"Okay—" Jefferson hopped on the counter and spun around, reading off the notepad in his usual lazy drawl. "I've got a pasta primavera for Table Twelve—"

"Got it!"

"—hold the shrimp—"

"Hold the shrimp," Neal nodded, twirling his spatula.

"—hold the primavera."

Neal slowly lifted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Pasta primavera, hold the shrimp, hold the primavera."

"Yep."

"So…pasta."

Jefferson grinned. "Little kid. Still can't say his R's."

"Fantastic," Neal exhaled, grabbing a package of pasta. He shooed Jefferson away with a wave of his hand. "Come on, get down from there before my dad sees you."

Jefferson chose to ignore him, resting his folded arms on his knees as he watched Neal dump the pasta unceremoniously into a pot of boiling water."Damn—" Jefferson blew out a low whistle—"look at that technique. Maybe once you're done with school, you'll be able to do some really fancy shit. Like… scramble eggs."

"Shut up," Neal snorted, shoving his shoulder.

"Toast bread…sauté—"

"Mr. Hatter, get off that counter and get back to work," a brisk voice ordered. Neal hid a smile as Jefferson rolled his eyes and reluctantly pushed himself off the counter, just as Roman Gold strode into view, looking even classier and more expensive than usual.

"Neal—enough with the bow-tie, Mr. Hatter, just wear it down—Neal, how's that pasta primavera coming for Table Twelve?"

"You mean, pasta?" Neal said dryly, stirring it with a pair of tongs. "Done in a few minutes, why?"

Roman smiled humorlessly. "Did Jefferson mention who was seated at Table Twelve?"

"Little kid who can't say R's," Neal shrugged.

"Did he mention which little kid can't say R's?" Roman didn't wait for him to answer. "Henry Nolan."

Neal nearly dropped his tongs.

"Yes, Mayor Nolan and her family are here, Neal," Roman said, rapping his knuckles on the counter. "They're here, and they brought important friends. So, what does that mean?"

"Everything has to be perfect—"

"Everything has to be perfect!" Roman hissed. "So, you understand my confusion when I see your idiot friends hanging around, doing nothing, keeping you from your work! I should dock you all a paycheck, to cover the new anxiety prescription I'm going to need after this!"

"Jesus, Dad, how about a little nepotism here?" Neal said, startled. "I got this, okay?"

Roman gave a scoff, straightening his lapels with a jerky movement. "Just make sure that pasta primavera is the best you've ever made."

"All right. Christ…"

"Roman!"

Neal and Roman whirled around: Belle French—Gold, Neal reminded himself, giving his head a little shake—had just burst through the door, her heels making little dents in the floor form the force of her stride.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, looking at Roman with wide-eyed rage. "The Nolans are out there, and you're in here, yelling at people?"

"I was checking on the pasta—"

"Neal knows what he's doing! Just get out there, Roman! You need to host!"

Roman exhaled irritably, but obeyed her, muttering under his breath as he set off for the door. Belle twitched a quick smile at Neal, who returned it with a silent, Thank you.

You're welcome, she winked.

"Belle, are you coming or—Jefferson!"

Jefferson had barreled through the doorway, just as Roman had stepped out: Neal cringed as the loud clatter of plates and glasses dropping to the floor, amidst Roman's curses and violent threats.

"Idiot—"

"Sorry, Mr. Gold—"

"—you moron, Jeff—"

"—in a hurry, sir, I'm sorry—"

"Let's go, Roman," Belle said, authoritatively steering him through the door. Jefferson watched with raised eyebrows as they stepped past him, Roman still muttering under his breath while Belle smiled derisively at the disaster this evening was turning into. Neal blew out a breath, for once immensely grateful that he was stuck in the steaming, cramped kitchen while everyone else moved around the restaurant freely.

"Dude—" Jefferson dropped the pile of cracked and broken plates on the counter, staring at him with wide eyes—"your stepmom is so hot."

"Great. Thanks, Jeff, I-I really needed to hear that."

"I mean, damn…"

"Oh, my God—STOP."

Jefferson shook his head in reverence. "Your father's a lucky man, Neal." he sighed, and started redoing his bowtie. "I'll tell you something—"

Neal clattered a few pots and pans unnecessarily, raising his eyebrows at Jefferson.

"—point taken," he said, rolling his eyes. "Oh, hey—" he snapped his fingers and pointed at Neal, a wicked grin spreading on his face—"I walked by the Nolan table on my way back."

"You did?" Neal said patronizingly, as though Jefferson was a five-year-old telling him about the monster in his closet; pretending to be immersed in sprinkling parsley over the primavera-less pasta.

"Yeah, and guess who I saw?" Jefferson lightly punched him in the shoulder. "Guess who I saw?"

"Ow," Neal said absently.

"Emma. Nolan."

"Hey, how about that?" he muttered, moving around Jefferson to fetch plates from the other side. Jefferson twisted around, still grinning as he tried to catch sight of Neal's face.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yep."

"Did you, though?"

"I heard you, Jeff—"

"Emma Nolan," Jefferson repeated in a sing-song voice, wiggling his eyebrows. "Emma Nolan, Neal!"

Neal exhaled tensely, slamming the plate down with more-than-necessary force. "Get out, Jeff!"

Jefferson cackled, and jumped down, bounding through the door with the unbridled glee of a man who has just successfully tormented his best friend. Neal grit his teeth, glowering after him.

He was fine. He could handle this. So Emma was sitting just a few feet out the door, so what? She was surrounded by her parents and their important friends, probably trying to stay focused on the political conversation.

Bored out of her mind…itching to get out…desperate, even…

NOPE. He shook his head, and redirected his efforts to plating. Emma was out there, he was in here, and that was how it was going to stay.

Or this evening really would be a disaster.