The next morning, the kitchen felt different. The air was still hot, the noise still chaotic, but there was a secret humming between Marcello and me. Every time we passed each other, there was a momentary flicker of contact—a hand brushing a hip, a lingering look, a whispered word that had nothing to do with the menu.
I was working the sauté station when he approached. The dinner rush hadn't started yet, and the atmosphere was relatively calm. He stopped behind me, not touching me, but I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"The sauce for the veal," he said, his voice back to its professional, grating tone. "Taste it."
I dipped a spoon into the reduction and tasted it. It was perfect. Rich, velvety, with a hint of red currant that cut through the fat.
"It's perfect, Chef," I sa
