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WE GOT A LOTTIE CONFESSION?!!!??????? (kinda)

No Reservations - Chapter six

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: After graduating culinary school you have been building up your portfolio, to become a street level legend in the culinary world. And after years of hard work you get hired by a renowned michelin star restaurant Matthews’ kitchen to help design a new menu that’ll star in their new brick and mortar in New York. And there you behold the new heiress of the Matthews’ Kitchen, your boss, is your old situationship from culinary school…Charlotte Matthews.

Warning: Not NSFW by any means but a lil spicy yk?

A/N: Lottie Lee mention is my favorite part of this chapter 🥹🥹🥹

The dream had clung to Charlotte long after she’d opened her eyes. It started with that damn midterm project. You stared at the printed assignment. Then at Charlotte. Then back at the assignment.

“Who thought this was a good idea?” You muttered.

“I did,” Charlotte said primly, tying her apron tighter. “Because unlike you, I actually care about passing this class with more than a participation medal.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, Elle Woods, relax. We’re making coq au vin, not arguing a murder trial.”

Charlotte ignored you. “I’ll handle the sauce. You’ll overthink it and make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do I not get a say in this group project?” you snapped, snatching a pan. “You burned a béarnaise last week. I watched it die.”

Charlotte’s nostrils flared. “That béarnaise was experimental.”

“It was a war crime.” You snicker.

“You’re a war crime.” Charlotte rebuffs like a child .

You both glared. A student two stations over audibly turned down their burner just to avoid the fallout. It made you look over to see Kelly give you a concerned once over and continue on.

You sighed and grabbed the chicken thighs with unnecessary aggression. “Fine. I’ll do the protein. But if your sauce ruins my perfect sear—”

Charlotte cut you off, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “If your chicken is dry, I’m throwing it at you.”

“You won’t get the chance. I cook like God whispers in my ear.” Confidence and humor is dripping in your tone.

Charlotte rolls her eyes, “You cook like you’re trying to impress a food critic and emotionally damage your ex at the same time.”

You paused, like Charlotte just touched a bit of truth. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

Charlotte smirked proudly. “Yeah. I know you.”

That made your stomach flip. You ignored the heat rushing to your cheeks and continued on. You both cooked in competitive silence for awhile. Charlotte mincing garlic like it owed her money, you searing the chicken with laser focus. It was electric. Tense. Way too synchronized. Almost perfect how you two worked together.

“Careful, you’re splashing the wine,” Charlotte mumbled in the way she does when she’s focused.

You still catch it and frown. “Maybe if you’d move your perfectly symmetrical ass out of my way, there’d be more room.”

Charlotte blinked, then barked a laugh. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

“Figure it out, Matthews.”

You both reached for the same ladle. Your hands touched. The air shifted.

Suddenly, all the snark and sniping melted into something heavier. Warmer. Your breath caught. Charlotte’s eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up.

You caught it. Caught that look she gave you. The look that only she has ever given you. The one that makes you weak. The one that makes you want to do something reckless. Stupid.

And again butterflies manifested and explode into your lungs making it hard to breathe. You tried to speak—something, anything, but the next thing you knew, Charlotte leaned in and kissed you.

It was messy. Confused. A little desperate. And way too good. When you pulled apart, wide-eyed and stunned, you cleared your throat. Charlotte’s mouth is agape and her eyes locked on your lips.

“…So. Sauce is coming along?” You ask in whisper dumbly.

Charlotte blinked, swallowing hard. “It’s… saucy.”

They avoided eye contact for ten full minutes, both beet red as they plated the most emotionally charged coq au vin in culinary school history.

They got an A.

And didn’t speak about the kiss for six weeks.

Charlotte wishes it was only that, that one memory. But it was really the night before the end of semester of their third year, that got her.

It was like she was fucking there again. The fluorescent lights buzzed with that terrible hum, like even the building was too tired to deal with anyone’s shit.

The air smelled like Tide pods and defeat. You stood barefoot in front of the dryer, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, a stupid pink sock dangling from your hand like it had personally betrayed you.

You kicked the dryer.

Hard.

“Piece of shit—”

Another kick. Then another.

“—I liked that apron, you color-sucking hell demon—”

“You’re going to break your foot.”

You spun, hoodie sleeve flopping. “Are you following me?”

Charlotte leaned against the doorframe in flannel pajama pants and a band t-shirt that made her look painfully soft and so pretty in the worst, most infuriating way. “I live here too. Not my fault you decided to wage war on a Whirlpool at two a.m.”

You grumbled something unintelligible and leaned your forehead against the dryer door, defeated. Charlotte hesitated. “You okay?”

A beat.

“No,” you said into the machine. “I’m stoned and pissed as fuck and apparently I don’t know how to sort laundry.”

Charlotte stepped in, softer now. She knew you had a girlfriend now. Heard whispers of the hot leather blonde that’d stay in your dorm over the weekends. She would force herself to peel her eyes away when she saw you and someone who looked nothing like Charlotte kissing in a corner of parties caught up in a haze of smoke.

Charlotte hated that. But she also heard rumors that it wasn’t going good. With the way you’ve snapped, barked, and held your anger on your sleeve. And you looked up at her right now in defeat she took a shot in the dark.

“Trouble in paradise?”

You scoffed, sliding to sit on the floor. Too high to care that you’re telling this to Charlotte Matthews. “I caught her making out with some asshole. Again. And this time I didn’t even yell. I just left. Which, like, growth or whatever—but also, I fucking hate this shit. I feel like I’m going to die. So maybe growth is overrated.”

Charlotte slowly sank down beside you, legs folded. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged, picking at a thread on your sleeve. “It’s fine. I should’ve seen it coming. But noooo, she has that stupid crooked smile and those blue eyes. And her laugh that she only really does when I say something stupid. Fuck I’m such a fucking idiot. A sucker for-for-what? Emotionally unavailable people with great cheekbones???? Stupid as fuck.”

Charlotte tried to hide a smile. “At least you have a type.”

You side-eyed her. “And you have a god complex. We all have our vices.”

Charlotte raised a brow. “I’m literally just trying to help with your laundry.”

“Oh yeah? Well guess what you’re failing. Look at this.” you held up another pink-tinged chef’s jacket. “I’m gonna look like I’m working at a Valentine’s Day-themed bistro.”

Charlotte gently took the jacket. “Maybe you could lean into it. Rebrand. Love-sick chef chic.”

You chuckled, then sighed. “Ew that’s so bad. God, you’re annoying.”

“And you’re a disaster.”

Their eyes met. And stayed. Too long. Charlotte’s expression softened just enough. “You’re not actually fine, are you?”

“No,” you said, voice rough. Blinking to fight tears wanting to appear. A sudden tsunami of emotions clawing at your throat.

The quiet that followed was thick…charged even. Charlotte reached up, gently tucking a wild strand of hair behind your ear.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she whispered.

“Yeah you always see me like this,” you whispered back. “That’s the problem.”

Charlotte’s hand lingered. And then, with no logic, no plan, just too many feelings and not enough boundaries—she kissed you.

It started slow.

But then you pulled her closer, clutching at Charlotte’s shirt like you needed something to hold you together. Charlotte kissed back like she’d been waiting for permission.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was all edge-of-collapse, all tangled limbs and desperate mouths and everything they hadn’t let themselves say out loud.

And when Charlotte pulled away for air, your hand was on her neck bringing her down to kiss you harder. Charlotte moaned into the kiss, she felt her heart beat in her ears. Warmth spreading throughout her body.

All the yearning to touch you, to kiss you, to have you, exploding in this moment. Charlotte didn’t wait, she slipped her tongue into your mouth. And just like the times before you let her.

You always let her.

And Charlotte always won. Always got to swirl her tongue into your mouth, got to taste you to the fullest. When you melted into Charlotte, it rushed to her head in a dizzying effect.

You were like Charlotte’s own personal drug.

And she hated that she couldn’t have you like this for so long. You bit her lip, until it hurt. A hiss slipped out of Charlotte’s mouth. You stared at her for a second.

Really looking at her.

Seeing to the core of her. Cutting the fat off to get to the part no one ever saw. And Charlotte could see it in the way your eyes got more serious. Something snapped from the haze of your high.

Charlotte’s breath hitched, as you leaned back in. You kissed her again, with so much softness. Charlotte felt tears prickle in her eyes. Your fingers featherlight as the slide down her arms.

It was so…loving. Charlotte felt like she was drowning. You gave so much even when you were at the end of yourself? Caught up in a haze of grief. It left her shaky.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and blinking, Charlotte stood too quickly. Feeling overwhelmed in a way only you made her. She stepped back like the floor was unstable.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” she said, voice shaking.

You stayed on the ground, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on hers. “Too late.”

Charlotte looked torn between running and staying. Her fingers twitched at her side. “I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow. For check-outs.”

Then she was gone, leaving you alone with the pink laundry and the smell of detergent and your heart pounding like a war drum. Wondering why everyone always leaves.

She had bolted upright in bed, breathless, heart pounding like she’d been sprinting instead of sleeping.

And now, hours later, it still haunted her. Which is why Laura Lee was currently sitting on her velvet couch in her overpriced, sun-drenched Manhattan apartment — sipping an iced coffee with her shoes off like she owned the place.

“I need you to say that again,” Laura Lee said, leveling a look over the rim of her cup. “Slower. For science.”

Charlotte groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

“You dreamed about her?”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“That’s not how dreams work.”

Charlotte sighed. “It wasn’t even that bad. Just—okay, it was kind of bad. Like, culinary-school-bad. Flashback bad.”

Laura Lee raised an eyebrow. “You mean the girl you wouldn’t shut up about for two straight years? Who you hooked up with during finals week, literally ghosted for six months, and then drunkenly confessed you might love while crying into a risotto at my apartment?”

Charlotte shot her a glare. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“You’re right. It was paella.”

Charlotte groaned again and fell sideways onto the couch. “This is not helpful.”

Laura Lee grinned, then grew thoughtful. “So let me get this straight: she’s here now. In your restaurant. In your city. Working directly under you. And she has no idea you’re still a total disaster over her?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Charlotte muttered. “She’s my employee. And this restaurant is the most important thing I’ve ever done. It’s my shot to prove I deserve my seat at the Matthews Group. My father is watching everything. The board is watching everything. I can’t screw this up.”

Laura Lee made a face. “Okay, but no one said ‘ask her out mid-shift while she’s plating duck confit.’ I just meant… eventually.”

Charlotte sat up, suddenly jittery. “It’s not that simple. There’s also my whole thing, you know? My brain? The anxiety, the overthinking, the public meltdowns, the fact that I sometimes don’t sleep for three days and forget how to eat if I’m spiraling.”

Laura Lee held up a hand. “Stop. Stop right there.”

Charlotte did.

“As your best friend for years,” Laura Lee said gently, “I am not going to let you spiral into a self-sabotage hole. So I’m just going to ask one thing. One question. And I want you to answer honestly.”

Charlotte nodded slowly.

“Do you like her?”

The question hit harder than Charlotte expected.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her brain scrambled for a neat answer, something clean and non-threatening. But none of her mental excuses lined up the right way anymore.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “She’s… interesting to me?”

Laura Lee blinked. “Interesting to me? Wow. Riveting.”

Charlotte flushed. “That’s not what I meant—”

Laura Lee chuckled and leaned back into the cushions. “No, no. It’s okay. That was adorable. And vague. But mostly adorable.”

Charlotte hugged a pillow to her chest.

“I just don’t know what any of this means,” she admitted. “Seeing her again feels like—like stepping back into a room I didn’t realize I’d locked behind me. And now I can’t stop remembering everything.”

Laura Lee nodded slowly. “Okay. So we’ve established that you’re emotionally constipated, still very much attached, and deeply repressed. Great. This is going to take, like, ten coffee dates and a whiteboard.”

Charlotte laughed, a little helpless. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your best friend.”

“Same thing.”

They both grinned.

And for the first time that day, Charlotte let herself exhale. Whatever this was, whatever it would become, she wasn’t going to run from it yet. She always ran from you. From it. But not this time.

Union Square was loud, cluttered, and smelled faintly of overripe peaches. You were balancing a tote full of produce and trying to decide if the basil in your hand was too bruised when you heard that damn voice.

“You always did overthink herbs.”

You turned, heart stopping for a second. Natalie Scatorccio stood there in a worn leather jacket and black jeans, sunglasses resting in her curls, arms crossed like she’d been standing there for a while. She hadn’t changed much. A little sharper in the jaw, maybe. The kind of cool you didn’t grow into so much as settle into.

You blinked, looking around before looking back at her. “What the hell?”

Natalie offered a faint smirk. “Hi.”

“…Hi?”

“I was grabbing cold brew. Saw someone fighting a bunch of basil like it owed her money. Took a gamble.”

You gave her a look, fighting a grin trying to inch to your lips. “You live around here?”

“About a year.”

Natalie didn’t elaborate, just stood there, a little sideways in her stance like she might leave if the moment got too serious. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.

“You got time?” she asked, casual. “I was heading to SoHo. There’s a spot I like. They do coffee the right way. Dark, bitter, overpriced.”

You hesitated. That was a bad idea. Everyone in her life has been warning her not to get mixed back in with Natalie. Not to text her back. Not to give her the time of day.

“Come on,” Natalie said, already turning. “Worst case, you remember why you stopped talking to me.”

And despite everything in you telling you not to. You followed her. Not side by side, but near enough. Natalie didn’t fill the silence. She never had. She just glanced over every so often like she was trying to read something in your face without asking any questions.

“You look good,” she said at one point, almost like an afterthought.

You raised an eyebrow. “That feels loaded.”

“Does it?” Nat said with a tease.

The quiet stretched again. It was so comfortable. Like no time passed at all between you two. You felt yourself shift…this shouldn’t be so…normal.

You dipped into the subway. Natalie leaned against the wall of the car, one hand curled loosely around the pole, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her eyes tracked the lights blinking past the windows, but she didn’t say much.

“So what are you doing here?” you finally asked, feeling like an idiot following her like this. “In the city?”

“Work,” Natalie said. “Consulting. Engines. Systems. That kind of thing.”

“Still cars, huh?”

“Always.” She paused, then added, “Feels good to be the expert in a room full of guys who used to talk over me.”

“Ahhh revenge of the tough girl huh? It’s gotta nice glow on you.” You say with a chuckle.

Natalie smirked. “It wears well.”

By the time they reached the café in SoHo, a sleek, concrete-and-warm-wood kind of place. You were sweating under the weight of the silence. Not uncomfortable. Just full of… something.

Natalie paused outside the door, then turned to you stopping you in your tracks. “Listen,” she said. “I’m not trying to make things weird. I saw you, and it felt… stupid not to say anything.”

Your throat tightened. Eyes wide in surprise…holy shit??

“I was shitty to you,” Natalie added. “I know that.”

Oh. Yeah you were. You didn’t say that, just stared at her waiting. Part of you not believing you were hearing her be so…honest. No…surprised she was being so mature.

“It wasn’t about you,” she continued. “It was me, not knowing how to be honest with someone who actually mattered.”

She ran a hand through her hair, slow. Not theatrical — just tired.

“I don’t expect anything. Just figured… if we could talk again. That’d be cool.”

You have her an unconvinced look, trying to really read her. Natalie didn’t look away.

“Friends?” Natalie offered, voice low, a little tentative.

You felt something uncoil in your chest. A quiet ache, the kind that lingered when you least expected it. You hated this. You hated this so much. You’ve wanted her to fucking apologize for years. And now when your life is on the up and up.

She wants back in? And worse of all…you feel yourself wanting to give her the chance. Not a big one. No you’re certainly not trying to date Natalie again but friends? It feels harmless enough.

“…Yeah,” you said, finally. “Friends, we can do that.”

Natalie’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was real. She opened the door.

“Come on. I’ll let you overanalyze my coffee order for old time’s sake.”

You followed her in, trying not to think about how easy it still was to fall into rhythm with her. Trying not to think about the way Natalie’s hand had brushed against hers when they’d crossed the street. Trying not to feel the way something old was waking up, slow and dangerous, just under your ribs.

#just wow #big fan of this #lottie yellowjackets #yellowjackets au #natalie scatorccio #yellowjackets

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