Page 113 of Only Mine
Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. The entire line falls silent, pretending to be fascinated by their stations while exchanging glances with each other.
I never leave early. Not unless Ivy’s sick or there’s an emergency. And I sure as hell don’t leave during Friday service.
“Yes, Chef,” Eddie says.
I grab my keys from the office, ignoring the weight of their stares. Let them talk. Let them wonder why their head chef is abandoning ship for the first time in three years.
The drive home takes twelve minutes. I make it in eight.
My personal kitchen is too quiet after the cacophony ofservice. I should feel guilty about leaving Eddie in charge, but all I can think about is the way Wrenley looked at me this afternoon, lips shining, making those sounds over my fucking pasta.
Everything’s already prepped. I did it this morning before Ivy woke up, telling myself I was just being efficient, not that I’d been planning this since the moment my eyes popped open at dawn, before I’d even asked Wrenley.
Ingredients lined up on the marble island. Knives honed to surgical sharpness. A Barolo breathing on the counter that costs more than most people’s car payments.
8:57.
Through the kitchen window, I catch the sweep of headlights.
She parks crooked, then has to reverse and try again. I watch her check her reflection in the rearview mirror three times before getting out.
When I open the door, she’s holding a bottle of wine and looking everywhere but at me.
“Hi,” she says.
“You brought wine.”
“Seemed rude not to.” She finally settles on my face. “Plus, I wasn’t sure if this was a social visit or if you were going to lecture me about pasta water again.”
“Depends. You still think pasta goes in cold water?”
“I think pasta goes wherever you tell me to put it.”
The corners of my lips twitch. “Good girl.”
I take her coat, allowing my fingers to brush her shoulders. “Nice choice on the wine.”
“The guy at the store helped. I told him I needed something for dinner with a chef who would throw a fit at the wrong wine pairing.”
I cock a brow, utterly insulted. “I don’t throw fits. I have justified reactions to incompetence.”
She laughs, and the sound tips my heart sideways. I want to taste that laughter to see if it’s as bright on my tongue as it is in the air.
Wrenley toes off her boots and follows me into the kitchen, stopping short when she notices the island set up with ingredients. “What’s all this?”
“Your education.” I put her bottle of wine to the side and pour her a glass of the Barolo. “We’re making risotto.”
“We?”
“You. I’m supervising.”
Her facial muscles do a complicated dance as she mulls this over. “You want me to cook for you.”
“I do.”
She surveys themis en place, then me. “I have zero idea how to make risotto.”
“Good. We’ll start from zero. Apron.” I toss her a spare from the hook by the pantry. She catches it, tying it around her waist with the kind of confidence that makes me want to see her in nothing but that.
