, trained, argued with, fed, defended, and trusted carry on without me. There's pride in that. And something stranger. What Julian and I built can stand even when I'm not standing in the middle of it.
Julian comes beside me. "They're good."
"I know."
"You taught half of them."
"We did."
He looks toward the dining room. "Come on. Eat."
After closing, Julian puts a plate in front of me at my usual table. Not because I need a table. Because he knows if he lets me into the office before I've eaten, I'll open the lease proposal and forget food exists.
I take a bite. Then another. The acidity is cleaner. Less cream. A little more heat at the finish. "You changed the vinegar."
"Sherry."
I take another bite. "Better."
Julian smiles. "I've missed this."
“So have I.”
I look around the dining room. Most of the lights are down. Chairs have been pushed beneath tables. Beyond the windows, Manhattan keeps moving. "How bad has it been?"
"Not bad."
"Julian."
"Busy."
"That's not the same thing."
He reaches for the folder beside him and slides it across the table. "We've had our best three months since opening."
I open it. Numbers. Actual numbers, not projections. Revenue. Covers. Private events. Labor. Food costs. I turn a page. Then another. "These private dining numbers."
"I know."
