Chapter 5: The Burn

For two nights I slept on a folded tablecloth in the staff locker room.

I told myself it was temporary, and I didn't tell anyone.

On the third night I stayed after close to make the morning brioche, because I didn't want to lie down yet.

The kitchen was empty and the ovens ticked as they cooled.

I had forty trays to load before five a.m.

I pulled one out with a folded towel, and the towel slipped.

My forearm hit the edge of the tray.

The pain was white and total, and I dropped the tray on the floor.

Brioche rolls bounced across the tile.

I stood there holding my arm against my chest, making a noise I didn't know I could make.

"Don't touch it."

The voice came from the doorway.

Mason Greer crossed the kitchen with his jacket off and his sleeves pushed to the elbow.

He took my wrist and walked me to the big steel sink.

He turned the cold tap on full and put my arm under it.

"Stay there," he said.

The water ran over the burn.

It hurt, and then it hurt less, and then it was only cold.

He didn't let go.

His hand was around my wrist, firm and warm, and his thumb sat right on my pulse.

"How long do I stand here?" I asked.

"Ten minutes."

"It's not that bad."

"It's a second-degree burn, about four inches long. You're going to stand here for ten minutes, and then I'm going to put something on it."