Page 73 of Devotion
“She’s five.”
“She’s five and she has better negotiation skills than most of my board.” He paused, glancing back toward the kitchen. “Tell her I don’t have a horse. But I’m working on it.”
He walked to the kitchen. I watched him go and pressed the phone back to my ear where Vicky was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
The gala happened on Saturday. A charity event for a children’s hospital, black tie, two hundred guests. Trisha coordinated outfits. I wore a deep green gown that Trisha and I had selected during a shopping trip that involved four stores, two arguments about necklines, and one emergency coffee break.
The gown once again made me feel like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, except when I came down the stairs, Christopher was in the foyer talking to Trisha, and he stopped mid-sentence.
He looked at me the way he’d looked at me on the very first staircase, at the first gala, except this time he didn’t cover it. He let it sit on his face for two full seconds, open and unguarded, and Trisha looked between us.
“I’m going to wait in the car,” she said, and left before either of us responded.
Before we walked out, he handed me a small bouquet of white peonies wrapped in brown paper.
“Trisha told me this is what husbands do,” he said.
I took them and brought them to my nose. They smelled like spring.
“Trisha’s right. Thank you.” I looked at him. “They smell wonderful.”
The gala was a performance, but a better one than before. We had a rhythm now. A shorthand. His hand on my back didn’t make me stiffen. An investor’s wife, blonde, diamonds the size of grapes, leaned toward me during cocktail hour.
“How did you two meet?” she asked, eyes bright with curiosity.
“I cooked for him,” I said. “He had a very strong reaction.”
Christopher caught my eye from across our small circle. The corner of his mouth twitched and I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing in front of a woman whose earrings could fund Sazón’s reconstruction.
He was different tonight. His words were more specific. Not the broad, camera-ready charm from the first events.
“The gown kinda matches your eyes,” he said, his hand settling at the small of my back as we moved through the crowd.
“Didn’t think you’d notice,” I murmured.
His gaze flicked to mine, steady. “I notice everything,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing once—light, almost absent-minded—against my side. “Especially you.”
Later, near the auction table, he introduced me to a group of investors.
“This is my wife, Miley. The most talented chef I’ve ever met.”
The pride in his voice didn’t sound rehearsed. One of the investors, a woman with silver hair and sharp eyes, leaned forward.
“What’s your specialty?” she asked.
I started talking about Latin fusion and Christopher watched me the way he’d always watched me when I talked about food. Full attention. Like the rest of the room had been muted and I was the only channel still broadcasting.
“What's happening? It seems you're listening to me with a lot of interest,” I asked when the investors moved on.
“Because your voice is the only thing in this room worth hearing,” he whispered against my ear.
I looked at him, blushing red. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”
“Is it working?”
“No comment.”
“That’s a yes.”
