Chapter 4 A Shared shift

Thursday night came with a storm, thunder shaking the windows, rain pouring on the sheets. By early evening, half the reservations had been canceled. The kitchen was quiet, too quiet.

"We're cutting the floor staff early," Ivy told the crew. "Just you, me, and Liam on the line tonight."

Liam didn't mind. Fewer voices. Less noise, less need to guard himself. The quiet gave him space to breathe, to focus on the work, to lose himself in the flow of the kitchen. He glanced at Ivy, who was already firing up the grill. They fell into a seamless flow, the kitchen becoming their private stage.

Ivy grilled. Liam sauced. When Ivy needed a taste, she passed him a spoon without a word. When he adjusted a seasoning, she nodded in approval, her eyes meeting his in a silent understanding. By ten, the last plate had gone out to a single customer in the restaurant. The kitchen was theirs again. Ivy leaned against the prep counter with 2 mugs of coffee.

"Peace offering," she said, handing one over to Liam..

He took it. "Thanks," he said, his voice soft. The coffee was strong, slightly bitter, the kind of drink that kept cooks awake through long shifts. They sipped in silence for a while, listening to the soft tap of rain on the back door. The storm had softened.

Ivy broke the silence, her voice casual but curious. "Have you ever thought about opening your own place?"

The question caught him off guard, slipping past his defenses. "All the time," he replied without thinking.

She looked at him with surprise, her eyes widening slightly. "Really?"

He nodded, leaning against the counter beside her, his eyes fixed on the coffee in his hands. "Yeah. Somewhere quiet. Maybe ten tables, tops. Simple food. Honest food. Just... real. The kind of place where people come to feel something."

Ivy smiled like she had found someone who spoke her language. "That's exactly my dream." she said with excitement. "Small, cozy, where every dish tells a story.

"Liam looked at her, "What's stopping you?" genuinely curious.

Her smile fading slightly. "Money, for one. Timing. Life. You know how it is, dreams are easy to have, harder to make real." She took a sip of her coffee, her gaze drifting to the wet window. "I've been saving, but it's slow. Rent's not cheap."

He wanted to say, What if you had the money? The question burned in his throat, tempting him to reveal that he had the connections, the resources to make her dream a reality. But he swallowed it down, knowing it would unravel everything. Instead, he said, "One day."

Ivy nodded, her eyes soft. "One day."

They stayed there a little longer. Ivy set her mug down and leaned back.

"You know, the last time we had a night this slow, I dropped a whole tray of food right in front of a food critic," she said, her voice light with self-deprecation. "Shattered glass, custard everywhere. He wrote that the dessert was 'memorable, but not edible.'"

Liam laughed, "That's rough. I had a... friend who once set fire to a linen napkin during a tasting. Chef was screaming, the critic was laughing, and the whole table smelled like burnt cotton."

Ivy's laughter joined him. They swapped stories, each one loosening the knot in Liam's chest. She told him about her first job in a restaurant, flipping pancakes for truckers at 3 a.m. He shared carefully selected tales of "kitchens on the road," keeping the details unclear but true enough to feel honest. The ease of the laughter, the shared look, the way her voice softened when she talked about her mother's recipes, made him feel alive.

But then Ivy's tone shifted, her curiosity back. "Where did you really learn to cook, Liam?" she asked, her eyes locking onto his. "You move like you have been in high-end kitchens, not just roadside restaurants."

He looked down at his coffee, "Mostly on the road," he said, his voice steady but careful. "I've worked in a lot of kitchens. You pick things up."

She studied him, her look piercing. "You don't talk like someone who just passed through. There's a story there, Cross. One day, you'll tell me."

He looked down at his coffee and gave a faint smile. "I guess some kitchens leave a mark."

That seemed to satisfy her, for now. She leaned back, but the moment lingered, heavy with unspoken truths. Liam felt the gap between them widening, not because of her, but because of him. Every laugh, every shared story, every look that made his pulse quicken was built on a lie. He wasn't just a drifter with a talent for cooking. He was Liam Grayson, heir to a culinary empire, trained under Michelin-starred chefs, molded by a legacy he had fled from. Every moment he let her in, the weight of the secret on his shoulders grew heavier.

They cleaned up in silence, wiping down counters and stacking pans. When they stepped outside, the air was cool and damp, the storm reduced to a drizzle. Ivy pulled her jacket tight, "See you tomorrow, Cross," she said, her smile soft but real.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice quieter than he intended. "Tomorrow."

He watched her disappear down the alley. Then he turned toward home. His apartment was a short walk away. He dropped his keys on the counter and stood there, the silence pressing in. Ivy's face lingered in his mind, the way she leaned close enough for him to catch the faint scent of citrus and coffee on her. She saw him, not as a name or a legacy, but as a person. It was a gift, one he had not realized had been craving for.

Going through his phone, another message from his assistant: "Your sister's getting impatient. She says your father won't wait much longer. Call me." Liam's jaw tightened. He set the phone face down, his fingers lingering on its edge. He didn't want to stop the present life he was building.