Author's Note: Edward needed his perspective of the first day to get out into the world. So here we are.

- eleven: back of house -
edward

The squeak of the rubber feet of the prep table against the tile floor makes me grit my teeth.

"God, that's an awful sound," Bella complains behind me.

I set the table I'm carrying down in its new place and turn around to grab the one she's pushing across the floor.

"I had it," she protests, but she doesn't make a move to stop me.

I can feel her gaze trace my hands, my arms, my shoulders as I lift the table by the edges, even after I turn my back. She has some kind of fascination with my tattoos, I've noticed. Her eyes return to them again and again, a magnetic pull that I can see her trying to fight.

I should probably try to fight my own urge to show them off a bit for her, but I don't.

The table in place by its twin, I spin around on my heel and lean against the edge of the counter to survey the empty space. The templates we've made litter the floor, some laid out neatly around the edges and others scattered around haphazardly.

"Ok," I say, clapping my palms together. "Last one's the island layout, so we need the ovens, ranges, and fryer in the middle. Everything else around the perimeter."

This is the third option from the architect, but we've long since surpassed three iterations of organizing the templates. We've been at this for hours now, testing and tweaking each of the layouts.

That's my fault; I know I'm being excessively nitpicky. But every awkward spot, every choke point we can eliminate will mean smoother service.

"Poor flow causes distractions," I'd told Bella when she'd first let a complaint slip. "And distractions cause fuck ups."

Now, we're hopefully nearing the finish line.

"Sinks?" Bella asks. She's bent at the waist to pick up the templates for the ranges from the floor. I open my mouth to answer—and lose not just my train of thought but the whole damn tracks for a moment. Because the hem of her t-shirt slides up to reveal a sliver of skin at her waist.

I blink and look away quickly, clearing my throat. "Handwashing sink by the in door," I say when I've regained control of myself. "Prep sink over here by me."

She's upright again, thank God, and throwing a cardboard sheet the size of her torso at me like a frisbee. It sails across the room and I catch it with both arms.

"Nice throw," I say with a grin.

"What did I say about the commentary?" She doesn't smile back, per se, but the sparkle in her eyes gives her away.

"It's part of the package, Swan," I say with exaggerated gravity. "Welcome to back of house."

She rolls her eyes, but the smile she's tamping down is winning the battle.

I'm starting to be able to read her, and I'm enjoying it a little too much.

With everything laid out, I walk the flow from storage to prep, to the line, to the pass. It flows all right, but I think I can see a potential issue.

"C'mere," I say to Bella, who's been watching me frown at the floor with a raised brow. She takes a few tentative steps closer. I rest my hands lightly on her shoulders when she's in reach, making her squawk indignantly, but she lets me steer her into the spot I want her.

"Hold your arms like you're sautéeing something," I command.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing aloud at her awkward hand motion. Honestly, it looks less like she's gripping a sautée pan and more like a—

Gently, I take hold of her elbow and show her the motion I want. I can admit it's partially an excuse to touch her, but also I really need to stop her handjob-esque movements before I embarrass myself. "Like this."

The skin of her arm is impossibly soft, especially in contrast to the thick calluses of my fingertips. I can spot a little color rising in her cheeks, but she starts moving the arm back and forth instead of up and down, thank Jesus and whichever poor beleaguered saint is responsible for monitoring my inappropriate thoughts.

"Perfect," I say, releasing her elbow. The pads of my fingers are tingling. "Keep doing that."

I whirl around so we're back to back, facing the service area where dishes will be plated and set on the pass for pickup. I move my hands like I'm plating a finicky dish, holding an invisible squeeze bottle in one and a clean towel in the other.

"Now turn around like you're gonna hand off the dish," I say to Bella over my shoulder.

I catch her eyes on me again, but I ignore the temptation to stare back. Instead, I crouch down to where the dishes will be stacked, as though seeking a ramekin or side plate.

And immediately get thumped in the side with her hip, her arm flinging into my ribs.

Just as I suspected.

Bella's mortified, jumping back with a too-loud apology, but I just straighten with a grin.

"And there you have it," I say with great satisfaction. "Too tight on this side. If you'd really had a hot pan in your hands, I'd probably have some new burns to add to the collection."

Her eyes flick automatically to my hands again, and I can see her looking at the old, shiny scar that runs from the base of my thumb to my forearm.

"That one's from a run-in with a hot fry basket," I say casually. "Squealed like a bitch but I managed not to drop the fries at least."

She winces. "Yikes."

I shrug; just one in a long line of burns and cuts and crush injuries. I'm more focused on the problem I've just uncovered.

"So," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's too tight through here. I say we rotate the pass to the short side of the room. More space in the walkway and it's closer to the dish station for restocking clean plates."

Another round of placement, more tests. Bella's quiet through most of it, and I think she must be really getting annoyed with me.

It takes a few more adjustments, but I'm finally running out of problems to solve.

"Yeah, this is getting real close," I say as I take one more pass around the perimeter. "Better than the zone approach by a mile."

Bella lets out a gusty sigh. "Of course," she mutters.

"What?"

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "You would pick the most expensive plan. Gonna have to run the gas lines under the floor for that."

I shoot her a not-so-apologetic grin. "Shouldn't have given me the option if you didn't want to pay for it."

"Pricey layout, pricey sous…what's next, designer toques?"

I raise my shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, all innocence. "What can I say, I've got good taste."

"Whatever," she mutters, and I know I've won. "Want something to drink?"

We're rapidly approaching hour five of this little project, with no breaks. Suddenly, I realize how desperately thirsty I am.

"Seltzer, if you have it? Non-alcoholic, I mean," I add hastily.

Some inscrutable smile flits across face at this request, but she nods. "Be right back."

I can hear her tread on the stairs as she zips up to the apartment, the steps fading the further away she gets. When she reappears, she's holding two open bottles of Topo Chico.

"Hope you don't mind plain. I don't have any of the fancy flavors," she says, holding one out to me.

"This is great, thanks." I take the glass bottle from her, careful not to brush against her this time. I take a long pull, and when I lower the bottle, she's watching me with a thoughtful expression on her face.

I raise my eyebrows at her in question.

Her lips part, she takes in a breath to prepare to speak—and then shuts her mouth again.

"What?" I prompt.

"What, what?" she responds, rolling her bottle between her hands.

"You were gonna say something."

"No I wasn't."

I sigh in exasperation. So we've arrived at the inevitable clamp-down part of our interaction. At least she's predictable.

"Swan. C'mon."

"Is that a thing now? Calling me Swan?" She tries to sound light—as if it'll deflect me.

I give into the irritation and roll my eyes. "Just showing respect for the boss," I say sardonically, and she snorts into her seltzer.

I give her a moment, to see if she'll come to it on her own.

No dice.

"Bella." I've dropped all pretense of banter now, voice firm. "Tell me."

"Fine," she relents, arms folding over her chest in a very transparent bid at self-protection. "Your pick for sous." Her eyes flicker up to me, down, up again, before dancing away toward some distant spot over my shoulder. "Rosalie."

"Hale," I supply patiently. "You know her?"

"No." She's picking at the yellow label now, avoiding my eyes. I watch her fingernail catch an edge of the paper, listen to the soft ripping sound when she pulls. "I was just curious…You had her name ready to go, no hesitation." Her gaze lifts to mine again. "Why?"

I blink, a little surprised at the question. "Well…because she's the best."

One of those dark, slim brows lifts skeptically, and I think I know what's going on here.

I sigh, rubbing a hand against my jaw. "Look," I say, my mind moving fast. "You need a sous that you can trust 100% to have your back when the chips are down. But a sycophant, that's not gonna work either."

"A collaborator, not a doormat."

A slow smile spreads across my face of its own accord—I like hearing my words from her mouth. "Exactly. And Rose is decidedly not a doormat. Plus, she's a great people manager. I'm…not always."

I duck my head self-consciously, but what I can see of Bella's face reveals no reaction to this admission. "Rose can train anybody with even an ounce of try into a world-class line cook," I continue. "She's tough, but smart about when to ease off. With her running the line, I can focus on the big picture, because I know she's got all the details locked in."

I lift my chin again to get a better look at her. She's nodding slowly, gaze unfocused, two fingers covering her lips.

"God, I really can't read you for shit," I say wryly. And I was just thinking I was starting to get her. "What's that look about?"

"Nothing," she says absently, automatically.

The irritation flares again, hot and tight in my chest, and I set my bottle down with a little more force than I intend, the clink of glass on steel rattling up my arm. "Stop that," I snap.

That catches her attention. "What?"

"Shutting me out." I point an accusing finger at her. "We're supposed to be a team. If you're worried about something, you have to tell me. I can't help you if I don't know what's on your mind."

She has the decency to look abashed, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, but she doesn't say anything.

"Is it because I said she's got a strong personality?" I prompt. "You think she'll try to take over or something?"

"No!" Those brown eyes fly open wide, shocked. "It's not that." She's still worrying her lip. I try not to stare. "Honestly…ugh, this is gonna sound stupid."

"Try me," I say, coaxing.

Bella sighs, resigned. "When you first brought her up, I was impressed that you picked a woman," she admits. "No offense—just…you know."

I nod in acknowledgment, all too aware of the way things went for her at her last restaurant job.

She soldiers on. "But then later, I got to thinking, so I looked her up…"

The truth of the matter hits me then, glaringly obvious and patently ridiculous. I know what photos show up when you Google Rose—a hell of a lot of bikini shots, courtesy of her complete lack of modesty and very popular Instagram account.

A chuckle escapes me, but Bella's hateful glare stops me in my tracks.

"No, I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh," I say quickly, holding up an apologetic hand. "I know exactly where your mind went. She's…"

"Kind of a bombshell," Bella supplies tightly.

I fear I might crack a rib from holding in my laughter. "So you thought maybe we had something going on?"

Any hint of a blush shows on her pale skin, but I've never seen her quite this red before. "Look, it's not my business what you do," she says, shifting her weight in plain discomfort. "But if my head chef and sous are…in a relationship or whatever, I need to know. Because I can't afford drama."

That bubble of something is back again, filling the space between my lungs. I do my best to ignore it.

"No," I say firmly. "No way, never, no how. We know each other way too well, for one."

But Bella still looks dubious.

"Two," I continue doggedly, counting off with my fingers, "she scares the shit out of me. And three, not to get too personal, but she's not really my type."

Something flickers on Bella's face. Alarm, yes, but relief, and maybe a hint of interest?

For a second, I'm engulfed in a wave of triumph. But then I hear Alice's voice in my ear: "Watch yourself. She's your boss."

I stamp the elation down ruthlessly.

"And all that aside," I say with a conviction I definitely don't feel, "I know better than to shit where I eat."

There's a beat, not even a full heartbeat, before the shutters clang shut on Bella's expression.

"Good," she says decisively, taking another swig of her seltzer.

I can't stop myself from eyeing the line of her throat as she tips her head back.

"So you're still good if I give her a call?" I force myself to ask.

"Yeah, that's great."

Silence reigns again. There's not even any music in the background; the playlist ended long ago, and we never bothered to put something else on. It's just her and me, and the heavy thing between us that I think we're both starting to realize isn't going away.

Something gives, and Bella straightens up, all business again. "Well. I'm gonna write up our notes for the architect," she says, as though the last few minutes have been nothing more than a standard personnel discussion. "You should go work on the menu. I'd like to see a proposal for structure and price points by Wednesday, please."

I have the strangest sensation of loss, seeing her putting on the role again. I give her an ironic little salute to cover it up. "Can do, boss."

That almost makes her smile. "Cut the cute shit, chef," she says. "This is a professional workplace."

"Heard, boss."

She rolls her eyes, but the curve of her mouth holds. The bubble trembles.

"I'll send you the rest of my feedback on the dishes from dinner, too." She gathers up the laptop, juggling the seltzer in one hand so she can tuck the machine under her other arm.

"Sure thing."

"All right…" Bella pauses at the door, sending me one final searching glance. "See ya."

I send her a crooked smile in return, and then she's gone, back up the stairs, to hide behind the door she's rightfully declared off-limits to the likes of me.

Author's Note: I will be rejoining the world of the gainfully employed soon after 3+ months of funemployment! Appreciate all the concern and well-wishes. As they say, sometimes these things are for the best; the new job is a pretty big step up from the old gig I think. Mr. Vague and I will be dining at L'Orange soon to celebrate—Portlanders and assorted visitors, consider this your official recommendation. It's another big inspiration for Cygnet, alongside our "old" favorite OK Omens.

Anyway, working to get as much of this story down as possible before the new gig starts. I'm assuming onboarding will take up a chunk of my mental energy, so I'm trying to have a few chapters squirreled away in case I need to slow down the writing for a bit. It's been pouring out of me since my little brain break so I think we'll be just fine :)

Footnotes:

Back of house, or BOH, is the catch-all term for the non-public facing areas (and staff) of a restaurant—mostly cooks and dishies. Front of house, or FOH, would include servers, hosts, bartenders/somms, etc.

A toque is the big white chef's hat.

Heard is one of the common responses to an instruction in a kitchen, to confirm that you've (duh) heard it and are on it. Yes, chef being the more famous variation, thanks to the Bear helping many people discover the sexual allure of the dirtbag line cook archetype. (Don't worry, that one will have its time to shine in this story!)