Page 97 of Only Mine
Saint gestures me into the kitchen. “Right on time. Ivy’s waiting at the private table in here.”
It takes a minute to process that he’s inviting me into the heart of his domain. Willingly.
I’d expected a quiet table in the corner, maybe his subtle wave from the kitchen, but not this. Not the heat, the clang, the rush of a dinner shift in progress. Not the wall of noise and scented steam and the sudden, total attention of everycook on the line as the boss’s “guest” trails in wearing a dress that now feels absurdly fancy for the occasion.
Saint’s kitchen is a different ecosystem than the dining room, and he moves through it with the animal grace of someone who isn’t thinking about motion at all. Someone who is, in fact, the sole gravitational force in the room.
The VIP table sits in an alcove at the back of the kitchen, a polished cherry wood table for four gleaming under a single copper pendant light, while the rest of the kitchen blazes under industrial fluorescents. A white linen tablecloth, crystal glasses, and heavy silverware create the impression of a dining room luxury, but with the unmistakable thrill of being behind the velvet rope.
Ivy waves frantically from her seat, half standing on her chair until Saint gives her a look that settles her back down. I notice a small placard on the table: RESERVED.
“The chef’s table,” Saint says, pulling out a chair for me. “Usually booked months in advance.”
“Or years, depending on who you are,” calls another chef without looking up from the salmon he’s plating.
“Mayor Dillinger’s still mad about tonight,” adds another cook, eyebrows waggling suggestively in my direction.
Saint’s jaw tightens. “Focus on your stations.”
“You denied the mayor?” I ask, sliding into my seat.
Saint stays close enough to catch his scent, smoke and salt, appearing at my elbow. “I told him we were fully committed.”
The word “committed” does something stupid to my pulse. I reach for my water glass to have something to do other than melt.
My phone vibrates against my hip in my purse. The sound is barely audible over the kitchen noise, but I feel it. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.
“You good?” Saint asks, catching my slight frown.
“Fine.”
But the buzzing continues. Insistent. Too many for Brenda. Too aggressive for anyone who has my number with my permission.
Saint’s eyes narrow, cataloging my expression with the same care he applies to a delicate sauce. He slides into the seat across from me.
“Miss Wrenley looks like a princess,” Ivy declares, bouncing slightly in her seat. She’s wearing a blue dress with mismatched socks, one striped, one polka-dotted.
“You’re shaking,” he says to me quietly.
“Am I?” I force a laugh. “Just hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
Which consisted of a handful of trail mix.
A server appears with bread and a tiny dish of sea-salted butter. Ivy dives in like she’s been fasting for days. I focus on buttering a roll, hoping the ritual will steady my hands, but the trembling only gets worse. Saint’s gaze drills into me, more relentless than the kitchen’s heat.
“Wine?” the server asks, voice pitched to a hush. “Chef selected a white for the first course.”
Saint nods. “Thank you, Mags.”
The wine is poured. I clutch the glass, letting condensation chill my fingers, but it does nothing to slow the boiling under my skin.
Ivy’s feet swing below her chair. “Miss Wrenley, guess what I drew in art today?”
“What?”
She grins. “A cat superhero who saves everybody from mean people. Her name is Captain Ralph.”
Saint’s attention flicks to Ivy long enough to give her an indulgent quirk of his mouth, then right back to me.
