Page 110 of The Good Girl (Nashville Neighborhood)

I stopped what I was doing to give him a hard look. “Can we do this later? I’m already behind schedule.”

He lifted his hands and backed away, wordlessly apologizing. But he’d had his focus on me, so he wasn’t aware he was too close to the side table until he bumped into it.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

I wasn’t sure if he’d done it in pain, or because he’d knocked my knife bag off the tabletop. It fell to the floor with a loud thud, but thankfully my two best knives were beside me and not inside the bag. If anything else inside there got damaged, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

Colin bent, picked it up, and as he returned the bag to the table, the embroidery caught his eye. “This is yours?”

It came out without thought. “Preston got it for me.” I frowned and turned my attention back to my sauté pans. “Is he here?”

“Yeah. You want to talk to him?”

“No.” It came out more forceful than I wanted it to. “Can you do me a favor and keep everyone except for the servers out of the kitchen? Diego and I need to focus.”

His expression was strange. Why did he seem disappointed? But then he gave me a resigned nod. “Yeah. I’ll let him know.” He caught himself. “I’ll let everyone know.”

I didn’t have time to think about his strange response. Diego was setting out plates on the main table so we could assemble the first course. I grabbed a pair of gloves from the dispenser and went to help him.

Dinner service was . . . fucking magic.

It was a perfectly aligned night where everything came together, and it seemed like everyone was in the zone. The waitstaff was friendly and communicative. The timing of the main dishes was flawless, including the one where I’d substituted gluten-free pasta for the guest who had that restriction. Every plate went out hot and we’d nailed the perfect al dente on the ravioli.

The three-course meal was a marathon, but it was one where we had to sprint in three long bursts. Dessert was less stressful since I’d already prepared it at home, but presentation was more important in this course, and so it took the longest. We carefully and cleanly cut the tiramisu in long, narrow rectangles to show off the layers of mascarpone and ladyfingers, garnishing each plate with a half of a strawberry and a chocolate tuile.

“That’s a sexy looking plate,” I said.

Diego laughed, nodding in agreement.

When the final tray left the kitchen loaded with the last of the desserts, I let out a tight breath.

The first two dishes had gone over well. The bussed plates that headed to the dishwashing station had been empty, and no dishes had been sent back for correction.

The anxiety inside me had calmed, but it lingered still as I worked to clean my station. I was emotionally and physically drained, yet desperate for feedback. Plus, I was incredibly proud of what Diego and I had accomplished. I scrubbed the washrag over the front lip of the stove where sauce had splattered—

My back had been turned, and I’d been too deep in my thoughts to hear the door swing open. So, I wasn’t aware I was no longer alone until a deep voice startled me into place.

“I have something for you.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Sydney

I wasn’t sure I wanted to turn and face Preston, but his statement left me with no choice. I slowly pivoted in my spot, dragging out the moment before I’d lay my gaze on him.

He didn’t disappoint.

Preston wore a stone-gray button-down shirt, a black tie, and black slacks. It was the most dressed up I’d ever seen him, and everything about it was flawless. Not a single wrinkle marred his clothes nor was a hair out of place, and I wanted to groan at how good he looked, especially when I had to look like hot garbage.

My hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, but I was sure a bunch of flyaways had escaped from under my cap, creating awkward loops of hair by my ears. Whatever makeup I’d put on hours ago had been steamed off while cooking the ravioli and was now replaced with a thin layer of dried sweat. Stains and sauce splatters decorated the front of my jacket.

Why the hell did he stare at me like he didn’t notice any of it?

His eyes were intense, trailing over me like I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. It caused my heart to stop and breath to lock up in my lungs. The longing I’d been trying to hold back the last week flared wildly out of control, and I had to grip the edge of the stove to make sure my unsteady legs didn’t give out on me.

A voice inside my head reminded me I wasn’t weak. I’d spent the last three hours being in total command of this kitchen, and I’d fucking nailed this dinner. He was here on my turf, in the place where I felt the most confidence.

He’d told me he had something for me and was waiting for my response. I lifted my chin, along with my shoulders. “What is it?”

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