Adam POV
I woke up later than usual. Half on the couch, half on the floor, and my whole body resented it. Cam was still snoring on the sofa. I stretched out my foot and nudged him just enough to wake him without calling his name. He grumbled but eventually sat up, hair messy, looking as hungover as I felt. Brutal hangover. His fault, obviously.
Breakfast was silent. Strong coffee, aspirin, bread. Neither of us had the patience for conversation. Honestly, it felt good.
I arrived at the restaurant already in a foul mood. The lights seemed brighter, the fridge hum louder. Every step echoed in my skull. When I came down, Clara was already tidying up the dining room, and Lorenzo was moving around the kitchen like he owned the place. Both had keys, but they rarely used them.
I was always the one to open the restaurant. Routine. Rhythm. Order. And today I'd failed. Which only fueled my hangover-born irritation.
Not long after, Jordan walked in. Hair still tousled from the wind, that usual clumsy air. Glasses on, instead of the contacts she'd been using more often lately. And the way my body reacted made me curse under my breath. But it got worse. She'd barely said good morning when I saw Lorenzo cross the kitchen and greet her with a kiss on the cheek.
I froze. Surprised. Irritated. Far too irritated for the pounding in my temples. But I saw her face—she hadn't been expecting it. Genuine surprise.
I clenched my jaw and cursed mentally. Shut my mouth and tried to focus on the task in front of me. Or at least I tried.
We started prepping for lunch service. The knife in my hand felt heavier than usual. I set it down, flexed my hand, and picked it back up. A discomfort I thought long gone returned. And before I knew it, the blade was chopping the vegetables harder than necessary. Each slice fueled by frustration. Irritation.
And Jordan with Lorenzo wasn't helping. Quite the opposite. He leaned in too close while she started prepping the ingredients for today's main dish sauce.
"I really liked your dessert," he said, voice far too smooth. "Since there was some left over, I brought it for us to share… again."
She froze for a second, then looked at him. Serious. No blush. What kind of look was that?
"Thanks. Melissa will love to taste it too." She stepped away to grab more ingredients and came back. My station faced theirs, so I had a perfect view of them from behind. Lorenzo was supposed to be at a different counter, facing her—not next to her. Do I need to spell out how much that irritated me?
"Now it's your turn to cook for me." The knife almost slipped from my hand.
"Lorenzo, we'll talk later." Her tone was serious. Professional. Like she was drawing a line.
"I also enjoyed dancing with you… and—"
Before he could finish, a loud crash split my head in two. Jordan's pan hit the floor.
She must've been putting it on the stove when she fumbled and dropped it. The entire contents spilled. First time she'd ever dropped food. And it only fueled my irritation until I snapped.
"Fck's sake!" I dropped the knife. The sound echoed too loud. "Not today, Jordan." I pressed a hand to my head, trying to ease the pounding pain. "Fck. I can't deal with this right now. Out." My voice was sharp. "Go… go sort the pantry. Now."
"Sorry, Chef Adam." she murmured, shrinking in on herself. She bent down to clean, but my voice cut sharper:
"I said now!"
She straightened instantly, our eyes locking for a second, cheeks flushed, confusion plain. My chest tightened.
She turned and left without another word. But I could swear I heard her mutter something as she went through the door. I didn't want to know. I didn't want her in my kitchen dropping pans. It felt like something snapping inside my head. And I didn't want her there with my sous-chef flirting with her. I had no patience for that. Damn workplace romances. And her claiming they were "just friends."
I looked at the mess on the floor, then at Lorenzo.
"Clean it up," I barked.
He was about to complain. But one look at my face and he thought better. After all, part of it was his fault. If he'd kept his mouth shut, she wouldn't have dropped the pan. He grabbed a cloth and started cleaning—too slowly—with that smug smile.
Idiot.
The silence weighed heavy in the kitchen. I should've felt relieved—finally, quiet and order. But no. The aspirin was taking too long to kick in, and worse than the headache was the conscience hammering at me: I'd been too harsh with her.
No. Don't care. I repeated it to myself.
I felt the urge to throw something against the wall. It wouldn't solve anything, just chip away at the control I fought to keep every day. I'd gone too far. Damn it, I'd gone too far. Should I go after her? No. Yes.
I let out a frustrated sigh and tried to focus on work. Lunch service needed prep.
I glanced at the clock. Service was about to start. We needed her back in the kitchen. That was the only reason I'd go get her. Work. Service. Professionalism.
At least, that's what I wanted to believe.
"Finish that," I told Lorenzo, curt. "I'll get Jordan. Service is about to begin."
"I can go," he offered.
"Do your job, Lorenzo." I growled. "Be professional."
As I walked down the corridor toward the pantry, I asked myself if I was being professional at all.
The pantry door was ajar. I stopped. From the other side, I heard her voice. She wasn't crying. She was grumbling.
The pantry was used for storing wine, water, juices, and other long-lasting goods we stocked up on whenever I found a good deal.
I pushed the door open quietly. The pantry was big, rows of tall shelves, three aisles. She was at the very back, kneeling on the floor, reorganizing cans by expiration date. She wasn't even looking at what she was doing, just muttering as she tossed cans aside to stack them again.
"What's his deal? Idiot." I heard her clearer now. Kneeling there, ranting to herself. The pantry wasn't even that messy. I'd sent her here simply because it was the only place I could think of instead of sending her home. Which didn't make me less of an idiot.
She seemed to be having a full-on conversation with herself.
"What part of 'just friends' doesn't he get?" she grumbled again.
I froze. Curious. So I wasn't the only target of her anger? I listened. I shouldn't have, but I did.
I took a few slow steps down the first aisle, careful not to make a sound. She hadn't noticed me yet. I heard her huff, frustrated, then toss another can aside.
"And what? Huh! What did you like more, exactly?" I raised an eyebrow and stopped again. She wasn't talking to me. No—she was mimicking Lorenzo. Replaying his words from before she dropped the pan. What had he said to rile her so much?
"Arrgh… Making me waste food… and how could I even think about him… making Chef Ogre yell at me… Idiot… Two idiots."
Chef Ogre? Me?
I moved closer. I was now in the aisle right before hers, just one row of shelves between us. Through the cans, I could see her. If she looked up, she'd see me too. But she stayed distracted, muttering, running her hands over the cans as if just touching them told her what she held.
I should tell her I'm here. But before I could decide, I found myself leaning against the shelf, just to watch her more closely. I wouldn't have done it if I'd known what was about to happen next.
"Jordan…"