Author's Note: Happy Monday! Have a lil snack.

- twelve: side work -
bella

I spend the rest of Edward's first week—and part of the second—finding excuses to avoid being alone with him. A highly logical and totally strategic way to kick off this whole endeavor, really.

I keep him busy with menu planning, and try to keep our in-person run-ins to times when others are in the restaurant. The architect, Carlisle, the contractors I'm interviewing. Brief, to-the-point chats. I stay on the move.

To give myself the tiniest bit of credit, I do try to keep in mind the realization I'd had that day in the kitchen—how crazy he must have felt with me ping-ponging back and forth between professional and friendly and flirty and cold. I think about the way his face had changed when I'd told him honestly what I thought about his cooking, and the way he called me out for holding back my doubts about Rosalie Hale.

He was right, of course. Just because I'm losing my mind doesn't mean his life has to be miserable.

So as I promised I would, I write him a long email with all my thoughts on his trial menu. The things I loved but also what needed tweaking to work for Cygnet. I give him my first draft of the wine list, with all my off-the-wall, uncensored, unedited descriptions and tasting notes. I send him the market research, the dining room moodboard, the branding and logo concepts, the idea I'd had for a neighborhood happy hour, inspired by something my dad used to do.

And he answers, with long, detailed, whip-smart and often laugh-out-loud funny responses to all my thoughts and plans.

Which, frankly, is not helping The Situation.

The Situation being this: the chemistry between us has crossed the line from creative alchemy into a pheromone haze.

At least, for me. He seemed cool as ever through that first shift together. There had been some small things—casual touches that seemed not quite strictly necessary, flickers of something on his face that I only caught glimpses of—

I groan and slam my head on my desk as I catch myself. It's like I'm in fucking high school again, reading a Cosmo quiz to convince myself I'm not a total sad sack. "Ten Signs Your Chef Is Feeling It, Too"—and the prize for a positive result is a surefire method to blow up my business before it even opens.

I genuinely do not have time to be obsessing over this. Ever. But especially not right now. The architect has finally sent me the revised plans and I need to package everything up for our permitting application tonight. Two weeks for a response, and then hopefully we can get construction started.

I've already run the initial concepts by my contact with the county on an informal basis, just to be sure we were on the right track, but the official process is still a gamble. If we get rejected, it could delay us for weeks, even months.

I'm quadruple-checking the application form when I hear a door slam downstairs.

"Swan?" a familiar voice calls from the stairwell. "You up there?"

Shit. Never should have given him the keys.

My hand automatically flies up to my hair, trying to gauge just how much of a mess it is—

Stop it, I tell myself.

"Yeah," I call back. "In the office."

His tread is heavy and quick as he climbs, and he appears in the doorway in moments.

Not enough time to prepare myself for the sight of him in yet another stupid plain t-shirt. Isn't it still chilly enough for a hoodie? Or at least long sleeves?

Discipline. I don't look down at his forearms.

"Hey," he says, and there's that lopsided smile. "Sorry to bug you—I was just walking by and saw the light was on up here."

I lift a shoulder, as though I'm indifferent. At least I have a decent poker face. "More admin shit. Never ends." I'm trying to keep my eyes on the laptop screen, but they keep drifting. "What's up?"

This is as much invitation as he's going to get, and he seems to know it. Hands in his pockets, he inches forward, out of the doorway.

"I just got off the phone with Rose," he says. "She's got a couple days off next week, wanted to know if it's a good time to come down and see the place. Meet you."

"Yeah, sure," I say, like it makes no difference to me. "Bring her by whenever."

"Tuesday?"

"Whenever," I repeat flatly.

It's not that I don't want to meet her—I do—but I haven't quite let go of the impression that Edward was just a little too quick pulling her name out of the hat.

Which is unbelievably unfair, since I know what it's like to be a woman in a male-dominated job. Things have improved somewhat in the service industry over the last few years, but she came up in some tough conditions. She's likely the best of the best, to make it to sous in the kitchens she's worked in.

I force myself to look up at Edward and smile—I don't want to be the kind of girl who's threatened by another woman just because she's beautiful. "Really, anytime," I say, with a bit more warmth in my tone. "Happy to work around her schedule."

"Cool." The far corner of his mouth lifts to complete the smile. "I was thinking maybe we could show her around the city too, if you're up for it. She's open to moving, but it'd be good to roll out the red carpet, you know?"

Something in my throat spasms, and I have to work to hide the panic in my expression. "I don't know about that," I say quickly—too quickly. "I've got more contractors coming out that week, and I really have to get the exterior finished."

Watching his smile disappear is like taking a bullet.

Well, maybe that's a touch hyperbolic. A paintball, let's say. But a paintball straight to the gut.

Regardless, it makes me feel like a complete piece of shit.

The disappointment on his face is reforming itself, morphing into something deliberative. I can see him weighing some decision in his mind.

I'm opening my mouth to—what, apologize?—when he suddenly steps forward and grabs the chair on the other side of my desk. He flips it around and straddles it, legs spread and arms resting on the back.

I look away.

"Look," he says bluntly, "did I do something to piss you off?"

Caught off-guard, I sputter a bit. "Of course not!"

"Because it sure seems like you've been avoiding me."

I wince. Dammit.

"I'm not," I say, forcing myself to speak calmly.

The look he shoots me is as pointed as a knife.

I sigh, rubbing at my temples with one hand, which has the additional benefit of blocking him from view. "I'm sorry, I've just got a lot on my plate." I drop the hand, permitting myself a glance. "I'm used to working alone, and I just…"

Seeing his pursed lips and knitted brow, I trail off. His eyes dart back and forth between mine, searching for something.

"Is it because of last Monday?"

Alarm shoots through me. "What do you mean?" My voice is high-pitched and tight, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks.

"Only…" He pauses, rubs a knuckle over his lips. His own face is starting to look a little pink-tinged, and his gaze zips around the room, looking anywhere but me.

Finally, he sucks in a deep breath, like he's to step off the edge of something. "Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped with the layout stuff," he says. "I didn't mean to take over like that."

A rush of relief flows through me—but there's a twinge of disappointment, too. I was sure, sure he was going to bring up that crackle of energy between us. It would be a catastrophe to have that out on the table…but it'd also be confirmation that I wasn't the only one who felt it.

"The truth is, I like working with you," he says with great sincerity, and only a little embarrassment. "And I think…I think we could be friends. I'd like to be."

The flicker gutters unsteadily. Friends…somehow, it's too much and not enough. But that means it's safe, right? A good middle ground, something solid to build on.

"So would I." I offer a tiny smile in return. He's baring his soft underbelly to me right now, and I feel the need to reciprocate. Well, after I get past the defensive instinct to lash out, of course. "And I'm sorry, too. I know I've been acting like a bit of a control freak."

To his credit, Edward doesn't react to this vast understatement.

I push on. "Like I said, I'm still getting used to working with someone else. Cygnet…matters a lot to me. I want to get it right." I'm thinking of Charlie now, of all the dreams he had for this place—dreams he pushed aside to give me a shot at my own—and my throat tightens.

Like he can see inside my head, Edward reaches across the desk. It looks like he's gonna grab my hand, but stops halfway there, letting his palm rest on the wood. There if I want it, but not insistent. "I know," he says, and for a second, I feel like I'll tip headlong into his deep gaze. "And I want to help you get it right. If you'll let me."

The flame burns a bit brighter now, stronger. I slide my hand across the desk to touch his where it rests, just a brush of fingers.

"Thank you," I say. "I—I appreciate that."

There's a breath where we're just looking at each other, the weight of all the unspoken things heavy in the air.

Edward's the first to break our eye contact, looking down at his feet. He gives me an awkward pat on the back of my hand, then we both retreat at the same time, pulling our arms back into ourselves.

I swallow hard, clear my throat, trying to force down the lump of emotion that's appeared.

"Since you're here," I say, deliberately changing the subject, "any chance I can get your eyes on the permit forms before I submit them?"

He flashes that cheeky grin, but there's still something soft in his gaze. "Sure thing."

It doesn't solve anything, not really. But there's a new lightness to my shoulders as we slog through the paperwork. Maybe, just maybe, there's a path forward.

I watch him from under my lashes as he nudges me into hitting submit on our application. Yeah, he's good looking. But he's a good partner, hard-working and thoughtful and confident in a way that shores me up. And, of course, a damn good chef. Those are the reasons I hired him. And if I can focus on that, I think I can learn to put aside the more distracting points.

Friends. Yeah, I think, I can do that.

And if later, my eyes follow Edward through the window as his long legs carry him down the street toward his house, at least there's nobody there to see.

Footnotes:

Side work is the tasks you do around your immediate role in a restaurant when things are "quiet"—rolling silverware, cleaning, etc.