Page 125 of Only Mine
Saint offers me a wry look.
“It’s because she doesn’t have a soul,” I add. “She once made a venture capitalist cry during a contract negotiation. With just her eyebrows.”
Saint’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. “I like her already.”
I push off the wall. “I should get ready.”
Saint crosses to me, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. “Want me to come with you?”
“Absolutely not. Brenda would eat you alive and then use your bones to pick her teeth while negotiating a cookbook deal.”
He laughs, a rare sound that still sends warmth cascading through me. “I’ve faced worse critics.”
“No, you haven’t.” I stretch up on tiptoes and kiss him quickly. “Trust me on this.”
Forty-seven minutes later, I’m dressed in yesterday’s clothes, smelling like Saint’s soap, and sliding into a booth across from Brenda at Libby Jude’s. She’s already ordered mimosas and is typing furiously on her phone, pausing only to take a sip of her drink.
“This place is very cottagecore, don’t you think? Too badtheir socials are abysmal. Missed opportunity, in my opinion.”
I give Brenda an indulgent smile before taking a sip of my drink. “This town isn’t too interested in leveraging social media.”
Brenda’s eyes widen as she sets down her phone, giving me her full attention, an honor usually reserved for seven-figure deals. “Good lord, it’s like I’ve entered a time warp. Next you’ll tell me people here still use landlines and write letters.”
“Some do, actually.”
“That’s the problem with these adorable ‘burgs. All charm, zero hustle. Do you know the owner hasn’t even claimed her Google Business listing? It’s criminal.”
“Not everyone wants to be found, Bren.”
“Like you?” She gives me a pointed look over her mimosa. “Speaking of which, I’d like to discuss that mountain of sex appeal you’ve been climbing. The one with the hands.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can and will.” She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Wrenley Morgan, you little minx. You’ve been holding out on me. That video of him making the pasta dish? Because it has to be him, right? Pure genius. The engagement metrics are insane.”
“It was just one video,” I mutter, a curious sinking feeling forming in my gut. “And I promised him it would be anonymous.”
“Sure, for anyone who’s never met him, but I am no longer that woman. It was food porn of the highest caliber. The way he handled that knife? The tension in his forearms when he kneaded the dough? And don’t get me started on how he handled those fresh-made noodles.” She fans herselfdramatically. “I nearly combusted when he burst the egg yolk between his fingers. It was indecent.”
“Brenda!”
“What? I’m just saying what two million women are thinking.” She takes a delicate sip of her mimosa. “The algorithm doesn’t lie, darling. People are thirsting for your mystery chef. And that means they’re going to start sleuthing.”
My pulse quickens. “It was just his hands. And he doesn’t have unique tattoos on his fingers.”
“Oh, honey.” Brenda leans back, crossing her arms with the confidence of someone who’s seen the internet unmask anonymous celebrities based on a single nostril in a blurry photo. “Those aren’t just any hands. Those are the hands of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing with them. Trust me, your followers are already freeze-framing that video looking for identifying marks. Some are playing detective in the comments.”
My stomach drops.
Brenda slides her phone across the table. “See for yourself.”
I scroll through the comments section, my heart racing faster with each one:
@thighnoodles:if you don’t tell us who he is i’m gonna start knocking on restaurant back doors like a divorced wife in a Hallmark movie
@egirlscancooktoo:i showed this to my mom and she just sighed and said “that’s a provider.” what does that MEAN
@user000deadinside:you think we won’t recognize those hands when you try to soft launch him in the background again??? girl we’re IN THE WALLS
