Page 151 of The Nanny Goal

As soon as our plates are clean, she returns. Her gaze flicks between us, gauging our reaction, but there’s no need to worry—we’re both blown away. “Are you ready for the main course?”

“Bring it on,” I nearly growl.

She grins. Wide and familiar. “Shhh. Pretend to be normal customers.”

I wave around us. “I’m pretty sure anyone would have the same reaction after that fish course. What’s next?”

“Lamb shoulder,” she says, twirling away.

And for all that I can see her influence on Inessa, that move is one my daughter taught her, I would swear it.

When she returns with the next plates, she doesn’t even glance at her notes.

“I worked on this one,” she says. “The lamb is slow roasted all day. The marinade is cinnamon, sumac, and date syrup. It’s served with labneh and black garlic, and finished with orange wedges, pickled red onion, and fresh mint. It’s complicated and sweet, like the best kind of memories.”

That might be a line they’re given by their instructors, but it hits me squarely in the chest because complicated memories are what sustained me in the two years between when she captured my heart and when I could finally give it back to her—but I didn’t appreciate how sweet those memories were.

“It sounds perfect,” I say.

“Enjoy.” She squeezes my shoulder, and I catch her hand before she slips away.

Russ digs in. I wait until she’s all the way back at her work station, but once I have my first taste, I don’t stop eating until I’ve finished and my plate is completely clean.

There’s dessert as well, but someone other than Emery tells us about it, so I’m only listening with half an ear as I watch her prepare more plates of lamb for other guests.

When her instructor asks her about something, she gives them her full attention. Crisp-soundingyes chefandunderstood chefresponses filter through the noise and slide under my skin.

When we’re ready to leave, she senses the shift in energy, and lifts her head. As if to say,wait a minute?

I nod.

She serves two more plates, then comes over. “Thanks for coming.”

“Our pleasure,” Armstrong says. “Seriously, Buzz. Very good stuff. Are you going to open a restaurant in Hamilton one day?”

She presses her lips together, pleased. “One thing at a time.”

“It’s a great idea,” I say, just for her ears. “Let’s talk about it tonight.” And I slide one of my hotel room keys into the pocket on her chef’s coat.

* * *

There’s a quiet knock before she taps the card key against the sensor and the lock whirs open.

I’m on my feet as she comes through the door, but I nearly fall to my knees when I see that she’s changed out of her chef’s clothes.

Her hair is damp from a shower and curling naturally, golden waves rioting in all directions, and she’s wearing a white sundress with little purple threading on her tits—fucking innocent—and black leather boots that cling to her legs—not fucking innocent at all.

“I have to get up at seven,” she says as I catch her in my arms and press her against the inside of the door.

Then neither of us say anything, because we’re kissing.

AndGod, but she tastes good.

I fill my hands with her, squeezing her curves, the fabric of her dress crumpling in my fists.

“Missed you, missed you…” she pants against my mouth.

“It was so hot watching you work tonight. Love your white chef’s jacket. Love this little white dress even more.”

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