Page 149 of The Hunt

“What does he look like?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Tall, brown hair—oh, never mind. He’s right there!” Nikki gestured ahead to a tall, young man in a slightly rumpled chef's jacket and dark jeans, the sleeves of the jacket pushed up to reveal tanned forearms. “That’s good timing for us.”

My pulse hammered as we stepped down the hall, seemingly louder than the murmurs of other people passing us by. Every flicker of a glance toward me left my stomach twisting, and every shadow made my heart skip a beat.

“Dane!” Nikki waved, and the young guy glanced up, face breaking into a smile.

“Hey, Nikki! How you doin’?” he asked, stepping closer to us. His warm eyes flickered to me. “And… who’s this?”

Nikki scoffed. “You don’t recognize Amy? She’s only worked here forfouryears.”

“In housekeeping, though,” I added, forcing my lips into a faint smile. “I guess we’ve just never run into each other.”

Dane chuckled and waved a casual hand. “I thought I knew everyone who works here, but the way my memory is these days… who the hell knows?” he said. “Anyway, what are you guys up to?”

“Same old gopher stuff for Peter,” Nikki replied, rolling her eyes. “I have to go check some stuff in the kitchen. Are you working the dinner service tonight?”

“No, I was just on my way out. I did breakfast and lunch today, and then half of the dinner prep too, so I’m wrecked,” he said. “I just want to go back to my room, have a smoke, and pass out for twelve hours.”

“Do you happen to know what they’re serving tonight?”

“Oh, you know… the usual for rich pricks,” Dane said. “Wagyu tenderloin with black truffle butter, caviar-topped lobster tails, and some kind of gold-leaf soufflé for dessert.” He paused, a faint grin playing at the edges of his mouth. “Why? You two planning to crash the party?”

“No, Peter wanted me to find out. You know how finicky he can be with food,” Nikki said. “Oh, and he also wanted me to ask about tonight’s featured drink. Do you happen to know that too?”

“They’re serving the 1985 vintage ports tonight. Apparently, they go really well with the tenderloin,” Dane said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know for sure, though. I don’t drink.”

Nikki laughed again. “Yeah, I know what your guilty pleasure is,” she said. “Speaking of which… got any eye drops on you?”

“Always.” He grinned. “Need some?”

“If it’s no trouble, yeah. I smoked a bit earlier, so I justknowmy eyes will start turning red any minute now.”

Dane reached into his pocket and produced a small white bottle. “Here you go,” he said. “Anyway, I really need to head out. I’m shattered. I’ll see you later.”

We said our goodbyes, and when the young chef was out of sight, I turned to Nikki with wide eyes. “Holy shit, you’re a genius,” I said in an excited whisper. “You got us even more eye drops!”

She shrugged like it was nothing. “I figured the more of these we have, the better.”

“True. And thanks to you, we know exactly where to put them. The 1985 vintage ports.”

She nodded and pointed to an entryway on our left. “This way to the kitchens,Amy.”

She strode ahead, leading the way through the hall until we emerged into a bustling kitchen. Stainless steel counters gleamed under fluorescent lights, and the air was thick with the aroma of seared meats and roasted vegetables. Chefs in pristine white jackets moved with orchestrated chaos, shouting orders, flipping pans, and plating dishes on delicate porcelain.

At the center of the room was the head chef—a stout man with a balding head and a face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. He spotted us immediately, his gaze narrowing. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said, his voice sharp and cutting over the clatter of pans.

Nikki raised a hand in mock surrender. “Sorry, Chef. Peter Jennings sent me.”

His scowl deepened. “If he wants to complain about the amount of butter I use again, you can tell—”

Nikki cut him off. “It’s not about butter,” she said. “He heard you were serving the 1985 vintage ports tonight, and he thinks it’s a fantastic idea. He loves port.”

“Right. So why are you here, then?”

“Apparently there was an incident last year where one of the port bottles had something wrong with it, and it came out tasting like vinegar. So he wants us to give every bottle a quick sniff test. Just so he isn’t embarrassed in front of the entire society again.”

The chef narrowed his eyes. “I don’t remember that happening.”

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