Derek's POV
The restaurant breathes differently at 6 AM—before the chaos, before the customers, before I have to become the version of myself that everyone expects.
I flip the lights in the kitchen and watch the stainless steel surfaces come alive, gleaming under the fluorescents. The prep cooks won't arrive for another hour.
Right now, it's just me and the silence of a space I've loved since I was twelve years old, trailing behind my father and asking why the risotto needed constant stirring.
Because patience creates perfection, Dad had said, not looking up. And perfection is what separates us from everyone else.
I run my hand along the pass, checking for dust that doesn't exist. Maria, our front-of-house manager, would never allow dust. She would probably murder dust in its sleep if dust had the audacity to settle on her surfaces.
The walk-in hums its familiar song as I inventory the produce delivery—heirloom tomatoes from the farmers' market, microgreens that cost more per ounce than some people's hourly wages, the obscenely expensive wagyu that our regulars love.
This is where I make sense.
Here, in the controlled chaos of service, in the alchemy of turning ingredients into experiences—this is where Derek McKinney becomes someone worthy.
I grab the clipboard from Maria's station and start the morning checklist, my handwriting slanting across the page in the same loops I've been making since culinary school.
Tyler used to mock me for choosing this path—playing with food while he chased glory on racetracks—but he never understood.
And honestly? I never understood him either.
The racing, the speed, the constant flirtation with death—it makes no sense to me.
But Tyler doesn't want my opinion—he wants my admiration, my envy, my acknowledgment that his path is somehow more worthy than mine.
And maybe in our father's eyes, it is. Racing is glamorous. Racing is headlines and champagne showers and interviews where reporters hang on your every word.
Hospitality is invisible. Hospitality is making sure no one notices the work that went into their experience—because if they notice, you've already failed.
Tyler will never understand that the hardest thing in the world isn't going fast.
It's making someone feel like they matter. It's creating a moment so perfect that a stranger walks out of your restaurant believing, even briefly, that life is worth savoring.
He chases adrenaline while I chase connection. And neither of us will ever admit we're running from the same thing.
My phone buzzes with a vendor confirmation for the weekend's specialty menu. I respond with a thumbs up emoji, then pocket the device and head to the front of house.
The dining room is all soft morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, tables set with precision, each napkin folded into the same origami-adjacent shape that took our servers three weeks to master.
I adjust a water glass that's a millimeter off-center. Then another. Then a third.
Control freak, Sasha used to call me, laughing. You act so laid-back, but you're just as wound up as your brother. You just hide it better.
Her name surfaces without permission, dragging memories behind it like anchors.
I can still see her face when I close my eyes—the kind of beauty that snuck up on you rather than announced itself. Dark hair she wore in a messy braid most days, loose strands always escaping to frame her face.
Freckles scattered across her nose like someone had flicked a paintbrush at her skin. Eyes the color of honey in sunlight, warm and searching, always seeing more than I wanted her to see.
She had this gap between her front teeth that she hated and I loved. Said it made her look like a kid. I told her it made her smile unforgettable. She'd roll her eyes, but she stopped covering her mouth when she laughed after that.
Two years together, freshman through junior year of college. I thought we'd figure out life side by side—graduate, travel, maybe open a restaurant of our own someday.
I was ready to propose. Had the ring picked out and the speech memorized.
Then she sat me down in our favorite coffee shop, her hands wrapped around a mug she wasn't drinking from, and told me she'd fallen in love with someone else.
Her name was Meredith. They'd met in an art history seminar. Sasha had spent months trying to convince herself the feelings weren't real, weren't valid, weren't worth destroying what we had.
I'm so sorry, she kept saying, tears streaming down her face. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know I was—I didn't know.
I held her while she cried. Told her I understood. Told her I wanted her to be happy, even if it wasn't with me. Played the supportive ex-boyfriend so convincingly that our friends praised my maturity, my grace, my emotional intelligence.
No one saw me afterward. No one saw me drive to the beach and scream into the waves until my throat bled raw. No one saw me delete every photo, every text, every trace of a future that had evaporated overnight.
And no one saw me decide, in the wreckage of that moment, that I would never let anyone have that power over me again.
The kitchen door swings open, and Maria strides in with the energy of a general preparing for battle.
"You're here early," she observes, not breaking stride as she heads for her station.
"Couldn't sleep." I flash her my most charming grin. "Figured I'd make myself useful instead of staring at the ceiling."
She studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing—never have, not since I was a kid underfoot in my father's first restaurant, begging to help fold napkins.
"You look tired. Woman trouble?"
"When isn't it?" I deflect.
She snorts, dismissing me as she always does, and starts barking orders at the prep cook who's just shuffled through the back entrance.
I check my phone again. Front-of-house schedule for today: full staff, no problems, smooth sailing.
Except my phone buzzes with a text from Jenna, one of our best servers.
Jenna: So sorry, Derek. Food poisoning. Can't make it in today.
Before I can process, another buzz. Henry this time.
Henry: Family emergency. My sister went into labor three weeks early. Heading to the hospital now.
Two servers down. Two hours until we open. A fully booked Saturday brunch that I cannot, under any circumstances, fuck up.
Saturdays are our bread and butter—the day when every table turns twice, when the tips flow like wine and the kitchen runs hot enough to forge steel.
We've got a party of twelve celebrating an anniversary, a food blogger with forty thousand followers who specifically requested the chef's table, and a waitlist that stretches into next week.
If I let service collapse because I couldn't manage a staffing crisis, Maria will never let me live it down. And worse—I'll have proven every doubt my father has ever harbored about my ability to run this place without him.
I take a breath. Then another.
Think. Who can you call? Who owes you a favor? Who—
I need someone who can move fast under pressure. Someone who won't freeze when orders pile up and customers start getting impatient. Someone with experience…
Ellie the Ghost Girl.
Dad mentioned she worked at a diner back in Oklahoma when he first told us about her. And I bet my dear step-cousin is now sitting alone in the mansion, doing nothing because she has nowhere else to be.
I pull up her contact and start typing.
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