Page 69 of The Reaper
“I’m serious,” I said. “If you want to even have a shot at a star—even one—people like that have to be talking about you. And not just your food. The story. The atmosphere. The whole package.”
“Which you’ve got,” he said simply. “You just don’t have the spotlight yet.”
“Exactly.” I leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “And that’s the part I can’t force. I can’t just beg publications to notice us. That looks desperate. And desperate doesn’t get you Michelin.”
Finn started chopping parsley, the knife rhythmic against the board. “So, what’s the play? Start inviting writers down under the guise of a ‘quiet little tasting’? Leak a rumor that Promenade’s doing something no one else is?”
“Something like that. But not obvious. Organic buzz. Someone in the right circle mentions us to someone else in the right circle, and suddenly the man at table six today isn’t the only one walking through the door.”
Finn’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “We could start small. Local press—Charleston City Paper, Post and Courier. Not reviews, more … features. Get them to focus on your background, the Meggie’s connection, what you’re doing here that’s different. Then let it snowball.”
“Exactly.” I could already see it—the first wave of attention making enough noise to get picked up nationally, then maybe, just maybe, an inspector deciding to make the trip down.
He smiled, half conspiratorially. “You’re good at this.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
Finn chuckled. “Yeah, but now you’ve got that extra little fire lit under you.”
I raised a brow. “What fire?”
“The one that started when a certain six-foot-something shadow started hovering around your front door.”
I rolled my eyes, but heat curled low in my stomach. “You’re infuriating.”
“And you’re glowing,” he said, moving to the stove to check the stock.
We fell into the rhythm of prep after that—washing greens, trussing the chickens, tasting sauces—while the plan sat unspoken between us. Not a desperate grab for attention, but a slow, deliberate seduction of the right eyes and ears. A chef’s version of foreplay.
I liked foreplay.
By the time the sky outside had gone soft with early evening, the dining room was set for service. The light caught the wine glasses just right, and the candles were ready to be lit. I was wiping down the pass when Finn stuck his head through the kitchen door.
“They’re here,” he said, his grin wicked.
I glanced toward the front and caught sight of Dean’s broad shoulders in a navy blazer, Trish’s silver hair gleaming under the sconces.
Finn stepped back into the kitchen and dropped his voice. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I said.
He clapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Good. Then let’s go introduce them to your man.”
Finn didn’t wait for me to move, just turned toward the dining room with that devilish smirk of his, like he was about to introduce me on stage. My pulse kicked harder than it should have—ridiculous, considering I’d just spent the day orchestrating every detail of tonight’s menu without breaking a sweat. But this wasn’t just about perfectly seared chicken or morel cream reduced to silk.
This was about Caleb. Meeting Dean. Meeting Trish.
I stepped out from behind the pass, smoothing my apron before untangling it from my waist and hanging it on the hook. My palms were damp, so I rubbed them down the sides of my chef coat, forcing my shoulders back.
Dean’s gaze found me instantly. His mouth curved, warm and familiar, but there was that quick, assessing flick in his eyes—like he was already taking in the room, the menu posted on the chalkboard, the way my staff moved.
Trish was right behind him, elegant as ever in a cream blouse and perfectly cut slacks. She pulled me into a hug before I could say a word, her perfume—a mix of gardenia and something sharper—filling my lungs.
“You look beautiful, Meggie,” she said, using the name only they could without making me wince. “And this place—” she glanced around the dining room, approving “—is humming.”
I smiled, but my brain was already half in the kitchen, half scanning for Caleb.
And then he stepped into view from near the host stand, like the air between us had shifted to make room for him. Black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, that watch I’d noticed earlier catching the low light. He looked completely at ease, but the undercurrent was there—the kind of awareness that said he’d noticed every single person in the room beforethey’d even glanced his way. In one hand, he carried a bottle of wine, cradled casual but deliberate, as though he’d chosen it with the same precision he brought to everything else.
