Page 7 of Only Mine
“Wow,” Wrenley breathes when I set her plate down. Her eyes widen, genuine appreciation washing over her face. “This looks like artwork.”
“It’s just dinner.”
I pour myself a glass of burgundy before taking my seat, then notice where Wrenley’s attention has gone.
“Are you old enough to drink?” I ask her.
She laughs softly. “I’m twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five in November,” she adds almost defensively.
Wrenley picks up her fork, then hesitates. “This really does look incredible.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet.”
I take a sip of wine, studying her over the rim of my glass. Young. Too young. But I find her a separate wineglass regardless.With the way she was drooling over mine and the night she’s had, I’d say she needs it.
“Thank you,” she says when I set a full glass in front of her.
“You’re lucky. Papa doesn’t share his wine,” Ivy informs her while digging into her food. “He says it’s older than dinosaurs.”
I shoot Ivy a look. “Expensive. I said expensive.”
Wrenley takes her first bite and closes her eyes. The small sound she makes hits me right in the gut. It’s a noise of pure pleasure that belongs in my bedroom, not my kitchen.
“Oh my god,” she murmurs.
I nod curtly, ignoring the unwelcome heat that spreads through me at her reaction. Most people respond to my food this way. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been praised by critics worldwide, won awards, built an empire on my cooking. But there’s something about the genuine surprise on her face that hits differently.
“Told you,” Ivy says to her through a mouthful. “Sometimes people cry when they eat Papa’s food.”
“I believe it.” Wrenley takes another bite, savoring it with the same quiet reverence. “I might cry myself.”
“Please don’t.” I take a long sip of wine.
“Papa was on TV,” Ivy announces, mouth full of potato. “But he doesn’t do that anymore because he likes it here better.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I say automatically.
Wrenley dabs her lips with her napkin. “So you were a chef?”
“He still is,” Ivy corrects. “He has a restaurant in town. It’s really fancy. You need a—what’s it called, Papa?”
“Reservation.”
“Yeah, that. You need one of those. And sometimesfamous people come, but Papa doesn’t care if they’re famous. He doesn’t really come out to say hi to people.”
I freeze, my wineglass halfway to my lips. “Ivy.”
“What? You don’t.” She shrugs, sauce smeared on her chin.
I focus on slicing my chicken.
Ivy kicks her feet under the table. “Papa has stars.”
“Stars?” Wrenley raises an eyebrow at me.
I don’t look up from my plate. “Michelin. It doesn’t matter.”
“Three of them,” Ivy announces proudly.
