Page 41 of In Somnis

Here we go, another esoteric spiral. Please, God, not right now.

“Jasper.”

“She’s a Taurus, too, so obviously she knows food. I don’t have her moon sign yet, but it’s like she’s meant to be in my life. Fate, you know? I should probably ask the cards later, but I can already feel it without them, which is usually a sign that it’s important⁠—”

“Jasp,” I warn again, and he finally shuts up.

I lean toward him before he starts reciting her past lives or whatever he’s about to do next and ask loud enough that she can probably hear, “I don’t care if she’s a muffin moon or cupcake sun, why is a random short woman in my kitchen?”

Jasper giggles. The mouth of the woman in question twitches as she sets down four plates at the near end of the station, each with a perfect club sandwich.

She looks up at me with blue eyes and a confident little smirk. “The random short woman,” she says, tone dripping with I-don’t-have-time-for-your-male-confusion. “Is saving your ass. Now take these to the guests you tried to kill.”

I open my mouth, close it, open it again, but not a single brain cell steps up to help. They’ve all unionized and walked out.

The door swings open, but my focus is still locked on the stranger.

“Table 11 just ordered,” Sydney groans. “But at least it’s the last one for today.”

I swallow, still staring. “I… uh…”

The short woman exhales and turns to Sydney. “Table 11?”

Sydney hands over the ticket, not seeming shocked or interested in the new cook.

The blonde scans it, twirls a pan like she’s auditioning for a cooking show, and yells, “Ordering! Two eggs sunny, hash browns extra crispy, side of rye toast. Let’s go, people! Oh, and here,” she adds, nodding toward the plates, “Can you take those to the guests with the burned… everything, please?”

Sydney’s lips twitch into an almost smile before she grabs the plates and turns to disappear back into the dining room, and my eyes drop before my self-respect can stop them.

Jasper pats my shoulder. “Simp.”

“You literally asked the stars for dating advice last week,” I fire back.

“The stars are wise, Nev.”

“The stars are balls of gas.”

He gasps and vanishes after Sydney with a muttered, “Rude,” before I can kick him in the shins.

Cool. Great. Abandon me with the crazy cooking show woman.

I tug at my apron. Why does it suddenly feel two sizes too tight? I then drift closer because my feet are traitors. She’s already got two pans going, flipping eggs with a flick of her wrist that makes me feel as if I’ve been doing this wrong my entire life. She even seasons without looking, like her hands know exactly what the food needs before her brain does.

She’s completely at home in a kitchen that isn’t hers, with tools she never used before. I watch her adjust her grip on a pan and reach for the toast at the exact second it needs to be turned.

Each movement tells me she’s done this ten thousand times, until the muscle memory is deeper than thinking. It’s the same thing I do with a broken radiator, a sticky lock, or a guest who’s worked himself into a mood in the lobby. You don’t think. You just fix it.

I’ve never seen anyone do it with food before.

Okay. Fine. It’s already clear that she’s better than the old chef. Significantly better. Like, embarrassingly better. I’ll let her finish the last ticket, then politely escort her out before Mabel finds out I let a stranger cook for paying customers after I thank her, obviously.

Because she is, without question, saving my ass right now.

Unless she wants a job?

Mabel would definitely throw a fit if she heard the chef quit in the middle of high season. But if I say, “Hey, Mabel, surprise, I found a replacement, and she cooks like a witch,” maybe she’d throw a smaller fit?

Still, hiring someone purely because my little brother says her aura is yellow feels unwise and very Jasper. And I promised myself I’d stop going along with Jasper’s ideas. That’s how you end up with crystals in your sock drawer.