Chapter 11 #3
“That’s—that’s really great, Han.”
Hannah deflated like a bad soufflé, and Sam knew without Hannah having to say a word that her reaction had left something to be desired.
This was all a lot to take in, going from being a pastry chef with a snowball’s chance of getting promoted to executive chef turned restaurant owner with 1.
2 million followers and a future in reality television.
To her, this was happening at lightning speed, but to Hannah this was a Wednesday in October and these plans that were coming together had been the result of months, if not years, of work.
This was her life, this was their life. The one they were building. Together.
Sam had asked for this. Maybe not as such, but if this was part and parcel of being Hannah’s dream girl, Sam needed to get with the program. TikTok and Top Chef weren’t inconveniences; they were opportunities, and she’d be damned if she took them for granted.
Literally. Damned.
Sam took a deep breath and nudged the bread basket aside so she could take Hannah’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m over the moon. I promise I am. It’s been a really weird day and I’m all scatterbrained.”
Hannah continued to pout, but in that way of hers that Sam knew meant she was putting it on but still wanted Sam to work for her forgiveness.
“Please, Han?” She jutted out her lower lip, pretending to pout right back. “Forgive me.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Hannah cracked a smile and rolled her eyes. “But fine. You’re forgiven.” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God! I almost forgot! Janelle called and the photographer who did Christian McCaffrey and Olivia Culpo’s wedding spread in Vogue is officially confirmed for ours.”
Sam didn’t have the slightest clue who either of those people were, but Hannah’s joy was infectious. “That’s amazing.”
“Isn’t it?” Hannah gushed. “It’s hard to believe this is all happening.” She squeezed Sam’s hand. “It feels like a dream come true, doesn’t it?”
Hannah had no idea how right she was.
“If this is a dream,” she said, “I don’t ever want to wake up.”
“Neither do I—” Hannah paused suddenly, her eyes widening in surprise.
“What is it?” Sam asked, turning slightly to follow Hannah’s gaze.
Across the restaurant, a tall man with an angular face who looked like he’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalogue stood arguing with the hostess.
“Tom!” Hannah waved across the restaurant. “You remember Tom. You met him at the New Year’s Eve party last year.”
“Tom … Tom …” Sam squinted like she was trying to place the man she’d never seen before a day in her life.
“My talent manager.” Hannah rose to her feet. “Tom, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.”
“Hannah,” Tom greeted her with a warm smile and a brief, friendly hug. “It’s great to see you.”
“Likewise. Are you meeting someone here, or …?”
“Here with someone, actually,” Tom said. “She slipped off to use the restroom.” He turned slightly and for the first time noticed Sam, his face brightening in recognition. “Samantha! It’s good to see you again. Congrats on Gulp! How’s it feel to be the owner of the best new bar in the city?”
Sam pasted on a smile. “Shucks, I don’t know if I’d call it the best new bar. But thank you. That’s awfully kind of you to say.”
“She’s too modest,” Hannah said, beaming at her. “Reservations are booked out for months. They’re having to turn people away at the door.”
“No surprise,” Tom said. “You make a mean martini.”
“ Ooh , I love a mean martini,” an unfortunately all-too-familiar voice from behind Sam chimed in.
“Hannah, Samantha, this is Cassandra,” Tom said in introduction. “Cass, this is Hannah, one of my clients, and her fiancée, Samantha. I spotted them across the restaurant and thought I’d say hello.”
“Well, hello,” Daphne—or Cassandra, whatever—purred, looking down at Sam.
Gone were the white button-up and black canvas apron she’d worn at the coffee shop.
Instead, she had on a pink-sequined tasseled minidress with a feather hem trim.
Sam couldn’t help but notice how it molded to her curves. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
Nice, her ass.
“Why don’t you two join us?” Hannah said, and that sounded like the worst idea ever.
“Han, I’m sure Tom and D— Cassandra would like to eat alone.”
“Nonsense,” Daphne said, already sliding into the empty chair beside Sam. “Tom and I would love to join you.”
Hannah flagged down the waiter as Tom circled the table to the other side and took a seat.
“We’re going to need another bottle of wine,” Hannah told the waiter.
“Make that two,” Sam said. “Or, on second thought, I’ll just have a whisky neat.”
And keep ’em coming.
“So, you make a mean martini, hmm?” Daphne asked, at which Sam grunted.
“Samantha’s the executive chef at—what is it now? Three? Four restaurants?”
“Executive chef- owner ,” Hannah corrected, and Tom held up his hands in a mea culpa. “And it’s three restaurants and a bar with an LA opening set next year.”
“Executive chef-owner,” Tom corrected. “Samantha here is the culinary crackerjack of our generation.”
Hannah laughed. “Crackerjack, Tom? What generation are you from?” she teased, then turned to Daphne. “My fiancée is the crème de la crème, taking the culinary world by storm one delicious dish at a time.”
“How keen,” Daphne said. “Now, I’m no—what did you say, Tom? Culinary crackerjack? No, I’m not, but I have been known to make a mean drink myself.”
“Really?” Hannah asked, swirling her wine. “Are you in the restaurant business? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I do a little of this, a little of that. I’m a sort of … a Renaissance woman, you could say. Right now, I’m working as a coffee connoisseur.” She paused, then laughed. “A barista, but the gig’s temporary.”
Sam looked at Daphne sideways as she spoke. Temporary, huh? Meaning what, exactly?
“That’s actually how we met,” Tom said, brows squishing together.
“It’s the funniest thing. I was walking past this coffee shop I’ve never been to in my life when suddenly, completely out of nowhere, I got this—this feeling .
Like I had to go inside. That’s when I met Cassandra and I just … I felt like I needed to ask her out.”
“Wow,” Sam said flatly. “Sounds almost like you were compelled. As if by magic or maybe some dark, demonic force.”
“ Sam. ” Hannah shot her a wide-eyed look, telling her to cut it out.
“Magic.” Tom snapped his fingers. “Exactly. It felt like magic.”
“Aw, Tom. You flatterer, you.” Daphne blew him a kiss across the table. “I’ve been dying to check out this restaurant, and Tom here offered to take me.”
“That’s why we were having trouble getting seated. I called earlier, but they weren’t taking same-day reservations.”
“Oh!” Hannah’s eyes widened. “So—you met today? That’s nice.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Daphne stretched across the table for the wine and filled her glass with what was left of the bottle. “So, fiancées? Did I hear that right? You’re engaged?”
“Mm-hmm.” Hannah smiled. “We’re getting married in Lake Como this June.”
“Mazel tov!” Daphne held up her glass. “To the happy couple. I hope it works out for you.”
Hannah huffed out an indignant sound while Sam, desensitized to Daphne’s brand of humor, simply rolled her eyes.
“I’m guessing you don’t believe in marriage,” Hannah said tartly. “How revolutionary.”
“If you were born where I was, when I was, you wouldn’t be in any rush to the altar. Girls married off as young as fourteen to men twice their age,” Daphne said, curling her lip.
Sam knew Daphne was more than a thousand years old, but she hadn’t stopped to think about what that meant. What her life might have been like when she was alive. That she might have been married once.
Sam looked at Daphne sharply.
Had she been married once?
“Jesus.” Hannah’s hand had flown to her throat, her face ashen. “Were you, like, in that Kool-Aid cult or something?”
Sam reached for her wine.
“Wasn’t that in the seventies?” Tom frowned. “Wait, you are in your twenties, right?”
“No, no Kool-Aid cults for me, just the regular kind where we worshiped the ancient gods,” Daphne said, shaking her head.
Suddenly, her face brightened. “Hey, did you know the word altar comes from the Latin words altārium and adolēre, the latter meaning to ritually burn or sacrifice? Personally, I think that should tell you everything you need to know about marriage.”
Tom’s frown deepened. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
Because that was what was concerning here. Her thoughts on marriage.
“Of course you didn’t, Tom. We only met forty-five minutes ago,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes before staring across the table into his. After a moment, Tom’s blinks grew slower and his smile dopey. Daphne turned to Hannah and shrugged. “They call it an institution for a reason.”
Sam kicked her under the table, as hard as she could, and the little grunt Daphne let out was probably more satisfying than it should have been, but what was it she had said?
You can’t blame me for getting my kicks where I can ?
“How about we don’t try to convince my fiancée that marrying me is a bad idea, hmm? ”
“Oh, Samantha, no! You completely misunderstand me,” Daphne said, hand over her heart.
Assuming she had one of those. “Just because I think marriage is an antiquated and regressive institution meant to feed the wedding industrial complex doesn’t mean that you should feel that way.
Your mileage may totally vary, and you know what? I hope it does.”
The waiter returned with a bottle of wine, Sam’s whisky, and two salads.
“Would you like to see a menu?” he asked, directing the question to Daphne and Tom. “Or do you know what you’d like?”
Tom, who had started to drool while staring into space, said nothing.
“I’ll have the miso carbonara, extra Parmesan, please.” Daphne smiled. “And— Tom .”