Page 53 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

I’m wielding my knife with a fury, dicing vegetables at a pace that could give a food processor a run for its money.

The kitchen buzzes with the tension and excitement of the looming dinner service.

It’s Tuesday again, but not just any Tuesday—this one comes with the heightened stakes of hosting an important guest from Sicily, courtesy of Luca Amato.

On the counters, dishes are laid out, looking like an edible art exhibit.

Patrick is across from me, inspecting a tray of seared scallops destined to become part of an appetizer. “These look fantastic, Allie. Make sure they get to the pass looking just like this,” he instructs with a commanding tone.

“Got it, Chef,” I respond with a grin, proud of the dish but even prouder that he trusts me to nail it. As I turn back to my chopping, I can’t help but be thrilled with the energy of the kitchen. This is what I love—this madness, this orchestrated chaos.

As I scoop up a handful of finely chopped herbs, Patrick comes over, leaning in to check my progress. “Keep up this pace, and we might just make it through tonight without any hitches,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble over the hum of the busy kitchen.

I chuckle, tossing the herbs into a mixing bowl. “When have we ever had a night without at least one hitch, Chef?”

He laughs. “A man can hope, can’t he?”

He leaves a kiss on my neck, the kind that makes me forget we're in a busy kitchen for a second. Then he's off to the office, probably to deal with more of those never-ending managerial mysteries.

Once he's out of sight, my mind wanders back to our interrupted weekend chat about Mr. Amato and his merry band of suited friends.

Lounging on the couch, the comfort of the evening envelops us. Patrick pops open another bottle of sparkling cider.

"You know, it won’t bother me if you have a glass of the real stuff," I say, watching him fill our glasses with the fizzy substitute.

Patrick grins, and there’s a hint of mischief in his eyes. "I survived this ritual when Caleb was coming along. Trust me, a few months dry won’t kill me."

I raise an eyebrow, amused and secretly delighted by his commitment. "I'm impressed."

He chuckles, a sound that fills the room with warmth. "It’s not heroics, just solidarity. Did it before, can do it again. Plus, it keeps me sharp," he quips, handing me a glass.

Leaning closer, I let the contentment of the moment wash over me. "Honestly, I love that you're in this with me so fully," I admit, my tone playful.

He looks at me, his smile softening. "There’s no place I’d rather be," he responds, his voice low, drawing me in for a tender kiss on the forehead.

We settle into a comfortable silence, and just when I think we're about to switch topics, Patrick hits the nail on the head, like he’s reading my mind.

“We never got to finish that conversation about Luca and his dinners.” His voice is casual, but his eyes are sharp, cutting right to the heart of things. The man knows me too well.

I sigh, twirling a strand of my hair. “Yeah. It’s kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”

Patrick nods, his expression serious. “I get it, and I don’t want you worrying. I'm not mixed up in anything shady. Luca likes our location and the ambiance, loves the food, and pays well for the privacy. That’s all there is to it.”

I raise an eyebrow, not fully convinced but appreciating his frankness. “But it’s a heck of a lot more cash than a regular Tuesday night, huh? Makes a girl wonder,” I quip, trying to keep it light but letting him see I’m not entirely comfortable with it.

He leans forward, his hands clasped, giving me full reassurance. “Yes, it’s good money, but I’ve looked into it, Allie. Luca rents out other locations, too, nothing fishy. It’s his way of doing discreet business. No Mafia clichés happening under our roof.”

His words soothe some of my nerves, but the undercurrent of risk is still buzzing quietly. “And you’re sure it’s all clean? We’re not going to end up in an episode of some crime drama?” I ask.

He chuckles, reaching across to squeeze my hand, a gesture filled with warmth. “Absolutely sure. It’s just a lucrative business arrangement, nothing more. I wouldn’t do anything to risk my restaurant or what we’re building here, especially not now,” he adds, giving our intertwined hands a gentle shake.

“Okay, I’ll drop it. Just keep being the stand-up chef I adore, not some mobster wannabe,” I say with a playful wink, easing the last bit of tension between us.

His laughter fills the room, light and genuine. “Deal. No mobster moves, just lots of Michelin-worthy meals and maybe a little kitchen drama, as long as it’s the good kind.”

The tension lingers, like the last note of a song hanging in the air.

Patrick notices my hesitation and nudges gently, coaxing the words out of me. "Come on, what's on your mind?" he asks, his tone soft but insistent.

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