42. Allie
Allie
The kitchen at Via Napoli is a dream. Every time I find something new—some obscure imported spice, a perfectly balanced chef’s knife, or the industrial pasta maker that basically sings to my soul—every day is Christmas morning here.
Chef Monroe, the former executive chef (and certified drama queen), spent a ridiculous amount of money designing himself a lavish office.
Leather chairs, an espresso machine, a freaking wine fridge.
All for what? To sit there twirling a pen while the rest of the staff ran around resembling caffeinated squirrels?
I haven’t had a single second to even think about sitting down. Between learning everyone’s names, memorizing the menu, going over ordering procedures, and getting a crash course in how not to tank a Michelin-star restaurant, my office is officially the kitchen itself—where it should be.
It’s been five days since my husband dropped the restaurant in my lap, and I still can’t fully process it.
Every night, I drag myself through the doors after midnight, smelling of garlic, tomato, and enough onions to make even my reflection cry.
I shower, rub my aching feet, slather on my favorite lavender lotion, hoping to resurrect my soul, and then collapse into bed, half expecting to wake up and find out this was all some very elaborate fever dream.
By the time I roll out of bed, it’s later than I prefer, but considering my body now operates on a restaurant schedule, I have no choice.
My mornings are a blur of starting a load of laundry, inhaling coffee, and scrolling through my iPad to review recipes, specials, and menu additions.
Vinnie has me at the restaurant by eleven, where the prep cooks are already buzzing around clearly with more caffeine in their veins than myself.
I want to be the first one there, but the pastry chef comes in at three a.m., which—while impressive—is something I will never experience when I'm barely scraping past midnight coming home.
The prep team hands off to the line cooks, and before I know it, we’re knee deep in dinner service, plates flying, pans sizzling, and my heart racing.
The final seating is at ten, but customers linger, which means I do too.
I refuse to leave until every dish is washed, every station wiped down, and every front-of-house staffer has clocked out.
If they’re here, I’m here. That’s the rule.
Kai has been a lifesaver. He runs the kitchen with an ease that makes me jealous.
While I’m juggling cooking, crafting new dishes, and making sure our servers don’t accidentally murder the line cooks, he’s effortlessly handling the backend operations.
Jaxon’s hire—the restaurant manager—handles the accounting, marketing, and all the HR nonsense, but I still have to oversee ordering, quality control, and, you know, actually make food people want to eat.
The first two days? Absolute hell. My brain felt scrambled, fried, and served with a side of WTF am I doing? I knew how professional kitchens worked, but nothing prepares you for being thrown straight into the fire. No line cook initiation. No working my way up the ranks. Just—boom—executive chef.
By day three, though? I had everyone’s names down, started planning menus ahead instead of scrambling last minute, and—miracle of miracles—I figured out the ordering system without accidentally requesting fifty pounds of truffle oil.
Now, if I could just figure out how to get through an entire shift without wanting to pass out in the walk-in freezer, I’d be golden.
Every morning, my brain wakes up at nine, and every muscle in my body immediately stages a protest, begging for me to wait until ten.
Apparently, running a restaurant is a full-body workout.
Who needs a gym when you can lift fifty-pound bags of flour, dodge rogue flames, and sprint to the walk-in freezer every fifteen minutes?
By the time I drag myself out of bed, His Royal Emotional Void is long gone. I didn't expect to wake up and find him reading the Times at the breakfast table, waiting to discuss current events with his wife.
I used to text him in the mornings, telling him to have a great day, as if I was some chipper little wife trying to crack the ice fortress he calls a personality. But eventually, I realized I was basically texting into the abyss. If I wanted to waste my energy, I’d go scream into a void for fun.
It’s not that I don’t want to text him. I want to.
Desperately. But this marriage can’t be a one-woman show where I do all the work, texting and talking while he just reads my messages like a silent overlord.
If he wants to hear from me, he can put in the effort.
Not holding my breath on that one, though.
Still, I can’t help but send him quick updates—what time I’ll be home, how late I’m staying at the restaurant.
And yeah, maybe some tiny, idiotic part of me hopes he’ll be waiting up for me when I get back.
Not that I’d ever give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
But so far, I’ve been dead wrong. Rico, the man who had the libido of a Greek god before I started working, suddenly has no interest in nighttime activities.
Which means I definitely misread that entire situation. Again.
So, note to self: Rico’s signals are not signals—they’re just random electrical currents in a void of nothingness.
My phone pings beside me while I’m scrolling through my iPad at the dining table.
I look up, smiling as I take in the space.
The house is finally fully furnished, including decor that I handpicked with the sole purpose of making my husband’s skin crawl.
The kitchen—his kitchen, because let’s be honest, he’s barely acknowledged my existence in this house—is gorgeous, opening into a spacious dining area.
The farmhouse table I chose fits perfectly, complete with white-washed wood panels and plenty of seating… in case we ever host people.
That thought makes me snort into my coffee. Rico hosting a dinner party? Might as well expect him to start handcrafting scented candles and journaling about his feelings.
I set my mug down and pick up my phone, instantly smiling when I see the message.
Kai: Want to ride in together? We don’t live far from each other, and it’s on the way. I don’t mind.
Kai’s been the definition of accommodating.
A total lifesaver. The exact opposite of Chef Monroe, who has spent the past five days barking orders and sporting nasty sneers.
The man loathes my existence, and honestly?
I’m this close to telling him he can finish out his last week from home…
or wherever demons like him dwell. Kai has trained me on everything I need to know, which has only solidified my suspicion that Monroe was phoning it in long before I took over.
I quickly type out a reply.
Allie: I appreciate the offer, but my driver will take me there.
Kai: The perks of being a Bennetti, I suppose.
I stifle a laugh. If only he knew.
I’m still getting used to people calling me Chef Bennetti.
I’d always pictured Chef De Luca, but my last name is legally changed now, thanks to Jaxon Wolfe and whatever airtight contract Rico had drawn up.
I guess that’s his version of commitment.
Not romance, not affection—just a legally binding name change. What a dreamboat.
Vinnie has been just as punctual as ever, waiting in the driveway by ten every morning to drive me to work. The restaurant is across town, but I’d much rather live in this quieter neighborhood than be downtown in the constant symphony of honking and human misery that starts at sunrise.
Rico, in his usual confusing-as-hell way, swapped out Vinnie’s Lexus for an SUV, which Vinnie awkwardly mentioned was because we’d “need the extra room, eventually.” Right.
Kids. The same reason Rico replaced his two-seater Porsche with a more family-friendly sedan—something that, for about two minutes, made my heart stupidly leap.
Until I talked to Violet and found out he always swaps out his cars every few years already and was due.
So much for that theory.
With a sigh, I type out another message.
Allie: Yup, sure is. See you there soon.
Kai: I’ll bring coffee. Your usual apple fritter too?
My smile grows. Every morning since my first day, Kai has brought me a cinnamon latte and an apple fritter. My husband doesn’t know my favorite coffee order, let alone my apple-flavored weakness.
But sure. This marriage is totally normal.
"Why the smile?"
The smooth, sinful voice of my husband has me nearly flinging my phone into my coffee.
I don’t know what’s more alarming—the fact that he’s still here or that he’s actually acknowledging my facial expressions.
Most people ask why someone is frowning, not why they’re daring to experience joy.
But then again, most husbands don’t treat their wives as though they’re carriers of an exotic disease either.
I look up—and sweet baby Jesus, Mary, and all the saints.
Rico stands there, a full-on catalog ad for "Husband You Can’t Touch But Desperately Want To.
" Sweatpants slung low on his hips, a T-shirt clinging to every inch of his chest and abs hand-delivered by the gods of torture. And sweat—there’s so much sweat, dripping down his neck, soaking his dark hair, pushing it back in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through it knowing exactly how silky it is.
My thighs clench—betrayal, party of one—and every ounce of my willpower goes into not visibly squirming like a woman starved. And, let’s be honest, that's exactly what I am.
I press my lips together, refusing to bite them, because I am strong. I am independent. I am not about to drool over my emotionally stunted husband just because he’s sin wrapped in a sweat-drenched T-shirt.
But when he wipes his face with a towel, slowly, and tosses it over his shoulder, my lady bits weep.