Page 23 of The Reaper
I nodded and pointed at a painting. “Just admiring the art.”
He smirked. “Local. Eliza Thorne. Painted during a nor’easter. Everything in here’s for sale. If the price doesn’t scare you.”
I played along. “What’s it run?”
He named a number that made me blink. Enough for a decent truck. I followed him to the bar.
“Chef’ll walk you through the menu,” Finn said, setting down a napkin. “Enjoy.”
The seat was broken in, leather soft under me. I barely noticed. My eyes were locked on her.
She stepped around the bar, close now. Her scent hit first—citrus and heat. Her skin glowed under the soft lights. Those eyes. They saw everything.
“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Meghan Delaney. Owner and chef. Tonight’s a nine-course tasting.”
She listed each one with calm precision—oyster shooter with yuzu foam, foie gras with blackberry reduction, king crab ravioli, wagyu tartare, grilled octopus, charcoal-seared halibut with citrus liqueur and micro shiso, duck confit, lamb saddle, cheese course, and finally a chocolate tart with gold leaf.
No menu. No notes. Just confidence.
I leaned in. “Sounds perfect. Guess you knew I was coming.”
Something flickered behind her eyes. Not fear. Something sharper. Curiosity, maybe. Then it was gone.
“We prepare for every guest,” she said. “I’ll bring your first drink.”
She turned away. I watched her go, every step deliberate.
She brought out a bourbon—private label I didn’t recognize—and a single fried prawn.
“Panko-crusted Atlantic prawn,” she said. “Chili-lime aioli.”
I nodded. Bit in. Crunch and heat hit first, then the brine. She knew what she was doing.
Each course came like a show—art on a plate, flavors layered deep. I didn’t understand every ingredient, but it didn’t matter. Every bite told me this place was hers. And she had something to say.
By dessert, she brought the plate herself. A tart, rich and dark, raspberries bright against the chocolate.
“Last one,” she said. “Hope it’s to your liking.”
“It is,” I said. “Best meal I’ve had in years. Why’d you open this place?”
She hesitated. Her fingers gripped the bar.
“Cooking runs in the family.” Her tone was final.
I didn’t push. But when she reached for my plate, I caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough.
She froze. Her eyes met mine. A slow beat passed.
“What if I’m not done?” I asked.
“Cleanup finishes by eleven,” she said, voice low.
I let her go.
The check came. Steep. Worth it. I paid and stepped into the night.
Eleven.
