Off Menu
Chapter One: North & Vine
Pairing: Grant Reilly x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 8.5k
Series Summary: When a viral review puts North & Vine and its notoriously traditional chef, Grant Reilly, back in the spotlight, the last thing Grant expects is to find himself cooking alongside the woman responsible. A three-day culinary collaboration puts you in each other’s kitchens, challenging everything from technique to philosophy to Grant’s rapidly failing ability to pretend he isn’t attracted to you. Because sometimes the smallest change is enough to turn something familiar into something entirely new.
Chapter One Summary: Grant Reilly has heard your opinion of his signature duck more times than he ever wanted to. Meeting you in person is considerably more distracting. As Grant teaches you the dish that started it all, professional skepticism gives way to respect, easy banter, and the increasingly inconvenient realization that you’re pretty, funny, smart, and very, very good at what you do. By the end of day one, Grant isn’t nearly as interested in proving you wrong as he is in seeing you again tomorrow.
Warnings: age gap (Reader is younger than Grant), language, flirting, sexual tension, food/cooking, an unreasonable amount of staring at each other across kitchen counters. Eventual smut in later chapters, but nothing explicit in this one.
Author’s Note: Okay, so apparently Grant Reilly has taken up residence in my brain and I’ve decided to let him stay. This one started with me wanting to play with Grant’s whole very precise, very talented, I know exactly what I’m doing in a kitchen and considerably less about what I’m doing with this woman energy, and somehow turned into three days of two chefs teaching each other how they cook while increasingly failing to behave normally about each other. A huge thank you to the lovely people who helped me get Grant’s voice right, because I really wanted to keep that warm, dry, slightly awkward, secretly very playful thing he has going on. Chapter one is Grant’s kitchen. His dish. His rules. Unfortunately for him, you’re very pretty, very funny, and very good at your job. Enjoy, lovelies.
Xoxo, Del
Credit/Disclaimer: Grant Reilly belongs to Yes, Chef by Quinn. I don’t own the character or original source material. This fic is a transformative fanwork; the plot, Reader, and original scenes/dialogue here are mine.
Grant Reilly had watched the video six times already today.
All six had been against his will.
He stood behind the prep counter in jeans, a white T-shirt, and the worn leather apron he used when he actually intended to cook. A monitor had been positioned beside the pass, angled toward the production crew currently occupying several inconvenient portions of his kitchen.
A lighting rig stood where one of the speed racks usually lived. Black cables ran along the floor beside the stove. Someone had moved Grant’s cutting board three inches to the left to make room for a camera.
Grant reached across the counter and moved it back.
Your voice filled the kitchen behind him.
“It’s a gorgeous dish,” you said from the monitor as you studied the plate in front of you.
Grant’s hand stopped against the edge of the board.
He knew the clip. Of course he knew it. They had played the thing enough times that he could probably recite it himself, which was not information he intended to share with anyone.
He looked over despite himself.
Onscreen, you sat at one of North & Vine’s tables with his duck breast in front of you. Your sleeves had been pushed toward your elbows, and your attention remained fixed on the plate as you dragged another slice through the sauce.
There was no exaggerated reaction for the camera. You tasted, thought about it, and spoke like someone who actually knew what she was eating.
You were Kindling’s sous chef, and the social-media following had come later: short prep videos, ingredient explanations, knife skills, sauces made approachable instead of precious.
Marcus had forced Grant to watch several.
Your philosophy seemed simple enough—good food did not have to feel inaccessible.
Grant agreed. He simply had no desire to explain it to strangers on the internet.
“The duck is cooked beautifully,” you continued from the monitor as you glanced over the plate. “The sauce is balanced, every element is precise, and you can tell Chef Reilly has complete control over it.”
You took another bite before setting your fork against the edge of the plate.
“But that’s the thing about food,” you added as your expression turned thoughtful. “Sometimes one small ingredient changes the entire story.”
Grant leaned one hand against the counter.
That portion had been conveniently removed from most of the reposts.
Marcus had explained that the shorter clip performed better.
Grant still had no idea what that meant.
Onscreen, your mouth curved slightly before your gaze lifted toward the camera.
“I just want to know what would happen if Chef Reilly lost a little of that control,” you said, your voice softening just enough to make the sentence land differently than it should have.
The clip ended. Grant stared at the dark monitor.
You were discussing his food. His restraint. His precision.
So why had it sounded like that?
Maybe it was the pause before his name. Maybe it was the way your voice lowered on control.
Or maybe Grant had been alone too long.
Whatever the reason, he did not need to hear it again.
The producer lifted one hand toward the sound technician. “Run it once more.”
Grant turned toward her. “I think we have it.”
The production assistant glanced toward the equipment. “We’re still getting some interference.”
Grant followed her gaze toward the cables taped across his floor. “Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around.”
Marcus walked through the dining-room doors carrying a coffee.
“It may be coming from the man glaring at the monitor,” Marcus suggested as he crossed toward the pass.
Grant rested both palms against the counter. “I’m not glaring.”
Marcus took an unhurried drink. “You have a very expressive neutral face.”
Grant looked around the kitchen. A camera occupied part of his cold station, someone had opened a drawer he had specifically told them not to open, and a production assistant was polishing a bowl of decorative lemons.
Grant walked over and shut the drawer.
“This is my kitchen,” he said as he returned to his station.
Marcus smiled into his coffee. “There it is.”
Grant glanced toward the three cameras. “I still don’t understand why filming requires this many people.”
Marcus nodded solemnly. “Generally useful to have people when filming something.”
Grant gave him a look.
Grant knew why they were doing it.
North & Vine was still respected, but respect had not stopped weeknight tables from sitting empty. Articles had started calling the restaurant traditional and established when Grant knew perfectly well what they meant.
Old. Predictable. Then you had posted the video.
You praised his food, challenged it, and people started talking about North & Vine again. More importantly, they started making reservations.
Marcus watched him adjust a bowl of shallots. “The video helped.”
Grant kept his attention on the station. “I saw the numbers.”
Marcus’s expression softened. “I know.”
Grant placed the bowl beside the duck. “You still could’ve warned me before signing anything.”
Marcus rested his coffee against the pass. “You would’ve said no.”
Grant looked toward him. “That isn’t a defense.”
Marcus nodded toward the dining room. “People are making reservations again.”
Grant’s hands stilled. In a few hours, those tables would begin filling.
That was what mattered.
Grant adjusted the handle of the pan. “I’m doing it.”
Marcus nodded once. “You are. Three days. Today she learns your dish, tomorrow you learn hers at Kindling, and Friday you both come back here and make something together.”
Grant folded his arms. “You left out the competition.”
Marcus’s mouth twitched. “I was hoping you had.”
Grant shook his head. “There shouldn’t be a winner. If the point is learning how someone else cooks, turning it into who did it better defeats the purpose.”
Marcus gestured toward the cameras with his coffee. “Then don’t compete. Teach her, let her teach you, and cook something good Friday.”
Grant considered that. That, at least, he could do.
The side door opened before Marcus could say anything else.
Conversation around the kitchen softened.
Grant looked toward the entrance.
You stepped inside carrying a cardboard drink tray in one hand and a canvas tote over your opposite shoulder.
Grant looked.
Then looked again.
Shit.
He had seen you in the videos. Plenty of them, thanks to Marcus. That should have prepared him for what you looked like in person.
Apparently it had not. You wore jeans and a simple T-shirt beneath an apron, a patterned bandana holding your hair back.
Nothing elaborate. You looked like you had come to cook.
You were also very pretty.
Marcus had spent the last week talking about your audience numbers and the videos you made at Kindling. Somewhere along the way, Grant had started picturing the phone before the person holding it.
There was no phone in your hand now.
Only coffee. You stopped just inside the doorway and surveyed the lights, cables, and camera equipment.
“So this is casual?” you asked as you lifted your eyebrows toward the largest camera.
The producer crossed toward you with a smile. “It’ll look casual.”
You glanced toward the monitor beside the pass and found your own face frozen on the final frame.
Your expression fell.
“Oh,” you murmured as you pointed toward it. “That one.”
Grant folded his arms. “They’re big fans.”
You turned toward him. And paused.
Your gaze ran over him quickly enough that Grant might have missed it if he had not already been looking at you.
Face.
White T-shirt.
Apron.
Jeans.
Back up.
Well.
That was interesting.
You adjusted the drink tray against your hip. “Grant Reilly.”
Grant lifted his eyebrows. “You make that sound ominous.”
Your smile appeared. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Grant glanced toward Marcus. “That’s rarely good.”
Marcus lifted his coffee. “None of it from me.”
Grant looked at him. “That’s definitely not true.”
You laughed as you crossed toward the central counter.
The sound caught Grant off guard in a way he liked considerably more than he should have.
You lowered the drink tray onto the counter. “I brought coffee.”
Crew members gathered while you handed out the labeled cups, greeting people by name as you went.
Grant watched from his station until you lifted the last one and turned toward him.
“Black coffee with an extra shot,” you said as you extended it across the counter. “Unless the interview I read was old enough that you’ve developed better habits.”
Grant looked at the cup before lifting his eyes to yours. “That’s mine?”
Your confidence wavered for the first time as you checked the writing on the lid. “I hope so. Otherwise I’ve given someone an irresponsible amount of caffeine.”
Grant stepped closer and reached for it.
Your fingers brushed his against the cardboard sleeve.
He felt it. Of course he did.
Grant turned the cup enough to read the writing. “How did you know my order?”
You rested one palm against the empty drink tray. “I did a little research.”
Grant looked up.
You offered him a tentative smile. “I thought it might improve my chances of being allowed through the door.”
The joke was light, but Grant caught the uncertainty beneath it.
You had arrived expecting him to resent you.
He didn’t.
He lifted the cup slightly. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Your smile softened. “I know.”
Grant glanced at the exact order written on the lid.
That was thoughtful.
He raised his eyes to yours. “Thank you.”
You gathered the empty drink tray beneath one arm. “You’re welcome. And for the record, I really did like the dish.”
Grant glanced toward the monitor. “I heard that part too.”
Your eyes followed his. “How many times?”
Grant took his first drink. “Seven.”
You winced visibly. “Oh, God.”
Grant smiled before he could stop himself.
Your eyes snapped back toward him.
You leaned slightly closer. “Was that a smile?”
Grant turned toward his station, still fighting it. “Maybe.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Wow. I’ve been here five minutes.”
Grant checked the clock above the door. “Four.”
You followed his gaze and smiled. “Five. And I was early.”
Grant shook his head, the smile lingering despite himself.
There it was. The quickness he had noticed in the videos.
You were funny. That was going to make this much easier.
Possibly harder. He took another drink of coffee.
You lowered your tote beside the prep station and unrolled your knives.
Grant glanced over. Good knives. Used knives. The handles showed wear where your fingers naturally settled, and the blades had been sharpened recently.
Grant looked a little longer than necessary.
You caught him.
“Inspection?” you asked as you rested one hand beside the roll.
Grant nodded toward the blades. “You take care of them.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Were you expecting me not to?”
Grant’s mouth curved. “I didn’t say that.”
Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You thought it.”
Grant took another drink of coffee. “Maybe a little.”
You laughed as you reached for your chef’s knife. “At least you’re admitting it.”
Grant watched the knife settle naturally into your hand.
Good.
Marcus stepped forward from the pass. “See? This is going well.”
Grant turned toward him. “You’re still here.”
Marcus lifted his coffee. “I own half the restaurant.”
Grant pointed toward the dining room. “Go stand in your half.”
You looked toward the open doors. “Is that how you divided it?”
Marcus nodded solemnly. “I got the tables. He got everything sharp or hot.”
Grant’s mouth twitched. “That explains why you keep wandering back here.”
Marcus grinned as he pushed away from the pass. “I’ll leave you to it.”
As Marcus walked past you, he lowered his voice just enough to make the effort insulting.
“He’s been pretending not to be curious about this all morning,” Marcus told you with a glance toward Grant.
Grant looked at his business partner. “I can still hear you.”
Marcus continued toward the dining room and lifted one hand. “That’s part of the fun.”
You watched Marcus leave before turning back toward Grant.
“Are you?” you asked as you rested one hip against the counter.
Grant’s brow creased. “Am I what?”
You folded your arms loosely. “Curious.”
Grant looked toward the ingredients arranged across the counter.
He could have given you the easy answer.
Instead, he looked back at you.
“I want to see what you do with the dish,” Grant said.
Your expression softened before your mouth curved. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
Grant took another drink of coffee. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
You smiled. “So there’s room to earn one.”
Grant looked down at the cup to hide another smile.
There it was again. Was that flirting?
Maybe.
Or maybe you were just naturally like this.
Grant had not gathered enough evidence.
Yet. You stepped closer to the station and studied the ingredients.
“This is the duck from the video?” you asked as you nodded toward the tray.
Grant set down his coffee. “It is.”
You looked toward him. “You picked it on purpose.”
Grant rested one hand against the counter. “The feature is built around our signature dishes.”
You shook your head slightly. “That isn’t what I meant.”
Grant waited.
You ran your gaze over the immaculate arrangement of ingredients. “You could’ve picked something newer. Something you thought I’d approve of.”
Grant considered that before answering. “I’m not trying to win your approval.”
Your lips curved. “Not yet.”
Grant gave you a look.
You smiled wider. Okay.
Maybe he had a little more evidence.
Behind the camera, the producer clapped her hands to draw the room’s attention.
“Let’s get both of you miked and into position,” she said as she gestured toward the stations.
A production assistant approached with two microphones.
Grant held out his hand. “I can do mine.”
While he clipped it beneath his apron strap, another crew member wired yours.
Grant looked once. Briefly.
When he looked up, you were already watching him.
“Everything okay?” Grant asked as he lowered his hands.
You nodded. “Perfect.”
Your gaze dropped briefly toward the leather apron before returning to his face.
Grant cleared his throat.
The producer stepped behind the central camera and lifted one hand toward the crew. “Ready?”
Grant looked toward the ingredients. “Sure.”
You tightened the knot at your waist. “I’m ready.”
The producer signaled to the camera operator.
The red light switched on.
You moved into position beside Grant and leaned slightly over the counter to examine the station he had prepared.
Everything sat in its proper place. Everything had been measured.
Grant knew the dish well enough to make it blindfolded.
He could manage one morning of filming.
Even with you standing beside him.
Probably.
You lifted your eyes to his and nodded toward the stove.
“Alright, Grant,” you said with a small smile. “Show me the gorgeous dish.”
Grant reached for the pan and forgot what came next.
Just for a second. Oh, come on.
He had cooked this dish hundreds of times.
The small curve at the corner of your mouth suggested you noticed.
Grant set the pan over the burner.
Right. Duck.
He knew duck.
Behind the central camera, the producer lifted one hand. “Whenever you’re ready, Grant.”
Grant adjusted the pan until it sat squarely over the burner. “We’re starting with the duck.”
You glanced toward the tray beside his cutting board. “I had gathered that from the duck.”
Grant looked at you.
Your expression remained perfectly sincere for approximately half a second.
Grant smiled despite himself. “Are you planning to do that the entire time?”
You rested both palms against the counter. “Ask informed culinary questions?”
Grant reached for the tray. “Interrupt me.”
You tilted your head as though considering it. “Probably.”
The producer covered a laugh with the back of her hand.
Grant shook his head and placed one of the duck breasts on the cutting board.
He pressed two fingers lightly against the skin.
“The first important decision happens before this touches the pan,” Grant explained as he turned the breast slightly. “The meat should be cold, and the surface needs to be completely dry.”
You leaned closer to inspect it. “Cold pan too?”
Grant glanced toward you. Good question.
“Cold pan,” Grant confirmed.
You looked toward the burner. “No initial sear?”
Grant blotted the skin once more. “Not yet. If the pan starts too hot, the skin tightens before enough fat renders.”
You watched his hands. “So you’re rendering before you’re really cooking.”
Grant looked toward you again.
Okay.
You knew more than he had expected.
“You’ve done this before,” Grant observed as he set the paper towel aside.
You shrugged lightly. “Not exactly your way.”
Grant reached for his knife. “What way?”
You nodded toward the unlit burner. “We usually start ours slightly warmer at Kindling. Not hot, but not completely cold.”
Grant positioned the blade against the duck skin. “Why?”
You leaned one palm against the counter. “Different end goal. We’re usually crisping something that’s already had a longer cook.”
Grant nodded. Pressed duck thigh.
He had seen it on Kindling’s menu.
“You serve yours with plum,” Grant said as he made the first shallow cut through the skin.
Your head lifted. “You know our menu.”
Grant kept his attention on the knife. “I looked.”
Your smile appeared. “You researched me too.”
Grant made another score. “I researched the restaurant.”
You watched his profile. “Sure.”
Grant laughed under his breath.
Fine. He had looked at your page too.
That information could stay where it was.
He turned the breast and began the crosshatch.
“Watch the angle,” Grant instructed as he drew another precise line. “You want through the skin and into the fat without reaching the meat. Too shallow and it won’t render evenly. Too deep and you start losing moisture.”
You moved closer to the board.
Grant could feel your attention on his hands.
“How much does the thickness of the fat cap change the depth?” you asked as you studied the cut.
Grant stopped. Not because he didn’t know the answer.
Because that was a genuinely good question.
He looked at you.
You were still watching the knife, brow slightly furrowed in concentration.
Pretty was one thing.
Funny had already complicated matters.
Smart was going to be a problem.
“It changes it,” Grant said as he pressed the skin lightly with his thumb. “You feel it more than measure it. Some breasts need almost no pressure.”
You nodded toward the knife in his hand. “That’s why you’re barely pressing.”
Grant smiled. “Exactly.”
Your eyes lifted immediately. “I got an exactly.”
Grant shook his head as he returned to the cut. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”
Your mouth curved. “Too late.”
Grant drew the next line.
You followed the movement of his hand.
“You make that look easy,” you said as you watched the blade pass through the skin.
Grant completed the final score. “It isn’t.”
Your gaze lifted from his hands to his face. “I know. That’s what makes it impressive.”
Grant paused. Well.
That landed.
He set the knife beside the board and shifted away from the station before he could stare at you for too long.
“Your turn,” Grant instructed as he nodded toward the blade.
You stepped into the space he had vacated and reached for the knife. “Let’s see how good a teacher you are.”
Grant folded his arms as you positioned the blade. “Let’s see how well you listen.”
Your mouth curved while you lowered the knife toward the skin. “I listen very well when the instruction is interesting.”
Grant looked at you.
You were already concentrating on the duck.
Yeah.
Definitely flirting.
Maybe.
Shit.
Your grip was confident. Loose wrist. Controlled movement.
Grant watched the knife.
Then your hand.
Then, somehow, your mouth.
You had caught your lower lip lightly between your teeth while you judged the depth of the first score.
Grant looked back at the blade.
Sharp knife. Excellent reason to pay attention.
The first line appeared across the skin almost exactly where it should.
Almost.
Grant leaned forward. “A little shallower.”
You adjusted the angle immediately. “Like this?”
Grant watched the blade move. “Ease up.”
You loosened your grip and completed the second score.
You glanced toward him. “Better?”
Grant inspected the line and nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Was that encouragement?”
Grant’s mouth curved. “Don’t make me regret it.”
You smiled as you returned to the duck. “I can see why people enjoy working for you.”
Grant leaned one hand against the counter. “They do.”
The certainty in his voice made you look up fully.
He had meant it. His kitchen was demanding. Grant expected people to care. He corrected mistakes because mistakes mattered.
But his staff stayed. They learned.
Most still called him after they left.
Your expression softened.
“I believe you,” you said before returning your attention to the duck.
Grant watched your hand. The next cut angled slightly inward.
He moved before thinking.
“Hold up,” Grant said as he stepped around the corner of the station.
You stopped immediately with the blade resting against the skin. “Too deep?”
Grant reached for your wrist. “You’re turning in.”
His fingers settled around you.
Warm skin.
Steady pulse.
Oh.
Grant adjusted the angle of your wrist by a fraction.
“Here,” Grant said as he covered your hand with his.
He guided the blade forward.
The score opened cleanly beneath it.
“Let the weight of the knife do the work,” Grant explained as he kept his attention firmly on the board. “You don’t need to force it.”
Your shoulder brushed lightly against his arm.
Grant felt that too.
You glanced down toward their joined hands.
“That feels better,” you said quietly.
Grant looked at your face.
You were still watching the knife.
Probably for the best.
He released your hand and stepped back.
“Finish the crosshatch,” Grant instructed.
You did, without another correction.
Clean. Even. Controlled.
You were simply good.
Grant had underestimated you.
Fair enough.
He could admit when he was wrong.
He had not expected to enjoy watching you prove it this much.
You pressed your lips together slightly as you judged the final score, then adjusted the blade between your fingers before making one last shallow pass.
Grant caught himself watching your face instead of your hands.
Christ.
He liked competence.
Of course he did.
You set down the knife and turned toward him.
“Well?” you asked as you rested one hand against the board.
Grant inspected the crosshatch. “Clean. Even. You corrected the angle.”
You smiled. “That almost sounded like praise.”
Grant reached for the salt. “It was praise.”
That caught you.
Your eyebrows lifted.
Grant held out the bowl. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Your smile widened as you accepted it. “Yes, Chef.”
Grant laughed softly and shook his head.
He had a feeling you were making fun of him.
He also had a feeling he didn’t particularly care.
You pinched the salt high over the breast and scattered it evenly across the skin.
Grant watched your hand.
No piles.
No missed edges.
You turned the breast and repeated the motion without waiting for him to tell you how.
Grant stepped closer to the stove. “Skin-side down.”
You lowered the duck carefully into the cold pan.
Nothing happened.
No dramatic hiss.
No smoke.
You looked toward him. “That always feels wrong.”
Grant reached for the burner knob. “It isn’t.”
You watched him turn the flame low. “You don’t miss the sound?”
Grant glanced toward you. “What sound?”
You gestured toward the silent pan. “The big dramatic sear. The thing that makes everyone watching feel like cooking is happening.”
Grant looked down at the duck lying quietly against the metal. “Cooking doesn’t need to announce itself to work.”
Your attention shifted to his profile.
“You really believe that,” you said, your voice losing some of its teasing edge.
Grant looked toward you.
There was something in your expression he could not quite read.
He cleared his throat and nodded toward the spatula.
“Keep the skin flat for the first minute,” Grant instructed.
You picked it up and pressed gently against the breast.
Grant watched the meat bow slightly beneath the pressure.
“Easy,” Grant said as he moved closer.
You loosened your hand. “That’s easy.”
Grant studied the skin. “Less.”
You reduced the pressure again. “That’s barely anything.”
Grant stepped beside you and covered your hand on the spatula.
“That’s enough,” he said as he adjusted your grip.
Your fingers relaxed beneath his.
The first quiet hiss of rendering fat rose from the pan.
“There,” Grant explained as golden liquid began collecting around the edges. “You’re maintaining contact. You’re not pinning it down.”
You turned your head toward him.
The movement brought your face much closer than he expected.
Your eyes stayed on his.
“You have very strong opinions about pressure,” you observed as your mouth curved.
Grant’s own mouth twitched. “You’ve known me three hours.”
Your smile widened. “I’m learning fast.”
Grant laughed under his breath. “Apparently.”
He released the spatula and stepped back.
The producer laughed quietly behind the monitor.
Grant pointed toward the pan. “Keep that pressure.”
You nodded solemnly. “Naturally.”
Grant shook his head as he reached for the spoon.
You were absolutely doing that on purpose.
The producer leaned around the camera.
“Can we get that explanation again for the close-up?” she asked as she pointed toward the pan.
Grant looked toward her. “Which explanation?”
The producer smiled. “The part about pressure.”
You pressed your lips together.
Grant saw the laughter gathering in your eyes.
He picked up the spoon and tilted the pan.
“Use the first take,” Grant said as he began basting the skin.
The producer folded her arms. “We need it for continuity.”
Grant spooned another stream of fat over the breast. “Continuity will survive.”
You laughed beside him.
Grant smiled down at the pan.
Yeah.
He was enjoying this.
“Watch the color,” Grant instructed as he guided the fat across the skin. “You want an even gold before you start pushing the heat.”
You studied the edges closely.
“Do you ever increase the heat earlier if the fat cap is thicker?” you asked as you tilted your head toward the pan.
Grant glanced toward you.
Another good question.
“Sometimes,” Grant said as he pointed toward the edge of the skin. “But you’re not doing it because five minutes passed. You’re watching how quickly the duck is giving up the fat.”
You nodded slowly. “So the duck decides.”
Grant considered the phrasing.
Then he smiled.
“In a manner of speaking,” Grant conceded.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Look at that.”
Grant glanced toward you. “What?”
You kept your expression beautifully composed for the camera. “You let the ingredient be in charge.”
Grant held out the spoon. “Don’t get smug.”
Your smile widened as you accepted it. “Too late.”
Grant stepped aside.
You basted in smooth, controlled motions, tilting the pan just enough to gather the fat without wasting movement.
Grant watched.
He had expected to spend the morning correcting you.
Instead, he was starting to wonder what else you could do.
After another pass of the spoon, you glanced toward him.
“How long?” you asked as you tilted the pan.
Grant checked the color. “Until it’s ready.”
You turned toward him. “That isn’t a measurement.”
Grant met your eyes. “You’ll know.”
Your eyebrows rose.
Grant heard it as soon as he said it.
Your smile came slowly.
“Interesting,” you murmured as you returned to the pan.
Grant laughed once. “Oh, come on.”
You looked toward him innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
Grant folded the towel beside his board. “You didn’t have to.”
You continued basting. “I was going to say you sound a little like me.”
Grant rested one hand against the counter. “You haven’t taught me anything yet.”
You glanced up from the pan. “It’s still early.”
Grant smiled and looked toward the burner.
All right.
That one was definitely flirting.
Shit.
After another minute, you lifted the edge of the breast with the tongs and angled it toward him.
“How does it look?” you asked.
Grant stepped closer.
The skin had deepened evenly. The fat had rendered cleanly without tightening the edges.
He nodded toward the pan.
“Turn it,” Grant instructed.
You did.
No hesitation.
No fumbling for the proper angle.
Grant watched the motion, then looked at you.
You knew what you were doing.
He had known that in theory.
Seeing it two feet away was different.
“Very good,” Grant said as the second side met the heat.
You glanced toward him. “Straight to very good?”
Grant smiled. “Don’t get greedy.”
Your expression brightened. “I’m still writing it down.”
Grant picked up the thyme. “Make sure you spell my name right.”
Your laugh followed him.
Behind the camera, the producer lowered her headset.
“We’ve got the first section,” she announced as she gestured toward the crew. “Let’s reset for the sauce.”
The red light went dark.
Crew members immediately began shifting equipment. The camera operator rolled the central rig away from the stove while the producer disappeared toward the dining room with Marcus.
Grant checked the duck.
Beside him, you unclipped the microphone pack from the back of your apron and set it carefully beside the monitor.
“I figured you’d keep cooking through the break,” you said as you moved back toward the stove.
Grant reached for the tongs. “The duck doesn’t care about the shooting schedule.”
You rested one hip against the counter. “Probably the only one here who doesn’t.”
Grant laughed softly and turned the duck.
With the camera off, something about you loosened. Your voice softened, your smile lingered, and you drifted a little closer to the stove.
Grant noticed.
He noticed far too much, actually.
You leaned beside him to inspect the skin.
“That looks good,” you said as you studied the color.
Grant set the tongs down. “Give it another minute.”
You glanced toward him. “Still looks good.”
Grant looked back at the pan. “It’ll look better in a minute.”
Your mouth curved.
Grant smiled too.
The silence that followed was easy.
That might have been the nicest surprise of the morning.
Grant reached for the saucepan.
“We need to start the jus,” he said as he set it over the burner.
You turned toward the ingredients. “What do you want me on?”
Grant nodded toward the shallots. “Those. Fine dice.”
You carried them to the cutting board and picked up your knife. “How fine?”
Grant stepped closer. “Fine enough to disappear into the sauce. Not so fine they start breaking down before they hit the pan.”
You nodded once. “Got it.”
You started cutting.
Your knife work was quick and clean, the blade rocking efficiently through the shallot without bruising it.
You tucked one loose strand beneath your bandana with the back of your wrist.
Grant’s eyes followed the motion.
Then your hands.
Then your face.
Okay.
He needed to stop doing that.
You looked up. “What?”
Apparently not quickly enough.
He nodded toward the board. “Your cuts are good.”
You paused.
Then your smile appeared slowly. “Thank you.”
Grant smiled back. “Get them in.”
You scraped the shallots into the pan, and Grant stirred them through the fat.
“You really did think I’d be worse at this,” you said as you set the knife aside.
Grant glanced toward you.
There was no accusation in your tone. You sounded amused.
“A little,” Grant admitted as he stirred the pan.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Only a little?”
Grant looked at you. “Don’t push your luck.”
You laughed.
“I knew you worked at Kindling,” Grant added. “I knew you made videos. I didn’t know which part was the main thing.”
Your expression softened. “The kitchen came first.”
Grant nodded. “I know that now.”
You looked down at the shallots. “I can live with that.”
You moved closer to the stove.
“Why reduce the wine before the stock?” you asked as the shallots began to soften.
Grant looked toward you.
He knew the answer.
He wanted yours.
“What do you think?” Grant asked as he rested the spoon against the edge of the pan.
Your eyebrows rose. “Are you testing me now?”
Grant leaned one hip against the counter. “Maybe.”
Your smile flashed. “All right.”
You looked down at the pan.
The teasing disappeared from your face as you thought.
Grant watched that happen too.
Apparently concentration looked good on you too.
Fantastic.
“If I reduced them together, I’d get something softer,” you said after a moment. “More integrated.”
Grant waited.
You glanced toward the bottle of wine.
“Reducing the wine first keeps the acidity more concentrated before the stock rounds everything out,” you continued as you looked back at him.
Grant smiled. “Exactly.”
Your eyes brightened.
“There it is again,” you said as your smile returned.
Grant reached for the wine. “You earned that one.”
You leaned one hand against the counter. “I’m going to remember you said that.”
Grant poured the wine into the pan. “I figured.”
It hissed against the shallots.
You leaned slightly closer as the steam rose.
“Smells good,” you said.
Grant stirred the reduction. “It’s getting there.”
You glanced toward him. “Was that optimism?”
Grant looked at you. “Don’t ruin it.”
You laughed softly.
Grant held out a tasting spoon. “Taste.”
You did, your brow pinching slightly.
“Too sharp,” you said as you handed it back.
Grant’s brows lifted.
You caught it. “You agree.”
Grant nodded. “Yeah.”
You looked toward the pan. “Stock next.”
Grant reached for it. “Yep.”
Your mouth curved. “Very trusting.”
Grant poured the stock into the pan. “Don’t get sentimental.”
You laughed as the sauce began reducing beside you.
Then your gaze dropped to his apron.
Grant saw it happen.
Your eyes lingered for a beat before returning to his face.
“The apron was a good choice,” you said.
Grant glanced down at himself. “It’s an apron.”
Your smile grew slightly. “I know.”
You let your gaze move over him once more before meeting his eyes.
“It looks good on you,” you added.
Grant stared at you.
Oh.
There was no explaining that one away.
No camera. No producer. Just you looking at him like that.
Heat crept up the back of his neck.
“Well,” he managed.
Your smile widened.
Grant laughed at himself and looked down at the sauce.
“Cherries next?” you asked as you reached toward the mise en place.
Grant glanced at you again.
You were still smiling.
“Not yet,” Grant said as he picked up the spoon.
You settled back against the counter. “Okay, Chef.”
Grant shook his head, smiling despite himself.
He could cook with a woman who was almost certainly flirting with him.
He had managed opening nights, broken equipment, understaffed services, and one memorable electrical fire.
He could handle this.
Probably.
For a few minutes, the two of you worked in an easy quiet while the stock reduced.
Grant liked that too.
The rhythm settled quickly. Grant handed you the cherries; you pitted and halved them without asking how. You tasted the reduction and adjusted the heat before he could say a word.
When Grant reached for the butter, you were already holding it out.
He stopped.
You glanced toward him. “What?”
Grant looked at the butter, then back at you. “You’re doing that thing again.”
Your brow creased. “What thing?”
Grant took the butter from your hand. “Knowing what I’m reaching for.”
Your mouth curved. “I told you. Quick study.”
Grant dropped the first piece into the sauce. “Apparently.”
He stirred until the butter disappeared.
You reached for a clean tasting spoon.
“Can I?” you asked as you lifted it.
Grant nodded toward the pan. “Go ahead.”
You dipped the spoon into the jus and tasted.
Grant watched your expression change.
Your brow pinched slightly.
You tasted again.
“It needs something,” you said as you looked back toward the pan.
Grant rested the spoon against the edge. “What?”
You considered the sauce. “I’m not sure yet.”
Grant waited.
You didn’t immediately reach for an ingredient.
Too many cooks treated hesitation like failure and added something simply to be doing something.
You stood there and thought.
Grant watched you.
Christ.
He liked the way your brain worked.
You glanced over the ingredients beside the stove. “The cherries are giving you enough sweetness.”
Grant nodded. “They are.”
You looked toward the wine. “And I don’t think it needs more acid.”
Grant folded one arm loosely across his chest. “So?”
Your gaze moved along the prep station.
Then you reached for an orange.
Grant looked at it. “Orange?”
Your mouth curved. “Tiny bit.”
Grant leaned against the counter. “Sell me on it.”
Your face brightened immediately.
Oh, shit.
He had invited you to argue about food, and you looked delighted.
Grant found that ridiculously attractive.
“The cherries already have enough sweetness,” you explained as you turned the fruit in your hand. “I don’t want more acid. I want something that makes what’s already there feel brighter.”
Grant looked toward the sauce.
He could see it.
“How much?” he asked.
You picked up the microplane. “Trust me.”
Grant glanced toward you. “That’s not a measurement.”
Your smile widened. “Neither is ‘until it’s ready.’”
Grant laughed.
Actually laughed.
“All right,” he said as he stepped aside. “You got me. Do it.”
Your smile changed.
Not teasing.
Pleased.
You dragged the orange across the microplane once.
Then you stopped.
Grant’s eyebrows lifted.
You glanced toward him. “What?”
Grant nodded toward the fruit. “That’s it?”
You set the orange down. “That’s it.”
Grant looked at the pan.
One pass.
That was all.
You stirred the zest into the reduction and waited.
Then you held out a clean spoon.
“Your kitchen,” you said as you offered it to him. “You taste first.”
Grant took it.
The sauce was still rich and deep, but the citrus lifted the cherries at the end without announcing itself.
Grant tasted it again.
You watched him carefully.
“Well?” you asked as you folded your arms.
Grant set the spoon beside the stove.
He made you wait half a second longer than necessary.
Then he smiled.
“Yeah,” Grant said. “That’s good.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Just good?”
Grant laughed. “Very good.”
Your smile broke across your face.
Grant felt an unreasonable amount of satisfaction at causing it.
You leaned closer to the pan. “I’m starting to think you like my ideas.”
Grant picked up the towel beside the stove. “One idea.”
You pointed toward him. “I’ll take it.”
Grant looked back at the sauce.
He had expected something bigger, something designed to make the camera notice.
Instead, you had added one pass of zest and stopped.
He looked toward you, already checking the duck, and smiled.
“You know when to stop,” Grant said.
You glanced toward him. “That’s the hard part.”
Grant nodded. “Exactly.”
Your expression shifted.
The humor softened.
Grant kept going before he could overthink it.
“A lot of cooks keep adding until the original idea disappears,” he said as he stirred the sauce once. “You didn’t.”
You were quiet for a moment.
“I wasn’t trying to replace it,” you said as you looked toward the jus. “I liked it already.”
Grant glanced at you.
There was no teasing in your expression.
Just the truth.
He smiled a little.
“I know,” Grant said.
Your eyes held his for a beat.
Then Grant nodded toward the plating station.
“Come on,” he said as he picked up the duck. “Let’s finish it.”
You followed him toward the station with a smile. “Look at us. Collaborating.”
Grant set the duck on the board. “Don’t get carried away.”
You laughed and reached for the jus.
You plated together.
Grant placed the duck while you spooned the sauce around it.
He adjusted one of the turnips.
You moved the next before he could reach for it.
Grant glanced toward you.
You didn’t notice.
Or pretended not to.
He reached toward the herbs.
You held them out before he asked.
Grant stopped.
You looked toward him. “What?”
Grant took the herbs from you. “Nothing. That was good.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “The herbs?”
Grant smiled. “The anticipating.”
You studied him for a beat. “You’re getting generous.”
Grant turned back toward the plate. “Don’t tell anyone.”
You leaned closer beside him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Your shoulder brushed his.
Grant did not move away.
Neither did you.
Okay.
That was new.
Behind you, the producer called the crew back into place.
“We’re ready for final plating,” she announced as she gestured toward the station.
Grant stepped back.
You did the same.
The distance between you returned.
Grant noticed.
He glanced at you.
You glanced at him.
Then the red light came on.
The producer gestured toward the plate. “Talk me through what changed.”
You looked down at the finished dish. “Not much.”
Grant glanced toward you.
You smiled slightly.
“That was the point,” you continued as you nodded toward the sauce. “The dish already worked. I just wanted to give the cherries a little lift.”
The producer turned toward Grant. “And you let her?”
Grant folded his arms. “She made a good case.”
You turned toward him with obvious delight. “Was that public praise?”
Grant looked at you. “Don’t get used to it.”
The crew laughed.
The producer gestured toward the plate again. “Did it work?”
Grant looked down at the dish.
Then at you.
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “It did.”
Your smile softened.
Grant held your gaze a fraction too long.
The producer noticed.
He could tell from the way her eyes flicked between the two of you.
Grant looked back toward the plate.
Well.
That was probably going in the edit.
They filmed the tasting, another angle of the plating, and one last explanation of the rendering process. You stood just beyond the camera mimicking the producer until Grant caught you and laughed.
By afternoon, he barely noticed the cameras.
He noticed you instead—the questions, the competence, the way you challenged him without showing off, the way you made him laugh.
And, yes, the way you looked doing all of it.
He had underestimated you.
He liked being wrong.
More than that, he liked you.
The producer smiled between the two of you. “That’s a wrap for today.”
Grant felt the expected relief.
Then he looked toward you loosening your apron and was abruptly glad he would see you tomorrow.
You rolled your knives carefully back into their canvas case while the crew began dismantling the lights.
Grant wiped down the station beside you.
You tied the knife roll shut and glanced at the phone beside your tote.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked as you reached for it.
Grant looked up from the counter. “That depends.”
Your mouth curved. “Can I get a picture with you?”
Grant’s hand stopped against the towel.
You lifted the phone slightly. “For my Instagram. Proof you survived a day with me.”
Grant glanced toward the cameras being packed away across the kitchen. “There aren’t enough pictures already?”
You laughed as you stepped closer. “Those belong to production.”
Grant folded the towel once. “And this one?”
Your smile softened. “This one’s mine.”
Grant looked at you.
That was a perfectly normal sentence.
It had no business sounding like that.
He set the towel down. “All right.”
Your face brightened. “You say that like I asked for a kidney.”
Grant stepped around the counter. “I don’t take a lot of pictures.”
You lifted your eyebrows. “Ever?”
Grant stopped beside you. “Not voluntarily.”
Your smile widened. “I’m honored.”
You lifted the phone and angled it toward the two of you.
Grant looked at the screen.
There was a considerable amount of empty space between you.
You noticed it too.
“You have to come closer,” you said as you adjusted the angle.
Grant looked down at you. “Why?”
You glanced at the screen. “Because right now it looks like I cornered you at a conference.”
Grant laughed and stepped half a pace closer.
You looked at the screen and shook your head.
“Grant,” you said as you looked up at him.
Grant’s brow creased. “What?”
You gestured him closer with two fingers. “You’re still doing it.”
Grant moved another few inches until your shoulder settled against his chest.
It would have been entirely natural to put his hand at your waist.
He did not.
Mostly because the thought arrived loudly enough that he forgot what his face was supposed to be doing.
You looked at the screen and laughed.
“You have to smile,” you told him as you lowered the phone slightly.
Grant looked toward the camera. “I am.”
You turned your head toward him. “You absolutely are not.”
Grant looked down.
You were already looking up at him.
Smiling.
Grant smiled back.
He did not even bother fighting this one.
Your eyes brightened.
“There,” you said quickly as you turned back toward the phone.
The camera clicked.
Grant looked away, still smiling.
You lowered the phone and studied the picture.
Grant reached for the towel again. “Acceptable?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Grant glanced back toward you.
Your expression had softened.
“Yeah,” you said as you looked down at the screen. “I like this one.”
Grant stepped closer enough to see it.
You were smiling openly at the camera.
So was he.
A real smile.
Huh.
Yeah.
He liked it too.
“Good,” he said as he stepped away.
“I can send it to you,” you offered as you looked up.
Grant held out his hand. “Sure.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “That easy?”
Grant glanced toward you. “Give me the phone before I think of an objection.”
You laughed and passed it over.
Grant entered his number.
“Unless you’d prefer I communicate through Marcus for the next two days,” you said as you watched him type.
Grant handed the phone back immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Your smile widened. “Very professional.”
Grant’s mouth curved. “Obviously.”
Your thumbs moved across the screen.
His phone vibrated against the counter.
Grant glanced toward it.
A message from an unknown number waited on the screen.
Unknown Number: Proof
The picture appeared beneath it.
Grant opened the message.
A second one arrived.
Unknown Number: Try not to delete the evidence
Grant looked toward you.
You had returned to your knife roll and were fastening one of the canvas ties with an expression of complete innocence.
“Really?” Grant asked as he held up the phone.
You glanced toward him. “What?”
Grant looked back at the screen.
A third message appeared.
Unknown Number: See you tomorrow, chef
Grant smiled and typed back.
Grant: Grant is fine.
Your phone buzzed.
You looked down.
Then your smile appeared.
Your thumbs moved over the screen.
His phone vibrated again.
Unknown Number: See you tomorrow, Grant
Grant read it twice, then set the phone facedown before Marcus could somehow materialize and comment.
You picked yours back up and glanced toward the picture.
“I’m going to post this one, if that’s okay,” you said as you held the screen slightly toward him.
Grant looked at the photo again. “You’re asking me after you made me take it?”
You laughed softly. “Taking it and putting it on the internet are different things.”
Fair.
Grant nodded. “Go ahead. I trust you.”
Your smile went a little quieter. “Okay. I’ll be nice.”
Grant pointed the towel toward you. “That sounds like a threat.”
Your smile returned. “Any caption requests?”
Grant shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
Your eyes brightened. “Excellent. Total creative control.”
Grant looked toward you.
You froze for half a beat.
Then your mouth slowly curved.
Grant laughed and pointed the towel at you. “Don’t.”
You held up one hand. “I didn’t say anything.”
Grant shook his head, still smiling, and returned to wiping down the station.
Behind him, your thumbs moved across the screen.
He had absolutely no intention of asking what you wrote.
Probably.
You slipped the phone into your pocket and hoisted your tote onto your shoulder.
“Tomorrow you’re in my kitchen,” you said as you picked up the knife roll.
Grant looked up. “I remember.”
You stepped toward the side door. “Good.”
Grant glanced toward you. “Why does that sound threatening?”
Your smile widened. “Because tomorrow you have to do what I tell you.”
Grant folded the towel in his hands. “All right. Sell me on it.”
Your smile turned delighted. “I get to tell you what to do in my kitchen. What more could you possibly need?”
Grant laughed. “That’s not much of a sales pitch.”
You walked backward another step. “You did say you wanted to see how I cook.”
Grant looked at you. “I do.”
The answer came easily.
Your steps slowed.
For one brief moment, the teasing disappeared from your face.
Your expression softened.
“See you tomorrow, Grant,” you said as your hand settled against the door.
Grant nodded once. “Tomorrow.”
You pushed through the side door.
Grant watched it close behind you.
He stood there for another second.
Maybe two.
“So,” Marcus said from somewhere behind him.
Grant closed his eyes briefly.
Of course.
He turned.
Marcus stood beside the pass with his phone in one hand and an expression Grant immediately recognized.
Grant picked up the towel. “No.”
Marcus lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t say anything.”
Grant resumed wiping the counter. “You were about to.”
Marcus glanced toward the door you had just disappeared through. “You like her.”
Grant sighed as he carried an empty bowl toward the sink. “She’s good.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “She is.”
Grant set the bowl down. “She’s funny.”
Marcus’s eyebrows rose. “Wow.”
Grant pointed the towel at him. “Don’t.”
Marcus grinned.
Grant was not giving him more than that.
Marcus lifted his phone. “Production posted the first teaser.”
Grant stared at him. “Already?”
Marcus glanced toward the screen. “Apparently that’s how the internet works.”
Grant picked up another bowl. “Good for them.”
Marcus looked down at his phone, his mouth twitching.
Grant leaned one hand against the counter. “What?”
Marcus looked up. “Nothing.”
Grant narrowed his eyes. “That’s my line.”
Marcus’s grin widened. “You really don’t want to know.”
Grant glanced at the phone, then turned back to the sink. “Keep it to yourself.”
Marcus slipped it into his pocket. “Probably smart.”
Marcus pushed away from the pass. “See you tomorrow.”
Grant lifted a hand without turning around. “Go home.”
The kitchen eventually emptied. The lights came down, the monitor went dark, and someone returned the speed rack to approximately the correct position.
Grant moved it the remaining four inches himself.
Some things were still sacred.
Then he finished resetting his station.
His phone sat beside the cutting board.
Grant picked it up.
Your message was still open.
Unknown Number: See you tomorrow, Grant
Grant smiled and tapped the number at the top of the screen.
He selected Create New Contact and typed your name.
Just your name.
No Kindling. No Chef.
He hit save.
That looked better.
Grant looked back down at the thread.
You: See you tomorrow, Grant
The photo sat several messages above it.
Grant opened it again.
You were smiling.
So was he.
Well.
Shit.
Grant locked the phone and reached for the empty coffee cup beside the cutting board.
He should have thrown it away.
Instead, he looked at your handwriting on the lid, laughed quietly at himself, and carried it toward his office.
Tomorrow he would be at Kindling.
Your kitchen.
Your food.
Your rules.
Grant was looking forward to it.
Well.
Shit.
