As she started, a door slammed. Tonya froze, her arms filled with weapons against grime, but nothing that could fend off an attacker. The last line cook had locked the staff entrance behind him, hadn’t he? Or had he expected her to do that? Had the door been cracked all this time, beckoning some drug addict or thief hiding out in the alley to come in from the cold?

Tonya backed toward the sink and lowered the contents of her arms into the basin. She scanned the counter for knives. Banque Gauche’s cooks typically brought their own custom tools. But there had to be house knives for when they forgot or when a blade grew dull.

The counter was empty save for the butcher’s station. A variety of stainless-steel appliances sat on the space, each outfitted with sharp blades—on their insides. Seeing nothing else, Tonya crouched below the fry station and grabbed one of the large, cast-iron skillets. Abused women killed husbands with these things. She could knock a man senseless.

Philip entered the kitchen, carrying a plate and some wadded napkins. His head was down, as usual. His shoulders were rounded. Her boss had the physique of an attacker but the posture of a victim.

Tonya set down the frying pan. Though she tried to accomplish it softly, the weight of the thing made an attention-grabbing thud as it landed on the counter. “Sorry,” she murmured.

Philip whirled around, his body language shifting from downtrodden to defensive in a blink. The plate turned sideways as he raised his hands in a fighting stance. Tonya felt that same shiver from earlier, only stronger.

“Oh. I thought someone had broken into the restaurant for a second.” Philip’s body seemed to shrink back to its former state as he bent to pick up the food that had fallen to the floor. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

Tonya took a deep breath. Philip’s presence was something to take comfort in, not fear. Her boss was tall, broad, and, as she’d just witnessed, ready to protect them if needed. Tonya recalled a joke between Philip and one of the guys in the kitchen about combat training. She wondered if he’d had any.

“I’m finishing up.” Tonya walked back to her cleaning supplies in the sink. “But if I was a robber, I don’t think I’d want to tangle with you.”

Philip came closer, stopping to throw the food and napkin in the trash. “Sorry about that. I’m jumpy lately.”

“You looked ready to throw down for a minute,” Tonya said, bundling her items back into her arms.

Philip shrugged. “Once a marine…”

“You were in the marines?”