Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 65987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
"Miss Belle."
I jumped, nearly dropping my bag as I turned to find Mr. Wilson standing behind me, his tall frame straight, his expression inscrutable. The kitchen manager had been polite but distant during my first two weeks, his green eyes missing nothing as he ran his domain with military precision.
"Mr. Wilson! I'm so sorry about last night," I blurted, the words rushing out before I could stop them. "Leaving in the middle of my shift was completely unprofessional. It won't happen again. I should have stayed. The cut wasn't even that bad, and I—"
He raised a hand, stopping my nervous babble. "Mr. Luca himself ordered you home," he said, his voice gentler than I'd heard it before. "I heard him myself so that's hardly something to apologize for."
I blinked, caught off guard by his tone. "Still, I feel terrible about the whiskey. And leaving everyone short-staffed."
The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Though we try to be as careful as we possibly can, accidents happen. As for being short-staffed, we managed." His gaze dropped to the nearly empty cookie tray I'd set on the bench. "Though it seems you've found a way to get back in everyone's good graces."
"Oh! Would you like one?" I offered the tray, suddenly feeling silly for not offering sooner. "There's still a few left."
To my surprise, he selected a cookie, examining it with the same careful attention he gave to the creations that left his kitchen. "Chocolate chip. A classic." He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded. His eyes widened and he looked at the cookie, taking another, larger bite. "Dear Lord. Why didn’t you tell me you could bake?” Now he sounded a tad grouchy. “Is this your one thing or do you have more in your repertoire?”
“I do a few things, but I really just know how to follow a recipe.”
This time his smile was unmistakable, transforming his weathered face. "Your shift starts soon. How's the hand?"
I flexed my fingers, wincing slightly. "It's fine. I can work normally."
"You will be careful and keep it covered. The bandage will protect your hand so you don’t injure yourself worse," he said, but there was no sting in the words. "And Belle?" He paused, his expression softening further. "The cookies were a very thoughtful gesture. Unnecessary, but thoughtful. That kind of consideration... it's rare."
The warmth of his approval washed over me like sunshine and I couldn’t help but smile up at the older man. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson."
He nodded once more before turning away, his posture returning to its usual rigid correctness as he headed back toward his kitchen domain.
I closed my locker, a strange lightness filling my chest. The knot of anxiety I'd carried since last night hadn't entirely dissolved, but it had loosened considerably. I wasn't fired. The staff didn't hate me. And somehow, impossibly, I'd earned a smile from Mr. Wilson.
As I changed into my uniform, careful of my bandaged palm, I allowed myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, I could belong here after all. Even if I still had no idea what to make of Dario Luca or the electricity that had passed between us when he'd touched me. Probably just my own stupid imagination. Because the man was seriously fine. In a scary, dangerous kind of way.
I emerged into the front of the kitchen area where we picked up our trays laden with whatever we were serving that evening, automatically checking that my hair was securely pinned back. The Gray was coming alive around me as staff prepared for the evening rush. Bartenders polished crystal glasses until they gleamed under the soft amber lighting, while security personnel conducted their final walkthrough, their watchful gazes scanning every corner of the space. I flexed my bandaged hand, testing its limits. The sting had dulled to a persistent throb, manageable if I was careful. I'd survived the morning-after confrontation, now I just had to get through my shift without spilling anything else.
"Belle!" A voice called from behind me. I turned to find Sophia hurrying toward me, her dark ponytail swinging with each step. We'd started at The Gray the same week, though she'd quickly established herself as someone who belonged here. Unlike me, she moved through the space with confidence, her laugh easy and her smile quick.
"Hey," I greeted her, automatically reaching to adjust my bandage.
Her eyes locked onto the white gauze wrapped around my palm. "Oh my God, how’s your hand? Does it hurt?" Before I could answer, she glanced around and lowered her voice. "Come here, I need to talk to you."
She grabbed my uninjured wrist, pulling me toward the service bar tucked in a quiet corner near the kitchen entrance. The area was momentarily deserted, the bartender who normally manned it still in the stockroom gathering supplies.