14. Chapter 11 | Dom #2
"Have you been taking care of my girl?" she asked.
"Every day," Elle said. "I make her eat, even when she doesn't want to."
A look passed over Miss Virgie's face — assessment, then a quiet closing, the way a door settles into its frame. "Good," she said. "She doesn't eat when she's hurting. I could tell you stories about the scrapes this one used to get herself into."
Miss Virgie studied Elle a moment longer.
"I got to get back to the kitchen." She gave Elle a warm look. "But I'm going to make sure your food comes out special tonight." Then, to both of them: "Sunday dinner. Doris Jean will have a fit if I don't bring you home. And I'll make all your favorites."
"Miss Virgie—"
"Sunday," she said. "Or the Sunday after that, if you need it. But you're coming."
She cupped Dom's face — both palms, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, lasting only a moment — and then she was walking back toward the kitchen, pausing to touch a shoulder at one table, exchange a word at another, moving through the room like she owned it, which she more or less did.
Dom sat there. The table felt very quiet.
"She's the closest thing to a mother I've had since mine died," Dom said finally. She wasn't sure why she said it out loud. Elle hadn't asked.
Elle reached across the table and found Dom's hand. Dom let her take it. They sat like that for a while, not talking, while the restaurant moved around them and Dom remembered how to breathe.
"I like her," Elle said eventually. "She didn't let go of my hand once."
Dom's chest loosened. "She likes you too. Trust me — if she didn't, you'd know."
"How?"
"She'd have sent out something bland and underseasoned, just to make a point."
Elle laughed, easing the air between them — bringing the night back down to just the two of them again, however much bigger it had just gotten.
"I bet the cooks never invited you to Sunday dinner in LA," Dom said.
Elle laughed, surprised into it. "No. Never once."
Dom's thumb moved across Elle's knuckles.
"I like this better." Elle's voice softened. "I know where I am here. Know who I'm with."
Dom reached across with her other hand. Elle met her halfway.
Their fingers intertwined — rough calluses against smooth skin. Elle's thumb traced small circles on Dom's palm and Dom felt it everywhere.
The food arrived, and it was, as always, perfect — the shrimp and grits rich and buttery, a slow heat working up from underneath that told her somebody in that kitchen knew her order without being told.
Dom ate like she meant it. Turning down food that good out of nerves would've been its own kind of sin.
Elle noticed anyway. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Dom met her gaze over a mouthful. "Just — been wanting this for a long time."
"I know." Elle's voice was soft. "Me too."
They ate — really ate. Elle made a small appreciative sound over the étouffée that made Dom want to draw it out of her again and again for the rest of the night. The dining room was warm and loud, utterly beside the point.
Under the table, Elle's foot brushed against hers. Neither moved away.
The server returned. "Can I interest you in dessert?"
Dom looked at Elle. Elle looked back.
"Want to split a bread pudding?" Elle asked.
Dom's chest fluttered. Bread pudding was her favorite thing on the entire menu, had been since she was CJ's age, and Elle had landed on it without even trying.
"Yeah," Dom said, like it wasn't a big deal. "Bread pudding."
The dessert arrived warm, whiskey sauce pooling golden at the edges.
Elle took the first bite. Closed her eyes. Made a sound low in her throat that Dom felt somewhere she wasn't going to think about at a dinner table.
"Here." Elle offered her fork.
Dom leaned forward. Took it. Sweet and rich, whiskey cutting through the sweetness.
Their gazes met.
They traded bites — slow, deliberate. Each one an excuse to lean closer, to hold each other's gaze, to prolong the moment.
Dom got whiskey sauce on her lip.
Elle laughed, reached across without thinking, thumb brushing it away.
Her thumb on Dom's lip.
Neither breathed.
Dom's hand came up, caught Elle's wrist. Held it there. Her tongue flicked out — just barely — tasting the whiskey on Elle's thumb.
Dom could have jumped over the table.
The server cleared her throat. "Excuse me."
They both started.
The server looked stricken. "I'm so sorry to interrupt."
Dom tried to remember how to breathe.
"There's a guest," the server said. "In the private room. He asked—" She swallowed. "He asked if you'd join him."
Dom tensed. "What guest?"
"He didn't give his name, ma'am. But he's a personal guest of Miss Leah's, and he seems very eager for your company."
Elle's hand tightened on Dom's.
"We don't have to," Dom said softly.
"Miss Leah chooses her guests very carefully," the server added quickly. "I think you'll be all right."
Dom studied the server's face — nervous, not scared. And this was Dooky Chase's; Leah Chase had fed and housed movement leaders for years without a single one coming to harm here.
But Elle was trembling.
"Your call," Dom said.
Elle drew a shaky breath. "Let's go."
Dom went first, Elle's hand gripping the back of her jacket. The server led them through the dining room to a small, unassuming door at the back. She opened it and stepped aside.
The room beyond was small. Intimate. One table. One man — small-ish, skinny, Black, his eyebrows already raised in awe.
He stood when they entered.
"Thelma Blake. It is you."