2. RACHEL --- (Part 1)

Rachel woke up with a violent jolt, like someone had slammed a frying pan inside her skull. Her head throbbed. Her tongue tasted like regret and cheap prosecco.

The sunlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains was far too cheerful for the state of her soul. She groaned, throwing an arm across her eyes. "Oh God... what did I do?"

Last night came back in flashes, laughter, clinking glasses, a free dinner that was actually excellent, the steak, divine, and then the boredom. The wine. The unnecessary horizontal entertainment with the human equivalent of plain toast.

She winced. "Brilliant, Rachel. Real classy. You could have just gone home and eaten crisps." A beat later, she snorted at herself. "Oh yes... you do not even have money to buy crisps."

Dragging herself upright, she gathered her scattered clothes with the elegance of a hungover raccoon. Tiptoeing across the room, she clutched her bag and phone like lifelines, making her escape from the man's flat before he could wake up and attempt post-coital small talk.

Almost midday. Their shift started in less than half an hour.

"Bugger."

As she wriggled into her dress with one hand, she dialled Asha with the other.

"Asha," she whispered urgently, "our shift's about to start. Where are you?"

"I'm in the bathroom of this guy's house," came Asha's whisper-shouted reply. "It's disgusting, Rach. There's mould on everything. Even the mirror's fogged from trauma."

Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose. "Don't touch anything. You'll catch whatever he's got."

"Too late for that," Asha groaned. "I slept with him, remember?"

Rachel sighed in solidarity. "Right. Okay. Focus. We left our uniforms at the hotel lockers yesterday, yes? Please tell me yes, we do not have time to pop home."

A pause. Then, uncertainly, "I... I think so? It was in the purple bag, right? You told me not to bring it..."

Rachel's eyes went wide. "Yes! Oh, thank God! We'll shower at the hotel."

"Copy that. Operation Damage Control." Asha took a deep breath. "Now I just need to escape this bathroom without making eye contact with the floor. Or the man."

Rachel snorted despite her headache. "Good luck, soldier. I'll see you on the battlefield."

"Over and out."

And with that, two hungover disasters, fuelled by bad decisions and one excellent dinner, prepared to face another day of hospitality hell.

Not long after, the two women burst through the staff door like fugitives escaping a crime scene, collapsing into breathless laughter. Their hair was damp, their eyes bloodshot, and their stomachs growling like angry beasts demanding tribute.

"Quick shower, no questions," Rachel panted, already peeling off her clothes.

"Agreed," Asha replied. "If Chef Collins sees us like this, he'll drop dead sober."

Ten minutes, a litre of cold water, and a questionable amount of cheap shampoo later, they were reborn, sort of. Wrinkled uniforms clinging to damp skin, a faint perfume of hangover and regret wafting behind them like mist.

As Rachel re-applied a smudge of lipstick in the mirror, she groaned. "God, I hate human biology. I stuffed myself last night and I'm starving again."

Asha clutched her stomach dramatically. "My insides are staging a protest."

They trudged down the employee corridor towards the front desk, the faint smell of coffee and fresh pastries drifting from the kitchen like an actual siren's call.

Asha froze mid-step. "Rachel. Look."

There it was, on the counter inside the kitchen, a basket of still-warm muffins, golden, soft, and glistening slightly under the lights. They looked divine. Heavenly.

Rachel squinted, her mouth watering. "Oh no. Don't even think about it."

"Oh, I'm thinking about it." Asha's grin turned wicked. "Look at them. They're practically begging to be rescued. Rachel, go get them!"

"Why me? You do it!" Rachel whispered furiously. "You're better at sneaky manoeuvres. It's in your..." She stopped. "Wait, that sounds racist."

"It is racist," Asha shot back cheerfully, "so as an apology, you go grab the muffin."

Before Rachel could protest, Asha gave her a mighty shove straight through the swinging kitchen doors.

Rachel darted in, swiping two muffins like a seasoned thief before turning for a clean getaway.

She froze.

Luke stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression carved from marble. His eyes, cool, assessing, irritatingly handsome, locked onto hers.

For one glorious second, everything stopped. Then chaos erupted. Panicking, Rachel hurled both muffins at Asha like a soldier tossing grenades.

"Catch!"

Asha shrieked, ducked, and one muffin bounced off the wall while the other rolled dramatically under a trolley. "Oh, for God's sake!" she hissed, scrambling to pick them up. "Five-second rule!"

Luke's voice sliced through the air, low and clipped. "Stealing again, Miss Turner?"

Rachel blinked, caught between guilt and bravado. "They were, uh, looking funny, so I was, you know, checking for mould. Health and safety."

"Health and safety," Luke repeated flatly. "Of course. Very noble of you."

He stepped closer, the air suddenly feeling smaller. One hand pressed gently, but unmistakably firmly, against her back, steering her towards the hallway. "Let's discuss these... suspicious muffins in private, shall we?"

Rachel cast a desperate glance over her shoulder, only to see Asha mouthing run at her before bolting down the corridor, still clutching two squashed muffins.

Luke sighed, amused despite himself, then closed the office door with quiet finality, the soft click echoing like a secret.

Rachel stood by the desk, looking guilty and defiant all at once, her hands clasped behind her back like a schoolgirl caught red-handed. But her gaze, cheeky, challenging, never wavered from his.

He said nothing at first. He just walked towards her, unhurried, his eyes steady and unreadable. Each step sounded like a deliberate test, and she felt her pulse jump with every one of them.

By the time he stopped in front of her, Rachel could feel his breath brushing her cheek. Her head tilted up instinctively, her heart doing a strange, fluttering dance.

He did not move, but the nearness was unbearable, her mind tricked into believing he might kiss her. And before she could stop herself, her lips parted slightly, a reflexive surrender to a moment that never came.

Luke's lips curved, not in tenderness, but in wicked amusement.

He chuckled, low and quiet, and leaned back.

Rachel froze, mortified. "Oh, God." She dropped her gaze, her blush blooming so fiercely she thought she might combust. "Sorry."

Luke, damn him, looked thoroughly entertained. Her embarrassment was his private feast. "For the muffin or... something else?" His voice was teasing silk as he sauntered to his chair.

"For the muffin, obviously!" she shot back, defensive and crimson.

"Oh?" He raised a brow, fighting a grin. "So that's a solemn vow not to rob my kitchen again?"

Rachel crossed her arms, regaining a hint of mischief. "Depends how hungry I get."

He laughed then, a deep, genuine sound that made something inside her twist. "At this rate, people will think we don't pay you enough to eat."

"You don't," she retorted.

His brow arched higher. "Shall I lodge a complaint with management, then?"

"No need!" she said quickly. "I'm used to being underpaid. Builds character."

He smiled, and this time it was not mocking. It was softer, warmer, the kind of smile that said you amuse me far more than I'd like to admit.

Rachel fumbled for the door handle, needing escape before she melted into the carpet. "Well," she murmured, "if we're done with my crimes, I've got an actual job to do."

He let her go, watching as she vanished down the corridor.

And when she was gone, Luke realised, to his own annoyance, that he was still smiling, the kind of smile that refused to fade, no matter how sternly he told it to.

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