Page 42 of In Somnis

“Are the Shaw brothers done gossiping about me?” the woman asks without turning around, voice light and teasing.

Great job, Jasp. Tell the mysterious kitchen invader our last name, but don’t bother asking for hers.

“I’m sorry,” I start, then gesture vaguely at her and the stove. “I was just trying to figure out if you’re a health inspector doing undercover community service, or if Jasper summoned you with his tarot cards.”

She snorts. “Neither. I’m someone who couldn’t watch you kill another sandwich.”

“That’s fair,” I admit. “They didn’t deserve what I was doing to them.”

She shrugs, sliding something onto the hot pan with a hiss. “No worries, we’re gonna fix this.”

Thank God.

I clear my throat. “So, what’s your name then?”

“Le…” she says, right as the oil pops, “… on.”

Lemon?

I blink at her. Then blink again.

Yellow bandana with little citrus fruits. Yellow nails with tiny lemon slices. A lemon charm on her bracelet. She’s basically a walking farmer’s market advertisement. Jasper wasn’t kidding about the sunshine aura, she’s citrus incarnate.

God, is she one of those people who pick a theme and shape their entire personality around it?

Because I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime. But… Lemon is still a hell of a lot better than my mom calling herself “a child of the universe” and introducing me to strangers as her “earth-born tether.”

Lemon rises to her tiptoes to reach the back burner, and it’s… well, it’s stupid cute. She’s probably never hit her head on a doorway in her life.

I’ve been six-seven since I was seventeen. I hit my head on everything.

My gaze follows the movement, from her tiptoes to her calves, her thighs, and…

Jesus.

Focus, Nevan.

“I’m Nevan,” I manage.

“I know. Jasper gave me the full rundown. Said you’re a Scorpio, shit at cooking, but allergic to asking for help, and tragically in love with the waitress who doesn’t know you exist.”

My jaw drops. “He said what?”

“Kidding.” She winks. “Mostly.”

I glower at her, but I can’t keep the smile from spreading on my lips. “I’m not shit at cooking. I can cook. In a small kitchen, for myself.”

“Sure, big guy.” She finishes the plate, rings the bell, and shoves it toward me. “Table 11. Go be useful.”

I take the plate, and muscle memory kicks in even though my brain is still rebooting. Back straight, easy smile, move with purpose. I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen. I could serve tables in my sleep.

The dining room has visibly relaxed now that real food is coming out. People are actually smiling instead of looking as if they’re contemplating arson, and the woman at Table 11 literally gasps when I set the plate down.

“Worth the wait?” I ask with an apologetic grin.

“Oh my God, yes,” she breathes out, already reaching for her fork.

I top off her water, clear a few empty plates from the next table over, and the moment I reach the server station, Sydney materializes at my elbow. “You hired a new cook?” she asks, eyebrows arched.