“Absolutely.”
They arrived at Mirepoix late. Opal was already there. Her eyebrows lifted above her red-framed glasses, but all she said was, “Hey, Kia. Sullivan putting you to work?” Kia fit seamlessly into the kitchen. She insisted on working in the smallest space possible, dicing pounds of vegetables on a cutting board made for mincing garlic. Her knife flew over the tiny cutting board. Her movements were fast, and yet every cell in Sullivan’s body understood innately that the knifewouldn’t slip. Kia’s arms flexed with the movement. Her hips swayed.
“Like this, Chef?” Kia called out, holding up perfectly obliqued parsnips and zucchini in the shape of diamonds.
“Perfect. Like you are,” Sullivan called back.
Opal looked back and forth between them.
Kia was a joy to cook with and not just because she looked stunning with her hair tied in a purple scarf, her borrowed chef whites crisp, her black-and-white-houndstooth joggers clinging in all the right places. When Sullivan surveyed Kia’s work, her brunoise of onions, celery, and carrots was also stunning.
“If you ever get sick of the road, I got a place for you,” Sullivan said.
Sullivan didn’t realize her offer had been half-serious, until she felt the pang of disappointment. The time they had together was temporary, an arrangement. But the impact of that sad fact quickly dissipated when Kia breezed past her, letting her hips graze Sullivan’s seductively. Kia’s energy was electric. And even if fleeting, Sullivan wanted to savor every moment of the irresistible attraction drawing her closer to this enchanting woman.
“Watch out, Chef.” Kia looked over her shoulder. “I might take you up on it, and where would you be when your customers started asking for more tursnicken?”
Their eyes met. Had Sullivan just asked Kia to stay? Had Kia said… something that wasn’t no? Kia waltzed past Sullivan. Sullivan felt a thrill of excitement form in her core. One probably shouldn’t feel this level of sexual energy at work, but maybe it’d make the food taste better. Maybe all the couples who ate at Mirepoix that night would go home and make love.
When Opal walked by Sullivan (definitely not brushing her ass), she whispered, “I was so right about you two.”
The day passed happily. During the afternoon lull, Kia, Sullivan, and Opal drank coffee, and Opal told funny stories about eccentric customers, and Kia described food truck mishaps. Sullivan mostly listened, happy to watch her best friend and her… what was Kia to her?… herKiaenjoying each other’s company.
By eight, the first seating was complete, and the second seating was bustling. Sullivan managed six burners, searing mountains of mushrooms and grilling the whole sea.
Orders came in.
“Heard!” Sullivan and Kia said in unison.
“Behind you, babe!” Kia said, passing through the tight galley carrying a heavy stockpot. Now that they were cooking, Kia wasn’t distracting Sullivan with her touch. She was focused. They were working. A perfect team. The touching would come later.
“We’re running low on casoncelli,” Kia called out. “Want me to roll some more?”
“We’ll let everyone know it’s sold out,” Sullivan called out. “You can’t roll casoncelli in the middle of service.” Too bad. The casoncelli were a top seller.
“You’ve never cooked short order,” Kia said. “I can roll casoncelli and cook you a burger.”
“Just try it,” Sullivan called over her shoulder.
“Don’t try,” Opal said.
A few minutes later, the lead server breezed into the kitchen.
“We’re officially out of casoncelli,” Opal told him.
“We’re not,” Kia said.
“Are we or aren’t we?” he asked.
“Chef, does this look good?” Kia held a perfectly formed casoncelli in her hand. “I can make five dozen more if you give me five minutes.”
“Thanks, Chef,” Sullivan said. “It looks great.”
Kia worked for another few minutes, then slid a tray of the hand-rolled pasta onto the prep table as casually as passing a clean plate. Before Sullivan could say anything, Kia was back at rolling pasta. Sullivan transferred six of the candy-wrapper-shaped ravioli into boiling water, and they floated immediately, delicate but perfectly secure around their filling of ricotta, dates, and shallots.
Damn, Kia was good at this.
Sullivan plated. In what seemed like one movement, Kia stepped to her left, placed the round tian next to the pasta, wiped the splatters from it, and brought the earthenware into the service window.
