Chapter 2 First Impressions

The next day, Liam arrived 1 hour before his shift. The Saffron Spoon was still quiet, the front lights off and chairs stacked on tables. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of silverware greeted him. The stillness felt sacred, a rare pause before the kitchen went off into its usual chaos.

He tied on his apron and began prepping vegetables, letting his hands work without thought. Carrots, onions, and parsley are all lined up. He moved with silent accuracy, slicing and dicing with the care of someone who truly loved the craft.

"Impressive," a voice said behind him, breaking the silence.

Liam turned to find Ivy leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him.

"Do you always come this early?" she asked, stepping into the kitchen and tossing her apron over her shoulder.

Liam gave a small wave, then wiped his hand on a towel. "Old habit. I like starting slow."

Ivy looked at him. "Most people crawl in five minutes before the shift, praying no one notices. You're making the rest of us look bad, Cross."

He smile softly. "I'll try to be messier tomorrow."

She laughed, and for a moment, the kitchen felt brighter. Ivy grabbed an apron from the hook and started washing her hands.

"You move like someone who's been cooking a long time," she said, looking at the neat pile of diced vegetables. Joining him at the prep station. "But you don't talk like it."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "What does someone who's been cooking a long time talk like?"

"Braggy," she said without hesitation. "Loud. Always comparing techniques. You're quiet. Focused. You don't show off."

Liam smile again. "I'm not here to show off."

Ivy glanced at him, curious now. "Then what are you here for?"

That question hit too close to home. For a moment, he saw the penthouse kitchen in New York, the weight of his father's expectations pressing down. He pushed the memory aside.

"I guess I just needed a change," he said simply.

She looked like she wanted to ask more, but a loud crash from the back interrupted them. Marcus had arrived and dropped a tray of pans.

"Great," Ivy muttered. "Welcome to the circus."

By mid-morning, the kitchen buzzed with life and its usual chaos. Orders were shouted, tickets pinned above the line, the clatter of knives and sizzling pans echoed through the air. Liam worked quietly beside Ivy on the line. They moved in a rhythm, passing ingredients, timing plates, and tasting each other's sauces without asking. It felt natural, like they'd been working together for years.

At one point, Ivy poked him with her elbow. "You're fast. I like that."

He gave her a sidelong look. "You're not so bad yourself."

She smiles. "Flattery will get you dessert."

He laughed, and for a moment, the chaos of the kitchen faded. It wasn't just the way Ivy cooked; it was the way she led. She encouraged the younger cooks, handled stress with grace, and always had a sarcastic comment ready to lift someone's mood, keeping the line moving even when the tickets piled up. She reminded Liam of the kind of chef he used to be, before the business meetings, before the magazine interviews, before the pressure to carry the Grayson name. He'd almost forgotten how good it felt to simply cook.

At the end of the shift, Liam's shirt was damp with sweat, his shoulders aching from hours bent over the stove. He stepped outside, sitting on a milk crate by the back door. Ivy joined him, sitting in another crate. The night air was thick with the scent of fried food and summer rain.

"Good shift," she said, sipping from a bottle of water. "You didn't let Marcus bully you into switching stations. That's a win."

Liam smiled, leaning back against the brick wall. "He's not so bad once you ignore the insults. I think he likes me."

Ivy exhale. "Marcus doesn't like anyone. But he respects you. That's something." She stretched her arms over her head. "You know, I wasn't sure about you yesterday. Too clean, too... polished."

"And today?" he asked, watching her carefully.

She looked at him for a long moment. "Still too polished," her tone was teasing but thoughtful. "But you can cook. And you don't complain. That earns you points."

He nodded, pretending to be casual, but inside, he felt something strange. Interest. A pull toward her that wasn't just about food. Ivy wasn't just a coworker. She was real, unguarded, and passionate about food.

"I like working with you," he said quietly. The word slipped out before he could stop them.

She blinked, a little surprised by his honesty. Then she smiled. "Yeah. Me too."

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just filled with things unsaid. He could've told her then. That his name wasn't really Liam Cross. That his family's name was stamped on the kitchen tools in five-star restaurants across the country. The reason he moved like a pro was because he'd trained under Michelin-starred chefs since he was fifteen, not out of passion but obligation. But instead, he said nothing. He wasn't ready. And Ivy, for now, wasn't asking.

Later that night, Liam walked through Atlanta's quiet streets. His apartment was small, with two rooms and a small kitchen. One window overlooking a parking lot, but it was enough. He stood by the window, looking out at the dark sky.

Ivy's face came back to him, her smile, her fast hands in the kitchen, the way she leaned against the doorframe like she owned the place. She saw him, not as the heir to a culinary empire, but as a guy with a knife and a quiet focus. It was the first time he felt unburdened, free to just be.

His phone buzzed on the counter, a quick reminder of the world he left behind. Another message from his assistant: "Your father's people are digging. They'll find you soon. Call me."

Liam's jaw tightened. He flipped the phone over, silencing the past. He knew he was getting in too deep, but he couldn't help it. And Ivy? She was the first person who made him want to stay.