Page 33 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

Well, shit.

Chapter 20

Patrick

"Two risottos, one salmon, on the fly!" I call out, my voice sharp over the clatter of pans and the sizzle of oil.

The Tuesday evening rush at Savor is in full throttle, and I'm right in the thick of it, orchestrating the kitchen like a conductor. My gaze sweeps over the line cooks, ensuring precision and perfection on every plate.

Allie is at the grill tonight, her movements confident and skilled as she perfectly sears salmon, the skin crackling under the intense heat. Despite the rush, my eyes are drawn to her more often than not—not just because of what’s going on between us but because I expect the best from her, just like I do from everyone else.

"Allie, I need that salmon yesterday!"

"Coming right up, Chef!" she responds with confidence. The scent of sizzling garlic and the sharp tang of freshly chopped herbs fill the air. The kitchen staff moves with a practiced choreography, each member adeptly handling their part, all under the cadence I set.

As I glance around, I notice something seems subtly off with Allie, even though she's performing flawlessly, her plating meticulous as she lays out grilled asparagus beside a perfectly cooked salmon.

Yet there's a withdrawn quality about her, a slight distance in her focus.

When a brief lull in the orders allows, I step closer to her station. "Allie, everything okay? You’re on point with the orders, but you seem … off," I say quietly, shielding our conversation from the rest of the kitchens’ ears.

She looks up, her eyes meeting mine briefly. There’s a flicker of something, hesitation, or maybe concern, before she masks it with a quick, practiced smile.

"Yeah, just focusing on not burning the place down with these sears," she jokes, a lightness to her tone.

I'm not entirely convinced but I nod anyway, respecting her professionalism and her space. "If there’s anything you need to talk about …" I let the offer hang, hoping she understands it’s sincere.

She acknowledges it with a nod, her attention already back on her station. "Thanks, Chef. I’ll keep the fires to the grill," she assures me.

As the pace picks back up, I retreat slightly, allowing her the room to work, but my thoughts remain on what could be troubling her. Something's up, and while the kitchen demands my full attention, I can’t help but stay alert to any signs that Allie might need more than just a passing check-in.

As things begin to slow down, an idea forms. Caleb will be going away for a few days, and it seems like an opportune moment to invite her over. Her earlier distance had me concerned, but hearing her laughter echoing lightly across the kitchen gives me some reassurance. Maybe whatever was bothering her has resolved itself.

Just as I decide to approach her, Marissa, our hostess, intercepts me. Her expression is apologetic yet urgent.

"Chef, there are some guests out front requesting to see you. They insisted on waiting to speak with you directly," she reports.

I frown, instantly alert. "Were they a problem for you?" I ask, protective of my staff. It’s essential that respect is maintained, no matter the circumstance.

"No, Chef, they weren't rude, just very insistent," Marissa clarifies quickly, sensing my concern.

Acknowledging her with a nod, I feel a sense of caution. "Thanks, Marissa. I’ll handle it."

I head out of the kitchen, ready to confront whatever this unexpected issue might be, my mind half on Allie and the evening I hope we might still share.

As I enter the dining area, I realize, with a heavy sigh, that the restaurant is winding down for the night. Chairs are up on tables, and the floors are being vacuumed, but there’s still one table occupied.

As I approach, I see Luca Amato sitting with a younger man who’s the spitting image of him. A bottle of fine wine and three filled glasses are set up on their table, looking almost out of place in the quiet, mostly empty space.

The waiter, busy prepping for the next day, catches my eye and rushes over. "They insisted on the bottle after dinner, offered fifty over the asking price," he explains, a touch apologetic.

I chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder. "It’s all good," I say, dismissing any concern with a wave of my hand as I continue toward the table.

Luca spots me coming and greets me with a nod, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Patrick, come, sit," he gestures to the empty chair beside the other man. "This is my son, Donnie."

We shake hands, and the firm grip of the younger Amato tells me he’s been well-schooled in the art of first impressions. I pick up the third glass, raising it slightly. "Thanks for the wine," I say, acknowledging the gesture.

Luca wastes no time, getting straight to the point as I settle into my seat. "Patrick, let’s talk business. Do you have a price for our Tuesday evenings yet?" His tone is direct.

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