Page 63 of The Reaper
The city was still half-asleep. No tourist chatter. No scent of fried dough drifting from Market Street. Just the briny tang of the harbor and the occasional gull cutting across the pale-gold sky.
It was too early for my brain to spin itself into knots about the note last night or the one from before. And yet—my first thought when I saw him was relief. My second was the inconvenient, undeniable ache low in my belly.
I pulled on jeans, a faded black tee, and my kitchen clogs, twisting my hair into a bun before heading downstairs. The loft smelled faintly of last night—citrus peel, seared meat, andCaleb’s cologne, some warm, steady scent I couldn’t name but could already recognize blindfolded.
By the time I reached the front door, he was already there, opening it like he owned the hinges.
“Morning,” he said, stepping inside. His voice was still gravelly from sleep—or maybe from not sleeping at all.
“Morning,” I echoed, locking the door behind him. “You’ve been out there long?”
“A few hours.”
An understatement. I frowned. “You didn’t have to?—”
“Yes, I did.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Behind him, a black SUV pulled up to the curb. Two men climbed out—broad-shouldered, purposeful—hauling gear cases I recognized instantly from restaurant security installations I’d seen at bigger, flashier places.
“Ryker’s guys,” Caleb said. “They’ll get cameras up in the dining room, out front, and at the service entrance. No more blind spots.”
I nodded, my throat tight. “Okay.”
The men got to work without much small talk. I slipped into my usual morning routine—coffee, prep lists, checking produce deliveries—while Caleb trailed me like a shadow, watching, asking quiet questions about my systems, my suppliers, how I decided what made the cut for the menu.
He didn’t belong to my world—my world of ticket times, plating finesse, and a thousand tiny decisions that made or broke a service. But he moved through it like he could learn the rules if he wanted to, and I hated how much I liked the thought of him trying.
By nine, the kitchen was humming. Finn showed up, raising a brow at the security installation but not commenting. He was already in full sous mode—pulling down Cambros, firing upburners, and making fun of me for how early I’d started the duck confit.
The plan had been my idea: an experimental lunch service. One seating. Limited menu. A chance to test a few dishes I’d been developing for the fall lineup without the high stakes of dinner.
We didn’t normally open before four, but I’d seeded the idea to a few regulars and industry contacts. If Michelin inspectors were anywhere in the city—and the rumor mill said they might be—an invite-only lunch was the kind of thing they sometimes crashed.
Caleb stuck around as we set up the dining room. He didn’t sit; he prowled. Adjusting blinds, watching the installers, scanning the street through the front windows. I caught him more than once watching me instead, and each time, a slow heat worked its way up my body.
“You’re going to make the guests nervous,” I murmured when I passed him on my way to the bar.
“They’ll survive,” he said, not even pretending to look away.
By noon, we were ready. Tables set with crisp linens. Glassware polished. My test menu—five courses, all lean, bright, unapologetically seasonal—was printed on textured stock and tucked under each fork.
The first guests trickled in: a pair of food bloggers I knew, one of my produce suppliers and his wife, a retired chef who consulted for the city’s tourism board. Easy faces. People I could cook for without my hands shaking.
And then, right in the middle of the first seating, they came in.
Or rather—he came in. Alone.
Dark jacket. No reservation. Manner quiet enough to be almost invisible.
I was at the pass, checking a plate for smears, when Finn leaned toward me and muttered, “Got a solo in table six. Doesn’t want the wine pairing, just water. And he’s already taken three pictures of the amuse.”
I glanced over. Sure enough, the man was photographing every angle—carefully, deliberately—like he was cataloging evidence.
My pulse kicked up. Michelin inspectors never announced themselves. They didn’t need to. This … looked like one.
Or maybe it was just someone with too much free time and a love of photography.
