“He wants scalloped potatoes.” I cringe. “And broccolini.”

She laughs. Even though it’s sarcastic, it’s still beautiful. The base of her real smile is there even if it’s dimmed. “Amy, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this but we don’t have broccolini.”

“So let’s give him long stalks of broccoli.” Even as I say it I know it won’t be good enough. I look over my shoulder. Sleet hits the front window, leaving streaks on the panes. The closest grocery store is a fifteen-minute drive away and I’m not going to send one of my team members out in this weather. They wouldn’t be able to get back fast enough anyway. Shit.

“Amy.”

I turn to her. This feels like sophomore year, when I begged my math teacher for an extra two percent on my grade to avoid my father’s disdain. He never cared too much about Wesley’s grades. If Wes did well, he was happy; if he didn’t, Dad was dismissive at best. But if I brought home anything less than an A, there was no stopping his sneers.

“Sophie, please.” Hopefully, only I can hear the pleading in my voice.

She sighs and looks out over the restaurant. “That him?” she asks, nodding at my father’s table.

“How can you tell?”

“You frown the same.”

Ugh.

“People say I look more like my mother.”

She shrugs. “You frown like your father, though.”

I can’t believe I ever thought she was quiet or soft. She cuts like a knife. I wish I liked it less. “Can you do it?” I ask.

“Obviously,” she says, smug. “Jameela,” she calls to our sous-chef. “Take over here.” She turns to me, her face all business, none of the flirtation I’ve been privy to anywhere to be found. “But he’s just getting broccoli.”

“Fine.” Maybe he’ll be too drunk to notice by the time I serve them. I cringe at the thought. I shouldn’t be overserving our guests at all but it sure would be a big help.

I bite my lip as I stare out over the dining room. The bartender holds the shaker above her shoulders, mixing a cocktail. No one waits at the front of the restaurant; the bussers have already flipped the empty tables, making their emptiness even more glaring in the dim light of the dining room.

At least, guests smile as they eat. Some take surreptitious photos of their food and of Sophie, afraid to be one of those people, using social media for food or celebrity sightings. It’s not a terrible night by any standard. It’s just not good enough, to save the restaurant, or to impress my father.

A slam on the counter behind me pulls my attention out of doom and gloom and back to the kitchen. Sophie has pressed the flat of her chef’s knife over a clove of garlic. She peels off the skin and her blade flashes silver in the light as she minces, the pungent scent wafting up to my nose. She’s so good with her blade, so fast as she collects the garlic’s flesh and drops it into a sizzling pan then moves on to the broccoli, trimming leaves and using her strong blade to chop the stalk. I’m mesmerized.