Oh. It was Chef. I sucked in my breath.

His gaze met mine. Oh.

For a second, he looked . . . I don’t know how he looked in that moment before his expression shuttered, became benign, impersonal and familiar.

He nodded. “March.”

My face went as hot as if I’d been dipped in boiling water. I was dizzied, disoriented with embarrassment and heat. Well, I’d been running. I could blame it on that.

“Chef.” I lowered my phone. “I didn’t recognize you.”

One corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “You take pictures of strangers.”

Was that a question?

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Well, people. Places. Food.”

Because I was an idiot hipster food blogger. I winced.

It felt weird to see him away from the kitchen, out of context and his white chef’s jacket. Like the time I’d seen Mr. Clark, my tenth-grade chemistry teacher, at the beach without his shirt. Not that Chef was shirtless. Nope. Arms, covered. Tattoos, covered. But the soft layers clung to his broad shoulders, stuck to his heavy chest. A line of sweat darkened the T-shirt at his neck.

I realized I was staring, and flushed. “We had a late night last night. I was just, um, going for a run.”

“Clearing your head?” His deep voice sounded amused. Almost sympathetic.

“Yeah.” No. He didn’t go out drinking after service with the rest of us. I didn’t want him to think I was hungover. “I just needed the . . .” The escape. “The exercise.”

He nodded. “You make yourself strong.”

It was nice that he saw it like that. Not running away. Not a coping strategy, a sign of weakness, but a kind of strength. It was nice that he said it, as if we were friends.

My throat felt thick. I swallowed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

He moved his big hand—a chef’s hand, burned, scarred, and tattooed—in a dismissive gesture. “Passt schon. How is your mother?”

His interest wasn’t personal, I reminded myself. He asked after all the staff, inquired about Constanza’s daughter and Frank’s parole meetings and Julio’s sciatica all the time. It was one of the ways he made everybody feel better about showing up for work. The way he made us want to do our best.

But somehow his attention felt different, special, outside the kitchen, away from other ears.

“She’s okay. Thanks,” I added.

“Out of the hospital, then.”

“Yeah. Well, she’s in rehab.”

“You have talked to her.”

My eyes prickled. Shit. Oh shit. I was not going to cry. “Not today,” I admitted.

He didn’t say anything.

Which was all the encouragement I needed to start babbling. “She fell,” I said. “Apparently she needed to use the bathroom, and when the staff didn’t come right away, she tried to go by herself.” Our mother had always liked to do for herself. The image of her waiting for assistance, alone and helpless, anxious not to soil her hospital bed, tore at my heart.

“I tried calling yesterday,” I said. “But Meg says not to bother her at breakfast, because she needs to eat and the food is terrible even when it’s hot, and she doesn’t have any appetite as it is. And then the doctor does rounds, and after that they try to get her out of bed, and at that point she’s usually too exhausted to talk to anybody. In the afternoon, I’m at work. I call her on break, but if she’s sleeping, they don’t put the call through. Or she’s not sleeping, which means she’s in this awful pain, so I want her to sleep. Only I can’t . . . I don’t . . .” I swiped at my face with the heels of my hands. Well, crap. Evidently I was crying after all. “Sorry.”