Page 5 of Saving Saul

What the hell, Saul? That is not detached.

There’s a pause, and then she laughs, and it feels like warmth wrapping around me. “So you’re a grump, huh? With that accent, I’m guessing you’re a British grump.”

“Afraid so,” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips. “Not Brit born, but unapologetically Brit bred. However, my soul is rooted in West Africa.”

“Ahhh, Mr. Darcy, with a touch of spice. I like it,” she says, the grin in her voice almost tangible. “I always loved Mr. Darcy. He’s my favorite book boyfriend.”

“Is he? What if I’m more of a Mr. Rochester?” I counter, the comparison apt for the shadows I keep hidden beneath my chef’s whites.

“Dark, handsome, and brooding with secrets in the attic?” Her voice teases, though there’s a flicker of genuine curiosity. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

I grin. “I certainly hope so.” Her words weave a connection that feels improbable yet entirely natural, like a song you didn’t know you were humming.

“So, Saul, what do you do for a living?” she asks, her voice coaxing.

I hesitate. Should I tell her I’m a wealthy, reclusive former rugby star or a chef carving out a new path in America? Most Americans know nothing of rugby, so she wouldn’t know who I was even if she saw me.

I’ll go with the budding chef. I don’t discuss my fame or fortune with anyone.

“Tell you what, Tessa, I’ll give you a clue with my next statement.”

Okay, I’m game.” She replies.

“Food, at its core, is a conversation,” I muse. “Every dish tells a story, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” she agrees, her enthusiasm sparking. “Every spice holds a memory, every flavor a narrative. Let me guess—you’re a chef.”

“Right again,” I confirm, imagining her face lighting up. “I’m Ghanaian, and West African cooking is a love letter to home. It’s bold and unapologetic, much like my grandmother, who taught me its secrets. A stew isn’t just a stew—it’s history and innovation blended, much like life.”

“Your grandmother sounds incredible,” Tessa says softly. “In New Orleans, we get it. Food is heritage—Creole, Cajun, all that jazz.”

“Sounds enchanting,” I say. “You paint a vivid picture of your hometown, Tessa. I need to visit. So, what do you do?”

A pause lingers before she speaks, her tone vulnerable. “I’m… an actress, but please don’t ask what you may have seen me in.” A nervous laugh follows that statement, and I don’t like her embarrassment.

I know what it feels like to fail at the one thing you want to do, and I want to shield her from those feelings. I let her continue before I blurt out something crazy like, “I’ve got you. I’ll buy you a movie studio.”

“See, I’ve always dreamed of acting. The stage was my first love, but the screen—that’s the dream. It doesn’t matter because neither medium seems to love me back.”

“What kind of roles do you want to play?” I ask, hoping to open her up a bit more.

“Anything that makes peoplefeel. I have roles where the audience will leave feeling for my character.”

“Well, sweetheart. I’m sure you’re great at that because I’ve known you for less than two hours, and I already care about everything you say.”

I’m so fucked.

“Awww,” she sings. “Thank you for that. But I swear I’m not acting now, and my wanting to break into the business is not why I’m here,” she adds quickly.

“Of course not!” I say with mock indignation. “But don’t worry,” I chuckle. “They’ll probably edit this part out.”

She laughs again, and the sound soothes something in my soul that I didn’t realize needed repairing.

“Oh, you know what! I’m also a trained chef. Go figure, huh?”

I scoff. “Now, you are pulling my leg.”

She giggles. “No, I swear. I’ve always loved cooking, and I needed a backup career in case acting didn’t pan out, so I got a culinary degree.”

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