Page 208 of Forsaking Midnight
Epilogue
Genevieve
The kitchen at Dante’s is nothing like the Round Table.
For one thing, it’s clean. Not surface clean, not wipe-down-before-the-health-inspector clean, but genuinely, structurally clean. Stainless steel that actually gleams. A walk-in that’s organized by protein, produce, and dairy, the way God intended. A prep station that has enough room for me to actually prep without bumping elbows with a line cook who smells like Marlboro Reds.
For another thing, it’s mine.
My name is on the menu. My recipes. My mise en place, my plating, my call. When I say “behind,” people move. When I say “fire table six,” it fires. When I say “that risotto needs thirty more seconds,” nobody argues, because I’m the head chef and this is my kitchen and I’ve waited my entire life for this.
It’s been two weeks since Paxton handed me the keys and said, “Don’t burn it down.”
I told him no promises.
Tonight is soft opening night. Friends and family only, which in Rosebrook Falls apparently means half the town, because the Calloways don’t do anything small. My father’s not here, because he’s neck deep in the Badon Hill case, but everyone else will be.
I’ve been here since six a.m. The menu is set: a five-course tasting that’s half French, half me. Roasted bone marrow with herb gremolata to start. Butter-poached lobster with saffron risotto. A deconstructed cassoulet that my dad would cry over and that I’m secretly terrified of because if the duck confit isn’t perfect, I’ll never forgive myself. Pan-seared lamb with a red wine reduction I’ve been perfecting for three days. And for dessert, a dark chocolate fondant with salted caramel and Maldon flakes.
I taste the risotto for the fourth time. It’s perfect. It’s been perfect since the second time. I taste it again anyway.
“Chef.” Marco, my sous-chef, a quiet guy with steady hands and a dry sense of humor, nods toward the dining room. “They’re here.”
I wipe my hands on my apron and push through the kitchen doors.
The long table in the center of the restaurant is already full.
Paxton is at the head, in a navy suit with no tie, a glass of something expensive in his hand. Tiffany is beside him, her brown hair pulled back, her smile polished and careful. She’s beautiful in the way that expensive things are beautiful. A little maintained, a lot deliberate, and somehow still looking lonely.
Juliette is across from them, tucked into Roman’s side. Roman’s arm is draped across the back of her chair, and he’s grinning like a man who can’t believe his luck.
And then there’s Alex.
He’s sprawled in his chair like he owns the restaurant. His light brown hair is artfully messy, and he’s gesturing with both hands while telling a story that has Juliette rolling her eyes and Roman trying not to laugh.
Felicity is next to him.
She’s in a red dress that makes her blond hair look like spun gold, and she’s listening to Alex with the patient expression of a woman who has heard this story before and will hear it again and has made peace with that. Her legs are crossed, one heel dangling from her toes, and there’s a cocktail in her hand that she hasn’t touched.
“…and then I told the professor that Kierkegaard would havewantedme to turn it in late, because anxiety is the dizziness of freedom, and if he couldn’t respect that—”
“You failed that class,” Felicity says.
“Yes, but I did it with philosophical integrity.”
Felicity scoffs. “You told me it was because you slept through the final.”
“Semantics.”
Paxton pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alex, please.”
“What? I’m setting the mood. Ginny’s big night deserves ambiance.”
“Your academic failures are not ambiance,” Felicity says, but her mouth twitches.
“Everything about me is ambiance, Fee.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
