Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

The sound of Murphy’s voice in the kitchen sends something light rippling through my chest. I glance back at her from where I’m stirring a nearly finished leek and potato soup.

“Hey. What’s up?”

She steps forward, the kitchen door swinging closed behind her, and extends a piece of paper my way.

“I was hoping you could review this before your training with the front-of-house staff later today.”

I take the sheet and glance it over, my lips kicking up when I see what she has.

“Training objectives?” I look up at her with an amused expression.

Murphy tilts her head. “I’ve been working them through a series of steps, and if you can make sure to cover these specific items, I’d appreciate it. Obviously, you’re welcome to cover whatever else you think is relevant for them to know about this space and your work. But these are the things I think are going to be the most beneficial.”

I look at the sheet again, reading over her list. Menu specifics, safety protocols, kitchen layout, tool and resource organization, expectations regarding cooking staff.

“This is great,” I tell her. “In my past kitchens, it was always menu conversations and the rest was just learned on the fly. I like this.”

I can’t help the easy smile that mirrors hers.

“How’s the training going so far?”

“Really well, actually. Everyone seems excited to learn, and we have a good mix of personalities.” She shrugs. “I don’t want to say I did an amazing job before I’ve seen them handle opening, but I’m feeling pretty good about it so far.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

Both of us stand there for a while, just looking at each other.

“Hey, listen—”

“About the other night—”

We laugh, and Murphy twists her hands together in front of her.

“Go ahead.”

I drop the burner lower and set a lid on the soup, then turn around and face her, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms.

We haven’t really talked since my breakdown outside The Standard two days ago. The reality of opening week has finally settled in, and there has been a lot on my plate. A lot on Murphy’s too, if the way she’s been running around is an indicator. And even though we’d been making a habit of meeting up at the bench, for the past couple of days I’ve been trying to recover from my anxiety attack with some alone time.

“I just wanted to say thank you again for the other night. For helping me through that.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me. I was glad to be there so I could help.”

“I was also wondering if you wanted to come over tonight. Hang out for a bit. Maybe I could make you something again.”

A smile stretches across her face. “That sounds fun.”

“Good.”

God, I could look at her forever. Every little thing about her, even the things that plenty of people would consider imperfections—the way her lips tick up to the side when she smiles and those little freckles on the bridge of her nose—are absolutely perfect.

“How’re things coming?”

The sound of Memphis’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and I don’t miss the way Murphy sidesteps around me and grabs something off the counter—a whisk—and holds it up like something she was looking for.

“Found it. Thanks, Wes!”

And then she’s smiling at her brother and walking past him, pushing through the swinging door back out to the dining room.