Page 123 of The Love Syllabus

“Promise me this is only the beginning,” Vic says, his forehead pressed to mine.

“It is, Vic,” I whisper. “I promise.”

Vic groans against my lips, then slips one hand into my robe, trailing his fingers over my thigh before cupping my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple, teasing me into a quiet moan. His other hand grips the small of my back, pulling me tighter against him until all I can feel is heat and hard muscle beneath me.

“Good. Now, take your robe off,” he rasps huskily, lips trailing down my neck, his tongue flicking over my nipple before he gently bites down, making me gasp for more. “And sit on my face.”

I don’t argue. I don’t hesitate. I let myself get lost in him, in us, and the many pleasures to follow.

~~~

The energy in the restaurant is electric. Photographers flash their cameras, a sea of people waiting for the moment they can step into Roots—the place Vic built with his heart, his hands, and his history.

And, of course, we’re perfectly coordinated in pink. Vic, forever outnumbered in our house, playfully scowls as he buttons his deep rose-colored jacket. “So, this is my fate, huh? Drowning in pink for the rest of my life?”

“We like you better this way, Daddy.” Syd, twirling in her sparkly blush dress, grins up at him.

Ari smirks. “Yeah, it makes you look less scary.”

I laugh, slipping my hand into his. “You should thank us. You’ve never looked better.”

The cameras flash as we pose together, but then, the real magic begins.

A drumroll hums through the speakers as a massive cover drops from over the restaurant’s sign, revealingRootsin beautifully carved script painted in vibrant Caribbean hues. Below, in elegant gold print, is a dedication:

“An Ode to the Grimes Beginnings and to the Love That Nourishes Us.”

And just beside it, another plaque stands in quiet reverence, one that means everything.

“From the humble vision of Anne and Joseph Grimes, who built their first restaurant with love, and to Jeremiah Grimes, a great man taken too soon, whose passion transformed his parents’ dream into an empire, this is our tribute. Your spirit lives in every dish, in every lesson passed down, and in every moment shared around these tables. This isn’t just a restaurant. It’s a love letter to the past, a celebration of the present, and a promise to the future. This is family. This is home. This is our legacy continued.”

Vic is still as he watches his mother, standing beside Hudson, clutching her heart and blinking away tears. The crowd gushes in admiration, and I squeeze his hand.

“See, baby,” I whisper, watching his throat bob as he swallows hard. “It’s perfect.”

Once everyone is seated, it’s time for the most important part—the tasting.

Vic stands at the head of the room, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. “Tonight isn’t just about food,” he begins. “It’s about home. It’s about the roots that ground us, the flavors that tell our stories. Each dish you taste tonight is inspired by my grandparents’ old recipes, reimagined through my own vision. It’s an honor to share them with you.”

The first dish lands in front of us, and I barely have time to lift my fork before I hear the first quiet gasp, the kind that happens when something tastes too damn good to hide the reaction. All around me, eyes widen, heads tilt back slightly, and the room settles into that hushed stillness that only great food can command.

The slow-braised smoked oxtail over creamy buttermilk grits is the first to disappear into everyone’s stomachs.

Vic watches with barely concealed nerves, just waiting for a reaction, and my mom doesn’t make him wait long.

“Lord have mercy.” She moans dramatically, shaking her head.

Ari grins, shoveling another bite into her mouth. “That means it’s good, Daddy.”

Laughter ripples through the table, but no one stops eating. The plates keep coming, and soon, the table is filled with a rotation of flavors—everything from land to sea and heat to sweet.

The fried snapper is next, crispy and golden, coated in a scotch bonnet-infused honey glaze that makes lips tingle and eyes water, but no one stops eating long enough to complain. The mango slaw underneath cools it down just enough, providing a bright and fresh contrast against the slow-building heat.

Across the table, one of the toughest food critics in the country, a man who has single-handedly shut down restaurants with his reviews, sets his fork down, exhales, and looks at Vic like he’s witnessing something divine.

“Jesus,” he utters. “This isn’t just food. This is… an experience.”

Vic doesn’t react, at least not in the way people probably expect. He keeps his face neutral, nods once, but I know him well enough to see it—the shift in his eyes, the way relief and pride battle it out beneath the surface.

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