Page 25 of The Reaper
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Montana.”
I raised a brow. “You don’t hear that every day.”
He shrugged. “Most people leave. I stuck around as long as I could.”
“And now?”
“Now I move around. For work.”
“What kind of work?”
He paused. “The kind I can’t talk about.”
Vague. But not evasive.
I didn’t press. He wasn’t lying. Just not offering more than I’d earned.
I nodded toward the dining room. “You really liked the food?”
His eyes held mine. “I didn’t just like it. I felt it.”
That caught me off guard.
“Felt it?” I repeated.
He nodded. “I don’t know all the fancy words. I can’t tell you what was infused or emulsified or whatever. But it hit hard. Clean. Sharp. Like you meant every bite to say something.”
I laughed, but it was surprised. “Most people just say thank you and ask where the restroom is.”
“I’m not most people.”
No. He wasn’t.
“And yet,” I said, stepping down to meet him on the walkway, “you managed to mistake foie gras for cheese.”
His eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t cheese?”
I grinned. “It was duck liver.”
He winced. “You’re kidding.”
“Still feel it?”
He gave a sheepish chuckle. “Less now.”
I laughed again—an actual laugh, loose and unguarded. It felt good. Strange.
I couldn’t remember the last time someone surprised me without trying to impress me. He hadn’t come for the name or the menu. He hadn’t googled me or tried to talk shop. He wasn’t a chef, a critic, or a trust fund boy in cufflinks.
He was something else.
Something I didn’t quite understand.
“You’re not the type who usually shows up here,” I said.
“I didn’t know there was a type.”
