Page 10 of Devotion
Every minute felt like an hour. I rearranged the garnish station twice. Checked my reflection in the back of a spoon. Considered running to the bathroom to reapply lip balm and then reminded myself that I was a grown woman, not a teenager at a concert.
At two-fifteen, the front door opened.
I knew it was him before I even saw him because the entire room changed. Sandra stopped mid-sentence. The sound guylooked up. Even Rosa, who had been unmoved by everything, glanced toward the entrance.
Christopher Vale walked into my restaurant wearing all white.
White shirt, open at the collar, sleeves cuffed to his forearms. White trousers, perfectly tailored. He looked like he’d been carved out of something ethereal and placed in my restaurant as a reminder that this was not my world. He was taller than I'd imagined, broader too, tall enough that the dining room felt smaller the moment he walked through it.
His face was the one I’d seen on billboards, magazine covers, and my phone screen. But in person, none of that prepared me. Screens flattened him. In person, he had dimension. Presence. Dark hair, slightly messy, like someone had paid good money to make it look unstyled. Blue eyes that I could see from across the dining room, vivid enough that whatever I’d been about to say slipped out of my head.
One person trailed behind him. A woman, sharp and compact, holding a tablet and wearing an expensive suit. His manager probably. She moved with the focused energy of someone who was always three steps ahead.
He greeted Sandra with warmth. Shook hands with the crew. Smiled, and the smile was heavenly, yet mysterious in a way that gave nothing away. I recognized it from a decade of watching his interviews.
Then he looked at me.
My body made a decision before my brain could intervene. My hand shot out for a handshake, my elbow clipped the salt shaker on the counter, the salt shaker spun sideways and rolled toward the edge, and out of my mouth came the words:
“I’m a huge fan of your face. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
The salt shaker dropped off the counter and hit the floor with a crack.
Behind me, Danny made a noise that turned into a cough. Rosa, from the kitchen, said something in Spanish I was ninety percent sure translated to “God help this girl.”
Christopher Vale looked at me. Those blue eyes, the ones I’d seen on screens for ten years, were on me, Miley Torres, who had just destroyed a salt shaker and told a man I was a fan of his face, and my brain was actively filing for bankruptcy.
Then the corner of his mouth moved. Just barely.
“Thank you,” he said. “I grew it myself.”
I laughed. It came out louder than I wanted, part relief and part genuine surprise because the joke was good, but the delivery was even better. For a second, I felt he wasn’t Christopher Vale—the celebrity. He was just a guy who was funny.
Brittany appeared with drinks. The moment slid forward. Christopher was guided to his seat. I retreated to the kitchen to have a quiet crisis behind the walk-in door.
The interview started. Sandra asked about his projects, the intersection of food and culture, his recent work. Everything he said was warm, generous, perfectly calibrated to feel intimate while revealing nothing personal.
Sandra leaned forward. “Your fans are dying to know about your love life. Any updates?”
His smile didn’t falter. “I prefer to keep that private. Romance is better when the audience doesn’t have a ticket.”
Impressive!I wondered if he’d rehearsed it or if that kind of wit just lived in him.
Then it was my turn. I stepped into the lights and a steady calm clicked into place inside me. This was the part I knew. This was where I wasn’t a fangirl or a nervous wreck. I was Chef Torres, and I never missed my lines in the kitchen.
I made my signature dish. Slow-braised lamb ribs, pomegranate reduction, herb-infused couscous, roasted vegetables with honey-harissa glaze. Three years of perfecting. Never served, because I’d been saving it.
I talked Sandra through the process and my voice was steady. I explained the pomegranate, how I’d tasted one at fourteen and spent years chasing that balance of sweet and tart. I explained the six-hour braise, how the meat should fall apart like it’s surrendering. For ten minutes, I was the best version of myself.
The lamb went out. I watched from the kitchen pass as Christopher took the first bite.
He chewed. His fork lowered, and his eyes closed.
One second. Maybe less. When his eyes opened, he gave the camera a composed compliment. But that second was mine. I earned that.
I was still glowing when I overheard crew members talking about dessert. Christopher loved kiwi, they said. His hotel rider always included it.
I’d planned a vanilla panna cotta. But now an idea grabbed hold. A kiwi coulis. Fresh, bright, a personal touch for Christopher Vale, hidden inside a dessert he’d never know the meaning of.
