3. SOPHIE
SOPHIE
I leave it alone and move to the stove, where the ragù has been simmering since this morning, with a smell so layered it’s practically a physical thing in the Arsenal.
For the past three weeks, I’ve been cooking, testing, adjusting. Running through every dish on the opening menu until I could make it blindfolded. Opening night feels like it’s minutes away, but I’m ready.
Siena sits at the bar with Emilia in her lap, watching me as I move between the stove and the prep station.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say without turning around.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You’re plotting.”
“Plotting what?”
“Plotting how you’ll get me to come to New Year’s Eve.”
Emilia blows a raspberry in my direction. I point my wooden spoon at her. “Thank you. Finally, someone on my side.”
Siena shifts the baby on her hip and reaches for her espresso with her free hand. “I’m always on your side. That’s why I’m here: to eat your food and tell you how amazing you are.”
“Well, then get ready.” I lift the lid on the ragù and prepare to serve.
I’m in the middle of setting out the first course when the front door opens. I don’t look up right away, intent on plating. Plus I’m expecting that stupid linen delivery driver again, and I have zero interest in dealing with him today.
“Ms. Bellamorte?”
The man standing in the doorway is not a delivery driver. He’s tall, somewhere in his late thirties, fit with dark hair, and dressed in a well-cut wool coat that’s expensive without being ostentatious. He holds his hat in both hands in front of him.
“Yes?”
“Gavin MacCuiin. I own MacCuinn Linen and Supply.” He glances around the restaurant. “The space is beautiful.”
“Thank you. You shouldn’t be here.” I set down the burrata and face him properly. “Mr. MacCuinn, I’ve called your office several times, and I’m fairly certain I drove your accounts receivable coordinator, Cheryl, to the edge of a breakdown last week.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. “Cheryl mentioned you.”
“Then you know I’ve been trying to cancel this contract for months.”
“I do.” He steps further into the room, his eyes moving over the copper fixtures, the reclaimed wood. “But I can’t do that. I made a promise. I don’t break those.”
I cross my arms. “The promise was made on my behalf without my consent. Whatever arrangement you had with Mr. Demonio, I didn’t agree to it, and I don’t want it.”
“I understand that.” His voice is steady. “Which is why I came in person instead of sending another driver.”
Siena glances back and forth between us, chomping on slices of red bell pepper like they’re popcorn, and we’re her personal movie.
“Mr. MacCuinn—”
“Gavin.”
“Gavin.” I soften slightly. He’s not being rude, and I can’t blame him for the subpar service of his employees. “I appreciate you coming. Truly. But I don’t need the linens. I’ve sourced them from a friend who makes them locally, and I need you to release me from whatever contract was drawn up.”
He’s quiet for a moment, turning his hat slowly in his hands. “The contract obligates me to provide service whether or not you use what I deliver. I’d be in breach if I walked away.”
I stare at him. “I’ll cover for you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell whoever needs to know that I requested the cancellation. Or pretend it was never canceled. Whatever. But I do not want or need these linens.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t do dishonesty, Ms. Bellamorte. Even convenient dishonesty.” He pauses. “But I might have a proposal.”
I cross my arms and try not to glare at him. I mean, why is this so freaking hard? Siena lifts her eyebrows at me and then turns her attention back to Gavin, shoving a bell pepper in her mouth.
“The friend you mentioned, the one making your linens. Is she looking for wholesale accounts? Because I have 12 restaurants and four hotels in my service list, and I would love to source a new linen maker. If she’s interested, I could move a significant amount of her inventory.”
I go still. I think of my sweet friend hunched over her sewing machine in that tiny apartment in Bensonhurst, her dining room table covered in fabric samples, working twice as hard as anyone I know for half the recognition. An account with 12 restaurants and four hotels would change her life.
Gavin watches me consider and doesn’t push. This man is completely disarming, reserved and thoughtful. The exact opposite of Vin. Nervously, I start piling plates of food from the tasting on a tray, much of it untouched. When I try to take Siena’s plate, she smacks my hand.
“Hey! I’m not done with that!”
The tray wobbles in my hand, way over filled, and I almost drop the whole thing. I stop short, trying to steady the tower of plates, but before I can move, Gavin moves in and takes the tray from me without dropping a thing.
I blink at him.
“Where would you like these?” he says, and I realize with a jolt that his eyes are gray, like storm cloud gray. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that color before.
“Ms. Bellamorte?”
I point toward the bar. He sets them down gently. Siena is staring at him, her chewing slow.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, flustered.
“Do what?” He frowns and wipes his hands on a dish towel.
“Take the tray.”
“You were about to drop it.” He isn’t apologetic. “Getting a little help every now and then isn’t a bad thing, is it?”
Siena makes a sound into her espresso cup. I ignore her, and keep my gaze steadily on Gavin.
“I’ll talk to my friend,” I say. “See if she’s interested. That’s all I’m promising.”
He nods, satisfied. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“In the meantime—”
“I’ll hold off on deliveries until I hear from you.”
I nod and go back behind the bar to plate the second course as Siena swivels in her chair toward Gavin.
“Gavin,” she says brightly.
I glance at her. “Siena.”
She bats her eyes at me, the picture of innocence, directing her words at Gavin. “Sophie is opening the restaurant in a couple weeks and she’s put together this incredible tasting menu. Your opinion would be invaluable.”
I shoot Siena a look she doesn’t acknowledge.
Gavin looks at me with a calm question in his expression, leaving it entirely to me.
I sigh and put together a small plate for him and slide it across the bar.
He gives me a long look with those dark gray eyes, then a small smile before trying the burrata.
The expression that crosses his face is the one I live for: full immersion in my food.
Siena grins triumphantly, and I give her a little shake of my head, willing her to calm the frig down.
“That’s extraordinary,” he says quietly.
Emilia bangs her hand on the bar in agreement, and we all laugh as Gavin tries another dish on the tasting plate.
He groans, setting down his fork. “How are you not open yet?”
“Soon enough,” I say.
“This city has no idea what’s coming.”
It seems like a compliment, but the way he’s staring at me as he says it, I’m not entirely sure.
“I hope you’ll think about that account for your friend. And Ms. Bellamorte,” he says, picking up his hat from the bar stool. “I’m wondering if you might let me take you for coffee to discuss the account further. Or maybe not discuss it at all.”
I can practically feel Siena’s gaze boring a hole in the side of my head.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “But I have a lot to do before the opening.”
“After the opening, then.”
Siena practically snorts, and I shoot a glare in her direction.
Firmly, I tell Gavin, “I’ll let you know about my friend.”
Gavin gives me a slow nod and smiles softly, holding my gaze until I’m so uncomfortable that I turn toward Siena. She looks like I just canceled her birthday.
He starts toward the door, then stops. “I hope you don’t mind my asking: are you with someone? I don’t want to overstep.”
“No,” I say. “No, I’m not.”
Siena brightens.
He looks surprised. “You’re gorgeous. You cook like that.” He gestures at his half empty plate. “If you’re half as good to the people in your life as you are to the people you feed, I don’t understand how you’re single. You’re the total package.”
The total package. Exactly what Vin said.
He nods once and leaves.
The restaurant is quiet for exactly one breath.
“Sophie—”
“Don’t.”
“But he’s amazing! Why not just try—”
“Don’t, Siena.”
She presses her lips together. Emilia babbles and bangs her little fist on the table. Instead of letting myself spiral on Vin, on those words, on Siena’s insistence that I move on, I smile.
My niece is beautiful. My restaurant is opening. Everything is as it should be.