Page 164 of Love Overboard
And Finn — my brilliant, reckless, maddening, passionate Finn — just stood there, blinking, staring at his phone like he wasn’t sure if it was a bomb or a gold brick. The eye of the beautiful storm.
My wine glass abandoned, I ran to him, sliding across the cleared part of the stainless-steel island until I collided with that gorgeous man. He laughed in surprise, his phone dropping to the floor, but I didn’t give him the chance to reach for it again.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into me, my lips caressing his with all the words I knew could never convey what I felt for him in this moment.
Finn inhaled the kiss, his hands finding my hair, the chaos around us muted as we leaned into that touch, into each other.
“You did it,” I whispered, tears stinging the corners of my eyes as we pressed our foreheads together. “I told you. Iknewyou would.”
“They called when we were prepping for dinner service,” he murmured, dazed. “I… I missed it. I missed the call.”
“You got the voicemail,” I said on a laugh. “And it’s real, babe. Somewhere in Los Angeles, they’re having a party and announcing your star. By tomorrow morning, the news will be in all the papers.” I shook my head, pressing another long kiss to his perfect lips. “You did it.”
“Wedid it,” he quickly corrected, his hands locking on either side of my face as his eyes searched mine. “I fecking love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And then we were torn apart, the team dragging Finn outside before I was hoisted up in the air to follow.
We tumbled into the street outside Pygo, where the light from the windows spilled across the sidewalk and the champagne became a weapon. Finn was soaked with it in under thirty seconds, laughing in a way I’d never seen — wild and free, like something had cracked open inside him and let the light pour in.
This was what it looked like to witness a dream come true.
Through it all, his eyes kept finding mine.
Like no matter how bright the spotlight, he could still only ever see me.
ONE WEEK LATER
The restaurant looked like a fever dream.
Sunlight spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on gold accents and flickering across velvet booths. The floor was a mosaic of tile — chaotic, colorful, magical. Hanging plants dipped from the ceiling. The lighting fixtures were warm and strange and beautiful — all curves and antique brass, casting shadows on the lacquered walls.
I took it all in slowly while I could, the quiet of pre-service something this restaurant rarely experienced. One fingertip skimmed the smooth marble of the host stand, the soft wood of the bar, the mismatched antique mirrors on the wall that made every corner feel infinite as I tried to grasp what we’d created, the recognition we’d earned.
It felt like so much more than just an award at a job, so much bigger than anyatta girlI’d been given on a yacht. Pygo wasn’t just a themed tablescape and party or a seven-course tasting menu gone right.
It was a piece of us, a visual and culinary expression of our story.
Finn walked in from the back, holding a glorious red box.
My heart caught at the sight. “Is that—”
He opened the lid, revealing the plaque. Our Michelin Star. Engraved and glowing.
We just stared at it, quiet for a moment.
“We should hang it right above the urinal in the men’s room,” Finn said. “That’s what you do with one of these, right?”
“I was thinking next to the garbage in the kitchen. You know — the one that always overflows before one of us takes it out?”
“Brilliant.”
We shared a smile that was both teasing and reverent, and I felt my skin heat in the way it always did when I knew my chef wanted to touch me. He was giving methat look, and I checked the time on my watch, doing the math to see if we could sneak away before the rest of the staff trickled in.
But before I could make a decision, my phone rang.
It was my father’s name and photo that filled the screen.
