Page 210 of Delicious

The Chef’s Kiss

Mia Monroe

ChapterOne

Desmond

Marco pulls into a curved section of the parking lot, stopping in front of a valet stand where two men hurry to open our doors and take over from there.

My jaw drops in complete awe. “How did you get reservations for this place? I heard they were booked for a year.”

Marco pats my thigh with a shit-eating grin on his face. “There’s always a way, lover. Did you forget who my employer is?”

I scoff before nodding and saying thank you to the man holding my door open for me. “How could I? He’s got those kind of connections, huh?”

Marco joins me on the sidewalk, sliding his arm around my waist and kissing my cheek. “He’s one of the most powerful businessmen in New Onyx. He can get whatever he wants. In this case, he can get me the hottest reservation in town for my baby’s birthday.”

“He’s a total ass, but for tonight, I’ll forget about how hard he works you.”

Marco grins. “Come on, lover. We have a celebration to get to.”

Two more men open the heavy glass doors as we approach the entrance to Entrée, the newest and hottest eatery in the city. As an aspiring foodie, I’ve been salivating over online menus of nouveau French cuisine and reviews, wondering how long it would take to get in. It’s also wicked expensive, but I won’t even bother asking Marco how he’s paying for this. He figured it out. He always does.

The lobby is dimly lit and moody, with velvet seating, marble floors, and an ornate crystal chandelier hanging above us. Two people stand behind the host stand dressed in black turtlenecks and black pants, with slicked-back hair. One of the people, male in appearance, is striking, with white-blond hair, sharp features, and full, lacquered red lips. He gazes at us with gray eyes, as if deciding whether we’re worthy of being in his presence.

“May I help you?” he asks in a deep voice.

“We have a reservation,” Marco says. “Scarpelli.”

The angelic but slightly terrifying host refers to his tablet, tapping with long, pointy fingernails before nodding. “Scarpelli for two.” He gazes up at us again, offering just the hint of a smile. “Right this way.”

We follow the lithe man as he slinks through the space, balancing on impossibly high stilettos and swaying his hips with every step. Not my type, but he must be kryptonite to anyone who’s into his vibe.

Marco squeezes my hand, winking at me as we follow the host to a table near the back of the restaurant. The entire room is so swanky I almost feel out of place, but that awkwardness is overridden by my excitement over getting to taste the food.

Our table is up against the glass walls, so the ocean is visible and so is the boulevard, filled with people strolling by on evening walks. It feels a little tacky to be on display like this, almost like we’re bragging that we can eat here and they can’t. I’m not used to living like a rich person. Maybe actual rich people don’t even think about things like that.

“Sir?”

I snap out of my thoughts and look at our host, who is gesturing impatiently to my chair.

“Thanks.” I sit, scooting in and hoping I come across normal, but I’m pretty sure the diva is aware that this isn’t my usual dining fare.

“The chef will be out shortly to go over our specials for the evening,” the host says before turning on his heel and sashaying away.

Marco nearly chokes on his laughter. “Someone’s full of themselves. I heard this place was posh, but that barely touches it.”

I tug on the collar of my shirt. “I feel out of place.”

“Well, you’re not. You belong here as much as anyone. Money spends the same, right?”

Nodding, I reach across the table for his hand. “Thank you for making this happen.”

“You deserve it, babe. You busted your ass these last three months at the hospital, and now this weekend, I’m spoiling you rotten.”

“The whole weekend?”

“The whole weekend. Whatever you want, it’s yours. It’s a husband’s job to take care of his man.”

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