Ellie's POV
My phone buzzes at 6:43 AM with a message that reads like someone typed it while sprinting through a burning building.
Derek: KITCHEN EMERGENCY. Two servers called out. Restaurant opens in 90 min. Can you help? Will pay you. Will owe you my firstborn. Please please please.
Tyler is somewhere behind a closed door. I can still taste him on my lips, still feel the phantom pressure of his body pinning mine to that mattress, the way his mouth claimed what I didn't consciously offer.
The memory makes my skin flush with equal parts shame and want, and I hate that I can't separate the two.
Zack is already gone, his car missing from the garage when I checked. Probably fled before dawn to avoid the awkwardness of breakfast, the possibility of our eyes meeting across the table while we both pretended his hands hadn't mapped my body several nights ago.
My fingers hesitate over the screen.
Should I even go?
I didn't peg Derek for a cheater—but then again, what do I actually know about Derek McKinney beyond the warmth he radiates and the way he makes me feel seen?
But the alternative is staying here, suffocating. I type the answer back.
Me: On my way.
Derek responds instantly with an address and a promise that an Uber is already en route. Despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips.
There's an attentiveness to Derek that catches me off guard every time—the way he anticipated I'd need a ride before I could even think about logistics
The Uber drops me in front of a restaurant I've only seen in magazine spreads—all exposed brick and copper fixtures and the kind of understated elegance that whispers money rather than screaming it.
Derek meets me at the service entrance, his hair a disaster, his apron already stained with what looks like balsamic reduction.
"You're an angel," he breathes, shoving fabric into my hands. "A literal, actual angel sent from heaven to save my ass from complete professional destruction."
"I've actually worked in a restaurant before," I tell him as I tie the apron strings behind my back. "A diner back in Oklahoma. Nothing like this, obviously, but I know my way around a tray."
"I'm sure you do." He spins me by the shoulders and points toward a woman with silver-streaked hair barking orders at a terrified busboy. "Follow Maria. Do everything she says. You'll be fine."
"Derek, this place is a bit more upscale than—"
But he's already gone, disappearing through the kitchen doors.
Maria takes one look at me and sighs with the resignation of someone who has seen every disaster this industry can produce. "New girl?"
"Brand new. As in, I literally walked in thirty seconds ago."
"Perfect." She shoves a tray of water glasses into my hands. "Table twelve needs these. Table seven needs their check. Table three has been waiting on bread for ten minutes. Go."
I go.
The next four hours blur into a symphony of aching feet and shouted orders and the particular kind of adrenaline that comes from moving faster than your brain can process.
Thank God for Rosie's.
All those early morning shifts, all those truckers who wanted their coffee refilled before they finished asking, all those families who let their kids throw food on the floor and never tipped more than ten percent—it prepared me for this.
Customers are customers everywhere. The entitlement wears fancier clothes here, but the demands are identical.
By the time the last customer leaves and the front-of-house lights dim, my calves are screaming and my lower back has lodged a formal complaint.
I collapse into a booth near the bar, letting my head fall back against the leather.
Derek appears with a bottle of wine and a basket of breadsticks, sliding in across from me, groaning like he has survived a war.
"You," he announces, pouring two glasses, "are a goddamn miracle worker."
"I dropped a tray of appetizers in the first hour." I accept the wine gratefully. "The woman at table nine looked at me like I'd murdered her firstborn."
"That was the lobster bisque, and honestly, she deserved it. She sent her steak back three times." He tears a breadstick in half and hands me the larger piece. "Seriously though, you moved like you'd been doing this for years. Most people freeze under that kind of pressure, especially in an unfamiliar kitchen."
"Three years at a diner teaches you plenty." I take a bite of bread. "Rosie's was smaller, sure, but Saturday breakfast rush with a hungover cook and one working coffee machine? That's its own kind of battlefield. Your place is fancier, but the fundamentals translate."
Derek's expression shifts—curiosity replacing exhaustion. "You never mentioned working in a diner until today."
"You never asked." I take a long sip of wine, letting the warmth spread through my chest. "Your servers are incredible, by the way. Maria could probably run a small country if she got bored with restaurants."
"Maria has been with us since Dad opened the first location. She's seen everything—kitchen fires, health inspector nightmares, that one time a B-list celebrity had a breakdown in the bathroom and we had to call security."
Silence stretches between us, comfortable and wine-warmed.
I swirl the glass, watching the legs trail down the crystal, and the question builds in my throat like something that needs release.
Don't ask. It's none of your business. You kissed him once—that doesn't give you rights to his bedroom roster.
But the image of that woman in his doorway won't stop surfacing, and I need to understand who I'm dealing with here.
"Can I ask you something? About the other morning?" I manage.
Derek tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his features. "Shoot."
"The girl in your room." I keep my voice even, casual. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but I came to find you and the door was open…"
"Ah." Derek laughs, rubbing the back of his neck with casual ease. "Jessica. Yeah, she's been around for a few weeks. Nothing serious."
"Nothing serious," I repeat.
"She's a fling. One of several, if I'm being honest." He refills both our glasses, unbothered by the admission. "I don't do relationships, Ellie. Don't see the point when there's so much life to experience and so many ways to experience it."
Part of me recoils at the casualness of the way he discusses women like items on a tasting menu. But another part, the part that's been burning alive for weeks, leans forward with curiosity.
"That's quite a philosophy," I say.
"Life's too short for monogamy." He leans back, spreading his arms along the booth's top edge. "Why chain yourself to one person when you could have variety, freedom, no expectations to disappoint? Everyone gets exactly what they want, nobody gets hurt."
I turn his words over in my mind, examining them from different angles.
There's something appealing about the simplicity of it—no strings, no heartbreak, just pleasure given and taken freely.
"You're judging me," Derek says, but he's smiling. "I can see it in your face."
"I'm not judging." I meet his eyes across the table. "I'm considering. It's different from what I grew up seeing. My parents were so devoted to each other that there wasn't room for anyone else. Including me, most of the time."
"And look where that got them." The words are gentle, not cruel. "The universe doesn't reward monogamy with happy endings, Ellie. It just takes and takes until there's nothing left."
"So your solution is to never give anything in the first place?"
"My solution is to enjoy what's in front of me without expecting it to last forever." He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine briefly. "You should try it sometime."
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