The Girl Who Read The Dating Manual

rule three: silence is never the answer

“And we’re done for the night!” I heard Will’s call bounce through the large confines of the kitchens, and heard a few whoops of relief that finally the dinner rush of Rive La Belle had died down. Beside me, Donna the new sous chef and Brayden the sauce-maker traded relieved high-fives. “Good work, everybody.”

            It wasn’t like working at Rive La Belle was bad—because, trust me, with the pay and company, it really wasn’t—but when you’re working a nine-hour shift late into the night hours, it does grow tiresome. And when you spend your whole time whipping up creams and baking cakes, it definitely grows painful and tedious.

            Will appeared at the front of the benches and consulted the memo, which would show whose turn it was to do the cleaning. “Payton, Rob and Brayden, you’re on cleaning duty with me tonight.”

            “Aw, seriously?” Brayden complained, stomping his foot in the manner of a wronged child. “I swear I did it last time.”

            Donna, a thirty-something single mother of two, stuck out her tongue and put down her saucepan. “Ha. Sucker.”

            I dusted off my flour-covered hands and walked up to Will, pitching my voice low so nobody else heard. “Will, I’m pretty sure it’s my turn to clean up tonight.”

            He winked. “I traded your shift for tonight with Brayden’s. Go home and spend some time with your friends, okay?” He kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, love.”

            Butterflies swarmed in my stomach at his soft tone, and I smiled and turned around. I made my way through the loud kitchen as someone changed over the country channel for their own playlist, and other chefs began the haul to the lockers to get ready to go home.

            I walked to my locker and shucked off everything, grabbing out my messenger bag and grabbing out a spare change of clothes to get changed into. I walked into the bathrooms adjacent to the lockers and then stripped off my apron to pull on a t-shirt and trench coat over the top of a black camisole, and then traded my dress pants for jeans. I only ever did this when I’d had some kind of kitchen accident—which included, but was not limited to—flour incidents, exploded desserts, cringe-worthy chocolate eruptions, and falls into sweets. Tonight, I’d done the fun flour challenge, where you accidentally drop a bag of flour onto yourself. Oops.

            Lila appeared beside me, a spritzy brunette with wild hazel eyes and a large smile. She was only about twenty, and, with her pink streaks and many piercings, you could already tell she was a bundle of energetic joy.

            “Hey, Candi!” she greeted, pulling off her apron and pulling a black sweater over the top of her black tee.

            “Hey, Lil,” I said, putting my flour-soaked garments back into the sports bag. “Rough night tonight, huh?”

            She grinned and put her nose stud back in, before flipping her overgrown fuchsia bangs back. “Definitely. I mean, it’s fantastic for the business, but not so great for us cooks.”