A recipe for Secrets

he afternoon, but already The Saffron Spoon was preparing for the dinner rush. In the process of the rush, a man stood qu

with a clipboard in one hand and

es. I'm here to start work. Li

we had someone starting today. I'm Ivy. Sous-chef

he air was thick with the scent of roasting garlic, seared meat, and somethi

d, looking over her shoulder as she walked p

his eyes on the back of her head, avoid

lm, but she ignored it. People came to The Saffron Spoon for many reasons. Some

a rack of knives, a small fridge, and a stack of prep bowls. "We don't do s

own his bag and rolling up his slee

for a seasoned chef claiming to have kitchen experience. Still,

lance. Something about this guy felt off. N

tchen with marble counters, and the pressure of the Grayson culinary legacy. For now, he wa

d a deep mustard yellow, chipped in places but warm. The tables were mismatched, but each had a fresh flower in a jar.

ons, diced tomatoes, and prepped chicken thighs like he was born to do it. H

ani, the pastry chef who played loud jazz on her tiny speaker. And then there was

the way she tasted sauces with closed eyes, adjusted seasonings

tation, pausing to inspect h

a towel. "Coming from you, I'll

es. "You have got good hands. Clean

ere and there.

her eyes lingered a little longer, search

nd went back to chopping, and

nd his shirt clung to him with sweat. But for the first time in a long t

apron. "We usually grab tacos a

plan. Stay low. Stay quiet. Don't get involved. But Ivy's s

rprising himself. "

rest of the crew. Over messy bites and cold soda, they talked about childhood meals, kitchen horror stories, and favorite spices. Iv

ed, "What about you? What made

ople together," he said finally. It wasn't

"That's a

am lay awake. His phone buzzed on the bedside tab

r father's asking where you ar

hone over, face

w, especially with Ivy, he felt something real. Something he had not