Page 86 of The Witness

I snort laughed. “Not really the aesthetic Sabrina is aiming for.”

“Are you two telling secrets?” Quinn looked ravishing tonight. She had on a midnight blue dress that left most of the men in the room drooling in her wake. It half made me want to find a napkin to drape over her cleavage like an overprotective big brother.

“We’re talking about how incredible my daughter is.”

“Agreed! That meal was insane. One of the best I’ve ever had. The risotto: amazing.” Quinn broke the word into three parts: ah-maz-ing.

“You’re a lucky man.” Minerva patted my chest.

“I am grateful every day she washed up on the Smith Agency seawall when she did.” The goofy smile I’d had on my face most of the night reappeared.

I was giddy over Sabrina’s triumph. Watching her succeed was humbling and meaningful. Dating her, telling people she was my girlfriend, made me feel fifty feet tall. I loved to brag about her. She was incredible, and I was the lucky son of a bitch that got to sleep with her.

Basically, I was living the dream.

The pianist in the corner played a flourish. The room quieted down, and we all turned. Sabrina and Katie strolled into the bar like they’d won a James Beard Award. (Hopefully that would come next year.)

I clapped so hard my hands hurt. Quinn managed a wolf whistle that about blew my eardrums. And Minerva downed the last of her champagne.

All of Viande’s staff followed behind Sabrina and Katie, from the lowliest dishwasher to the incredible sommelier, Parker, who she’d stolen away from one of the big South Beach hotels by offering a non-judgmental workplace. The hotel had reluctantly acknowledged Parker's nonbinary identity. Sabrina said they were the best sommelier she’d ever worked with and welcomed Parker to the team with open, accepting arms.

The crowd swelled around Sabrina and I hesitated a moment. Fuck it. With a shrug to Minerva and Quinn, I ditched all pretenses of being cool and politely elbowed my way to her side.

“You are everything.” I wrapped my arms around her and lifted her off her feet.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she whispered into my ear.

She could have, she would have, done it without me. I know that; I’m not an idiot. But her words still made me squeeze her extra tight for a second. I loved this woman and would do everything to support her from now on.

“Chef, chef!” A cook whose name I forgot held out two shot glasses. One for Sabrina. One for me.

I took my glass. The antiseptic smell of tequila burned my nose. “You ready, Siren?”

“Ready for what?” She had to all but yell to be heard over the staff chanting drink-drink-drink.

“The future.” I tipped back my glass, the booze burning down my throat.

She grinned, flashing her teeth in an almost feral smile as she dramatically raised the shot glass before she brought it down to her lips and tossed it back.

“Hell, yes!” She shook her head and bounced on her toes.

Sabrina

“I don’t do mornings. Especially not today.” I groaned and rolled back into my pillows. What the hell was Michael thinking? The limo didn’t drop us home until like three in the morning.

“It’s worth it.” He nuzzled the place where my neck and shoulder met.

“Tropical Bagels?” I lifted my head a little and regretted last night’s tequila shots with every fiber of my being.

“No. Better.”

“Nothing is better than that.” I buried my face.

“The Miami Herald wrote up the opening.”

I bolted upright, flinging pillows, and grabbed the folded newspaper in his hand. “Give.”

The reporter and photographer had been invited a few days before the opening to come take photos. I’d hoped for a mention in the style section. It was the height of the winter tourist season; column inches were hard to get in the dead tree edition with so much happening in town.

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