Epilogue
The restaurant glows around me, alive with motion and sound.
It’s Friday night, the dining room’s full. Third course down without a hitch.
The kitchen steady and confident, every detail unfolding without me steering every little detail.
I can lift my head. Breathe. Enjoy the moment.
Glancing toward the wine cellar I spot him stepping out, a bottle of Vina Tondonia Gran Reserva in his hand.
Santiago glides over to a table like he’s been part of this place forever. Gorgeous in a tailored black vest over a crisp white shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbow and a wine key at his hip.
He bends to pour the wine for a retired nurse who’s celebrating her 75th birthday. She clutches his arm and laughs. He answers in that honeyed Spanish I’ll never get tired of hearing, then moves on to the next table, charm never dimming.
Every bottle he touches sells itself. Every pairing he suggests makes my dishes sing.
I’m not sure what makes the guests swoon more. His palate or the way he sometimes looks at me like I’m the rarest vintage in the room.
Tonight’s no exception.
His eyes catch mine as he disappears behind the bar to uncork a chilled Albarino. His tongue sweeps over his lips, low and deliberate. A not-so-private promise meant for me.
Heat curls low in my stomach, spreading through me in slow waves until I nearly forget where I am. Anchored by the certainty of what it means when we’re alone again.
A moment later, his hand brushes the small of my back while I pass off a ticket to Flora, our new head chef. She’s better than I ever hoped. Sharp, calm, and unflappable when the fryer acts up or the rare occasion when a guest sends back some dish.
She handles the nightly heat now. My time is devoted to the creativity behind the menu.
Santiago helped me make another change to cater to what I love about cooking. Rather than an endless a-la-carte selection, we’ve switched to a hyper-seasonal tasting menu. Six courses. His pairings. My vision.
Tonight, the stand-outs are his citrus-slick Riesling with my charred fennel and scallop crudo and a red wine–braised short rib with his slyly chosen Syrah. Dessert seals it, a dark chocolate torte with sea salt and olive oil, matched to a late-harvest Garnacha tasting of velvet and sin.
By then, the rhythm between us is impossible to miss. A glance. A smile. A beat. A dance.
He lifts a bottle. I nod. He glances toward Table eight and I’m already crossing the room with a small plate from the pass. A bite of citrus granita to reset their palates.
An excuse to see him pour.
We speak with glances and touches. Elbows, hips, a brush to the wrist. It’s the most erotic language I’ve ever known, except for when the doors close and the lights go out.
We’re happy. Balanced. Reservations fill up months in advance. The numbers are up. The crew loves him, my family loves him, and most days I think my heart might burst trying to hold it all in.
After final service, I’m in the small pantry we converted into a wine library when the door shuts behind me.
Santiago’s hands slide over my hips. “Stole you.”
“You always do.”
His mouth finds the side of my neck, lazy and hot. I melt. He turns me toward him, cups the place where my apron ties beneath my stomach.
“I’m dying to tell our families,” he murmurs in my ear.
I press my palm over his. “Still too early.”
I’m not showing. Not even close. But six tests confirmed what I already knew the second this baby was conceived.
We got married four months after the plane ride back. City hall, no fuss. His family came over for the wedding and fit in seamlessly with mine. Not one of them gave us any grief about our relationship moving too fast.
They could see we’re the real deal.
Six months later, I had my IUD removed just to see if…
Within weeks, the thing we didn’t dare hope for has happened.
I’m pregnant.
His thumb strokes the soft flatness below my navel. My breath shudders. He always touches me like I’m sacred.
“All of this,” I cover his hand with mine, “’it’s more than I ever thought I could have.”
The clink of cutlery and the laugh of someone uncorking champagne floats in from the kitchen. Here, in this small room, in Santiago’s arms with our child growing inside me, I’ve never felt more complete.
Or more whole.
Looking back at the woman who once lived for her work, I realize she never knew what living was. I learned it in Barcelona’s light, in Rioja’s calm, in every meal we lingered over and every night he taught me what it means to feel instead of function.
Love didn’t just find me.
It transformed me.
What began as a first class fling has become my forever.
Thank you for reading First Class Fling.