Page 8 of Devotion
“That is exactly how the universe works. For me specifically.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“Miley.” Her voice softened, just a fraction. “The restaurant is good. You are good. Let yourself enjoy this.”
I nodded. I hoped so.
The rest of the day passed in the rhythm I’d come to love. Prep. Cook. Taste. Adjust. Serve. The lunch rush was solid. Rosa nodded at the braised chicken, which was her version of a standing ovation. Danny only burned one thing, a personal record. Kevin ate two empanadas during his shift, which was actually below average. Brittany sold out the daily special by two o’clock and did a little victory dance by the register that made three customers laugh.
By closing, the dining room was empty and Danny was mopping. I was sitting on the kitchen counter with my legs swinging, scrolling through my phone. The production company had sent the final email. I opened it while chewing on a piece of bread from the leftover basket, expecting logistics. Dates, times, setup requirements.
The celebrity was confirmed.
I read the name.
My legs stopped swinging.
I read it again. Then a third time, because my eyes had to be wrong. My brain was glitching. There was some kind of error in my visual processing that was making me see something that couldn’t possibly be real.
It was real.
The phone slipped. I caught it, fumbled, caught it again.
Danny looked up from his mop. “You okay?”
I pressed the phone against my chest and stared at the ceiling and tried to remember how breathing worked.
I was not okay. I was the opposite of okay. I was standing on the other side ofokayin a different zip code, looking back atokaythrough binoculars.
It washim, the celebrity guest.He was really coming.
CHAPTER 3
Miley
I almost called in sick to my own restaurant.
Sick was a stretch. I’d been awake since four in the morning, tried on every piece of clothing I owned, rejected all of them, driven to a twenty-four-hour Walmart in my pajamas to buy a new chef’s coat, realized at the register that I was still wearing slippers.
Then drove home, showered twice, did a full face of makeup, wiped it off, did it again, wiped that off too, settled on mascara and lip balm like a person who was definitely not trying too hard, and then spent forty-five minutes ironing the new coat while watching a compilation of Christopher Vale interviews on my phone propped against the toaster.
I was fine. Completely, totallyfine.
The spa appointment yesterday had been planned for weeks. Months, actually. It had nothing to do with today. The fact that I’d gotten a facial, a manicure, and something called a hydrating scalp treatment that involved a woman massaging my head with oils that smelled like a tropical vacation was purely coincidental. Same with the hair appointment, the blowout that took an hour and now sat in loose waves around my shoulders like I’d woken up looking like this, which I absolutely had not.
I walked into Sazón at six forty-five and went straight to the bathroom mirror. My nails were done. Subtle nude pink because anything bolder would look ridiculous under food prep gloves. My hair was cooperating for once in its life.
My skin looked…good? Was that possible? Did I lookgood?
I leaned closer to the mirror. Turned my head left. Right. Practiced a smile that was supposed to say “welcome to my restaurant” but kept coming out as “please don’t let me embarrass myself in front of the man who saved my life.”
I needed to get a grip.
By nine, my staff were in and the kitchen was humming. Danny was prepping vegetables with both hands and zero conversation, every cut slower and more deliberate than usual. He knew today mattered.
Rosa was at her station. Silent. Brittany was polishing glasses at the bar. And Kevin was loading the dishwasher at approximately half his normal speed because he kept looking at me.
