Page 64 of The Reaper
I forced myself to keep moving, to send the plates, to focus on seasoning instead of speculation. But every time I looked up, the man was watching his plate like it might confess something to him.
Caleb noticed. Of course, he noticed.
“Who’s the guy?” he murmured when I passed him near the coffee station.
“Don’t know,” I said lightly, as if my chest wasn’t tightening with every click of the man’s shutter. “Could be nothing.”
Caleb’s jaw flexed. “And if it’s not?”
“Then I hope he likes lunch.”
The courses went out one by one—heirloom tomato tart with basil crème, seared scallops over sweet corn purée, duck with blackberry gastrique, a cheese course, and finally a lavender-honey panna cotta that had taken me three tries to perfect.
The man ate every bite. Took notes. Left without asking to meet the chef.
By the time the door shut behind him, my knees felt loose.
Caleb was by my side instantly. “You gonna tell me what that was about?”
I exhaled. “Could be an inspector. Could be a critic. Could be some random guy with a camera and a blog. But if it was Michelin?—”
“That matters to you,” he said.
“It’s … everything,” I admitted. “The right attention, the right review—it can put a place on the map. And if I want a star, I need both.”
His gaze softened, but the protectiveness didn’t fade. “Then we make sure you get it. And we make sure you’re still standing when you do.”
I didn’t know if he meant physically, emotionally, or both. And I didn’t ask.
I leaned against the edge of the bar, still coming down from the rush of service, still hearing the faint echo of plates settling on linen and forks scraping over china.
“Michelin doesn’t even cover South Carolina,” I said after a beat, my voice quieter now. “Not officially. They’ve never published a guide here.”
Caleb cocked his head. “Then why does that guy with the camera matter?”
“Because I’m an optimist.” My lips curved, but it was wry. “Because if I’m good enough, and the right people whisper Promenade’s name in the right ears, maybe one day they’ll make an exception. Or expand the guide. Or—hell—at least make sure my name gets mentioned in the rooms where it matters.”
He studied me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve and keep. “You really believe that.”
“I have to.”
Something flickered in his expression—approval, maybe. Or understanding. “You like doing the impossible.”
“Better than being bored.”
He moved in closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “So, what’s the part where I get you to sneak away from your kitchen for five minutes?”
“You’re standing in it,” I teased.
“Not what I meant.”
Before I could retort, his fingers brushed mine where my hand rested on the bar. Just a whisper of contact, but it sent a sharp little spark all the way up my arm.
“Five minutes,” he repeated.
I rolled my eyes for show, then pushed off the bar and led him down the short hall toward my office. It wasn’t romantic—cluttered desk, shelves of cookbooks, the faint smell of printer toner—but the door locked, and that was enough.
The moment it clicked shut, his hands were on my waist, tugging me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was slower than last night’s but no less consuming.
