Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
NAOMI
T he hostess smiles knowingly and gestures toward our corner table, where Brandon waits in his signature all-black suit. No tie, because he knows exactly what that does to me.
These Thursday dinners used to be about keeping up appearances. Now they’re about something else entirely.
“Hey, cupcake.” His dimples deepen as he stands, eyes sweeping over me with obvious approval. “You look beautiful. Love the dress.”
The ‘hi’ and ‘thank you’ die on my tongue as he seizes my jaw, brushing his lips with mine, soft at first, then with more intent. The familiar scent of his cologne, spicy and warm, wraps around me, and my fingers curl into his shirt, steadying myself against the rush of heat flooding through me.
A throat clears nearby. Marcus. “Would you like to order?”
I forgot we’re in public, forgot about the people around us, forgot about everything except the way his thumb strokes my cheek.
Brandon eases back, his forehead pressing gently against mine. “I missed you today.”
My cheeks burn, but I can’t help smiling. “I missed you too.” This is new for us, this open affection and casual admissions.
He pulls out my chair, and I slide into my seat, his hand lingering on my shoulder, before he sits across from me.
“We’ll start with the tuna tartare and the grilled octopus with that brown butter sauce Elliot does. The Pinot Noir. For mains…” Brandon’s eyes lock with mine. “The cedar plank salmon for the lady. That okay?”
Last time, I was able to keep the spaghetti down. I nod.
“And for you, sir?” Marcus asks.
“The ribeye. Rare.” He hands back the menus. “Oh, and some of those truffle fries she pretends not to steal.”
“I do not.”
“Please.” His dimples deepen. “Every time.”
They are delicious. Who could resist them? Who could resist his voice dropping to that low growl when he tells me to eat? Heat pools in my core. It’s the same voice he uses when he’s got me pinned against—I clear my throat. I don’t know why, but it makes it easier. To eat.
His lip twitch. “You okay?”
“Of course.” But my traitorous voice comes out breathier than intended, and my mind drifts to last night, and his fingers tangled in my hair.
“Anything else I can get for you?” Marcus asks, pen poised over his notepad.
“We’re good, thanks.” Brandon’s eyes never leave my face as Marcus nods and steps away.
“You’re staring.”
“You look different tonight.”
“Different how?” My hand instinctively reaches for my hair, but he catches it across the table.
“Relaxed. Happy. It’s a good look on you.”
It’s true, I feel lighter these days.
“Must be the dress.” I’m wearing one of the pieces we bought at élysée, a deep blue wrap dress that actually lets me breathe.
“Must be the company.”
“Cocky much?”
“Always.” He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is so casual, so natural, but it sends sparks shooting through my veins. “But you like that about me.”
Can’t deny much of anything when he looks at me like I’m something precious, something worth protecting.
“How was your meeting today?” I ask, partly to distract myself from the way his thumb keeps stroking my hand.
Marcus returns with our wine, a rich red, and pours us each a glass before quietly retreating, granting us privacy.
“Elijah droned on about quarterly projections.” He takes a sip of wine. “Pretty boring.”
I take one, too, letting the warmth spread through me. Delicious.
“You do this little hum thing every time. It’s cute.”
“Shut up.” I set the glass down harder than necessary. “At least I don’t sniff everything like some pretentious food critic.”
“That’s called having a refined palate.”
“That’s called being insufferable.”
His infectious laugh echoes across the table, and I hide my smile behind another sip of wine, refusing to give him the satisfaction of being right. Even if he is.
Brandon swirls his wine. “How was therapy?”
And the smile is gone. “Fine.”
“And?”
“Dr. Patel keeps pushing about the same things.” Control, trust, food. I shrug. The last time I purged was last week after a meeting, where one of my co-workers thought it was a good idea to bring cinnamon rolls. I had to come up with some lame excuse saying I’ll definitely try them next time. “Been thinking maybe it’s not for me. Therapy, I mean.”
The warmth in his voice vanishes, replaced by something heavier as he says my name. “Naomi.”
“It’s—” I concentrate on the red liquid swirling in his glass. “I just hate how she makes me feel like I’m being dissected.”
“You can’t keep running from the hard stuff.”
“Says the guy who spent months drowning himself in bourbon.”
His fingertips linger against the glass, motionless, as if something has shifted. “Touché.”
“Sorry, that was?—”
“Look, I fucked up.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “For months. But I’m here now, showing up. Making bread in the middle of the night. Trying.”
My lips twitch, betraying my amusement. “The bread was delicious”
“It was.” His dimples return. “And you were eating it.”
I reach for my wine, needing something to do with my hands.
“And there’s the hum.” His eyes crinkle. “Keep going to therapy, cupcake. For me.”
And there’s my Brandon. My real boyfriend. Caring.
“Using emotional manipulation now?” I ask.
“Is it working?”
Elliot appears at our table, a large wooden board balanced on his palm. “My favorite couple.” His chef’s whites pristine despite the dinner rush and his trademark smirk firmly in place.
Brandon eyes the spread. “What’s all this?”
“Your usual.” Elliot sets down an array of small plates. “Plus, some new items I want opinions on. Duck confit spring rolls with plum sauce, scallop crudo with yuzu, and…” He gestures to something that looks like modern art. “A deconstructed carbonara arancini.”
“I haven’t been in a kitchen for—” Brandon starts.
“Forever, I know,” Elliot cuts in. “But you’re still the best palate I know.”
“I’ll try them.” I reach for a spring roll, and pop it in my mouth. “Oh my god.” I close my eyes, making an exaggerated version of my hum. “The… um… crunchiness really complements the… duckiness.”
“Duckiness?” Brandon raises an eyebrow at me.
Let’s see how long he can endure.
I take another bite of the spring roll, making sure to chew slowly and deliberately. “Mmm. The sauce is so… saucy? With a hint of pepper? Oh no, let me guess. It’s salt.”
Brandon’s eye twitches.
“The texture is like…” I wave my hand vaguely. “You know when you bite into something and it’s… crunchy but also squishy?”
Elliot’s smirk grows wider.
“And the wrapper thing—” I gesture at the crispy exterior. “It’s wrapped so… Did I mention crunchy?”
Brandon’s jaw clenches, his fingers drumming against the table.
“The plum sauce has this really…” I dip my finger in it, pretending to search for words. “Plummy quality. Like, it tastes exactly like what a plum would taste like if it decided to become a sauce instead of staying a plum.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Brandon snatches up one of the spring rolls. “The exterior is perfectly crisp, maintaining structural integrity while complementing the richness of the duck confit. The meat is tender, properly seasoned with what I’m guessing is Chinese five spice, and the plum sauce…” He dips it carefully. “Has been reduced with star anise and balanced with rice wine vinegar to cut through the fattiness , or what my girlfriend would say, duckiness of the duck.”
I bite my lip. Too easy.
“The ratio of filling to wrapper is spot on,” he continues, examining. “Though I’d consider adding some pickled daikon for textural contrast and brightness.”
Elliot nods approvingly. “There he is.”
Brandon freezes mid-bite, realizing what just happened, zeroing in on me. “You did that on purpose.”
I shrug, reaching for another spring roll. “I have no idea what you mean. I was just trying to be… springrolly.”
He reaches for the arancini, breaking it apart to study the texture. It’s like watching someone wake up from a long sleep. “The breadcrumb ratio is off.” He tastes it. “And you’re using pancetta instead of guanciale.”
“How’d you know?” Elliot asks.
“The fat content’s different. Changes the mouthfeel.”
This is the Brandon I fell for in college. Passionate, sure of himself, and lost in the details of a meal.
“Knew you still had it in you.” Elliot clasps Brandon’s shoulder. “Got something else for you to try. New sous chef. My previous guy retired.”
“Not interested.” Brandon pushes the plate away. “Also, the egg yolk’s overcooked. Needs to be runnier to bind everything together.”
“Come on.” Elliot’s already backing toward the kitchen. “Just taste what he’s working on. Give me your professional opinion.”
“This guy, seriously.” Brandon stares at the deconstructed arancini as if it had personally offended him. “Amateur mistakes. Any first-year culinary student knows better.”
“Right.” I take another sip of wine. “That’s why you spent five minutes breaking down the exact ratio of breadcrumbs?”
His jaw ticks. “Just pointing out the obvious flaws.”
“Mhmm. And that thing with the pancetta versus…” I wave my hand, “whatever that other thing was.”
“Guanciale.”
“That was just you being pedantic?”
“Someone has to maintain standards.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, such tragic standards in here.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Never.” But my lips defy my brain.
“You are.” He points his fork at me. “I can hear and clearly see it on your face.”
“I just think it’s cute how you can’t help yourself.”
“Cute?” His nose wrinkles. “I’m not cute. I’m expressing legitimate concerns about declining standards in professional kitchens.”
“Mhmm. Whatever you say, chef.”
“Whatever you’re thinking.” His expression softens. “Stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything.” I spear another spring roll. “Just enjoying dinner with my…” What are we now? I already called him boyfriend in my head, but not…
“Your what?” His dimples resurface, barely there.
“Pain in the ass dinner companion.”
He snorts. “I’d prefer boyfriend.”
“I do, too.”
“What about husband?” The rasp in his voice drags over my skin like a caress. “How do you like that?”
Elliot bursts back through the doors to our table with another plate. “Try this.”
Brandon doesn’t even look at it. “Not interested.”
“It’s a new take on?—”
“Elliot.”
“Just one bite.” Elliot sets down what looks like some kind of pasta dish. “Tell me what you think.”
“I think…” Brandon snatches the fork and takes a bite. “You’re being annoying.”
“Well?”
Brandon swallows. “Pan wasn’t hot enough. You’ve got uneven caramelization. And whoever made this sauce broke it—probably rushed the emulsion.”
“What else?”
“The herb oil’s slightly burnt. Amateur mistake.” Brandon takes another bite. “But the concept works. Switch the tarragon for basil, add some acid, and you should be?—”
Elliot claps Brandon’s shoulder. “Now, about that sous chef position?—”
“No.”
“Brandon. Come?—”
“I said no.”
I reach across the table, my fingers brushing his wrist. “Brandon.”
“We’re not doing this.” He pulls back like I’ve burned him. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Elliot, we’re trying to have dinner.”
Elliot crosses his arms. “You’re wasting your talent pushing papers for Elijah.”
“Fuck off,” Brandon says.
“Make me.”
Brandon stands so fast it’s a miracle the chair doesn’t topple over. “I need some air.”
“Wait.” But he’s already walking away, leaving me with Elliot and a table full of half-eaten food.
Elliot sighs. “That went well.”
“You pushed too hard.”
“Someone has to.” He picks up Brandon’s discarded napkin. “He’s miserable in that office. You know it. I know it. Hell, even Elijah knows it.”
My boyfriend’s chair is empty, my appetite vanishing. “He’s not ready. We agreed on baby steps, not this.”
“He’ll never be ready if everyone keeps tiptoeing around him.” His eyes soften. “You love him?”
“I—”
“He didn’t let you hide. Did he?”
I watch the still-empty chair, Elliot’s words burrowing under my skin. “No, he didn’t.”
“Then stop letting him hide.” Elliot squeezes my shoulder and heads back to the kitchen.
Brandon needs to cook again. Not just bread at 3 AM, but really cook.
I trace the rim of my wine glass. He pushed me about therapy, about eating, about facing my demons. Maybe Elliot’s right. Maybe it’s time to return the favor.
But how? Brandon’s stubborn as hell when he wants to be. Pushing him straight into cooking would backfire again. He needs something smaller. Baby steps.
My eyes land on the spring rolls. The way his whole demeanor changed when he started analyzing it.
The minutes tick by. Where is he? The food’s getting cold, and ‘getting air’ shouldn’t take this long.
I grab my purse and head outside. Cool air greets my skin, but there’s no sign of Brandon. No familiar figure leaning against the wall.
My stomach knots. Did he leave? Actually, leave?
A couple walks past, laughing about something, and a taxi honks in the distance. But no Brandon.
I check my phone.
Blake: Everything ok? You’re supposed to update me.
Naomi: He bolted. Elliot pushed too hard.
Or just right. I don’t know.
Blake: Shit. Want me to come?
Naomi: No. I got this.
I hope.
Okay, so…. Bar? Maybe I missed him.
I push back through the restaurant doors, scanning the dining room. No Brandon by the bar. The bathroom seems like the next logical place to check.
“Looking for your boy?” Elliot appears beside me, wiping his hands on a towel.
“He’s not outside or here.”
“Try the kitchen.”
My stomach drops. “He went back there? After?—”
“Don’t let him know you saw.” Elliot winks. “You know how his pride gets.”
I nod. Brandon’s walls are high enough without feeling watched.
“Window by the prep station.” Elliot jerks his chin toward the back.
I follow his directions. The kitchen’s organized chaos hits me first, clanking pots, sizzling pans, shouted orders, and there, in the middle of it all, is Brandon.
He’s shed his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand gripping a pan while the other holds a bottle of what looks like wine. He says something, but I can’t make it out from here.
A young cook, who can’t be more than twenty, nods frantically, watching Brandon’s every move.
Brandon tilts the pan, and flames leap up as the wine hits the hot surface. His movements are fluid, natural. Like he never left the kitchen.
The cook beside him dips a spoon in, and his eyes widen while the spark in Brandon’s eyes burns brighter.
My heart squeezes watching him. This is my Brandon. Not the suit-wearing corporate drone pushing papers for Elijah. This man.
This is who he’s meant to be.