81. Allie
Allie
Friday nights are grueling.
Why is it that Friday night seems to summon the absolute worst customers humanity offers? Oh right. They leave their offices after a long week of micromanaging their poor employees and immediately start hunting for their next victim—tonight, that is me.
Too cold. Too hot. Not enough sauce. Too much sauce. Too bland. Too spicy. Why is it so spicy?
I’m one complaint away from launching a ladle at the next entitled jackass and reenacting Carrie, but marinara style and not blood.
Sure, I carve meat for a living, but actual blood? Hard pass. Yes, I realize I grew up in a family that literally paved the way in blood, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy bathing in it. I prefer my stains of the tomato variety. Thank you very much.
Kai saunters toward me and I know from the look on his face there's another patron requesting my presence.
“No. Absolutely not. You deal with it,” I declare before he even opens his mouth. “I’m not going out there to kiss the ring of another entitled asshole just because they don’t know how to use salt properly.”
His eyebrow arches.
“It’s not my week.” Understatement of the year, but whatever. Who’s keeping track?
“This one you might want to see,” he muses, pinning me in place with one of those we both know you need this looks. “They’re not here to complain. They want to thank the chef. And I know you could use a little praise.”
I could use a lot of things, but sure, let’s pretend a “great job” from some overfed Wall Street reject is going to soothe my deep existential rage.
“You go,” I grumble, wiggling free from his entirely unnecessary grip.
I’m not in the mood for praise. Or complaints.
Or human interaction of any kind, honestly.
Yeah, I’ve officially turned into my husband.
And yes, I can still call him that because the tenacious ox hasn't signed the divorce papers.
No, instead it's like we are dating. Getting to know one another while he heals himself. It's all so confusing and unfinished.
So legally, we are still one.
One entity.
One unit.
One catastrophic mess.
And it's left me in a sour mood.
“They were quite specific.” Kai’s smirk is a little too smug. “Asked for Chef Bennetti.”
And there it is. That last name that cuts me deeper every time someone says it to me.
“I don’t like you,” I groan.
He glows. “I can live with that.”
“You realize we’re in a kitchen full of very sharp objects, right?”
“Oh, I’m aware. I hear they cut clean.”
“And that I am specifically trained to use said sharp objects?”
“I heard a rumor.”
“That I grew up in the mafia and definitely know how to make bodies—or at least body parts—disappear?”
“Should I be shivering?” He does a very fake, very dramatic shiver.
“I hate you.”
“I love you too.” He has the audacity to rub his knuckles against my hair like I’m some kind of scrappy little sibling before steering me toward the dining room.
Annoyed and exhausted, I yank off my apron, smooth out my chef’s coat, and check my reflection in the mirror.
Yikes.
No makeup. Purplish-blue splotches under my eyes. Cheekbones so sharp they could cut parmesan. I look like the human equivalent of death warmed over.
Time to meet my public.
I step into the dining room, and the low hum of conversation doesn’t change. Tables are full. People are eating. No one is paying attention to me.
Until I walk.
Then everyone is looking at me.
Smiles. Nods. That weird half-smirk people do when they think they know something you don’t.
Fantastic. I might as well be on display behind glass. Observe the estranged wife in her native setting—sipping coffee, pretending to be fine. Thrilling stuff. Bring snacks.
Spotting Nina at the host stand, I tug her aside.
“Which table asked to see me?”
“Oh, table four.”
I nod and scan the room, weaving through tables while entirely too many eyes follow me. Seriously, what the hell is going on tonight?
VIP section. Back corner.
That’s table four.
Except when I get there?
Every single VIP table is empty.
What. The. Hell.
The lights dim.
No one gasps. No hushed whispers. No dramatic murmurs.
Except me.
Because, obviously, I have to be the only one concerned about a potential electrical issue in a fully packed restaurant.
“So sorry, folks! I’ll fix the lighting,” I call out, even though not a single person seems worried. Last thing I need is some influencer nicking themselves with a butter knife in the dark and blaming me for their inability to function as an adult.
The room is cloaked in near darkness, and—because tonight clearly wants to see me lose my mind—Nina didn’t light a single candle in this zone. Apparently, her hopes for a raise and future employment are circling the drain.
Then, without warning, the lights flick back to full brightness, making me blink rapidly, my brain pulsing from the sudden assault like a migraine threw on strobe lights for fun.
And that’s when I see him.
A shadowy silhouette in front of me.
Not just standing there.
On one knee.
In a tux.
My…husband.
My mouth opens. No words come out. I glance around wildly, expecting some hidden-camera prank, but nope—every single person in this restaurant is riveted.
“Rico?” As if I have another husband out there.
He smiles. A full smile. Not his usual grin or that barely there lip twitch he thinks counts as an expression. No, this one is the kind that makes knees weak, steals breath, and melts panties right off. My panties, to be specific.
Hell.
“I choose you,” he says, his voice smooth but firm.
“And I have wanted you for longer than you probably realize. The day I met you, you didn’t flinch at my family, which, frankly, is a miracle.
When you asked for my reset button. When you pushed me.
Teased me. Fought with me. When you responded to my notes instead of tossing them.
I took every bit for granted, but not because I didn’t want you. ”
My lungs forget how oxygen works.
“Yes, we didn’t meet the way we should have. I didn’t propose the way you deserved. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. It means I was an idiot.” He pulls a small box from his pocket, cracking it open.
A diamond.
With pearls.
Pearlina.
I bite my lip. My chest tightens.
“You are the reason I started fixing myself,” he admits.
“But I didn’t just do it for you. I did it for me.
For us. For the future I want—with you. I wanted you long before you said ‘I do.’ And I wanted you even more after you left.
I wanted you in my bed—throw pillows and all.
” His lips twitch in amusement, and it takes everything in me not to faint.
“But,” he continues, his voice dropping an octave, “I never asked you and that wasn’t fair. So, I’m asking now.” He exhales sharply, his amber eyes locked onto mine. “Will you marry me, Alessandra?”
A collective gasp ripples through the room. Oohs and aahs follow, but all I can focus on is him.
Rico.
On one knee.
In public.
Using words.
Smiling.
I should be furious that he pulled this in front of a crowd. But I’m not. Because he’s here, doing this, saying this—in the most Rico way possible.
I look down at the ring. Then back at him.
“What if I need time?” My voice wavers.
His throat bobs. “Then I’ll wait. No matter how long you need.”
He stands, but my hands fly out before he can stand up. “Yes.”
His brow lifts. “Yes?”
“I’m not saying it all.”
“You should.” He tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Would be cute. I am, after all, in a tux on my knees. I know you clean these carpets, but still, c’mon.”
I roll my eyes, exhaling dramatically. “Fine. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He’s up in an instant, arms wrapping around me, lifting me off the ground before I can so much as blink. Behind us, claps and cheers explode, but all I hear is him.
His heartbeat.
His breath.
His quiet, relieved “Hey.”
I smile. “Hi.”
His forehead presses against mine. “Can I kiss my wife?”
“Fiancée,” I tease.
“I’m not doing another wedding,” he mutters. “But I will give you a honeymoon.”
I pretend to think about it, but before I can answer, he grabs my face and kisses me.
And just like the first time, like our wedding kiss, it starts slow. Controlled.
And then?
It burns.
Like a full-body ignition. Like the chemistry we always had—the chemistry we never lost— exploded in the middle of my restaurant.
By the time he pulls away, I’m breathless. He’s breathless. And only then do I see his family behind him.
His entire family.
“For the record,” he murmurs against my lips, “I only invited Vi and Sienna. The rest… well, you know.”
I snort, pressing a kiss to his mouth. “And Kai?”
His playful growl makes me laugh.
He brushes my hair back, his fingers lingering on my jaw. “Does this mean you’ll move back home?”
“To my room?”
He shakes his head. “I moved my stuff up to our room. On the second floor.” His voice softens. “Down the hall from where, I hope, one day… we’ll have kids.”
I open my mouth—to argue, to question, to make sure this isn’t just about that—but he cuts me off with another kiss.
“And that doesn’t have to be soon or ever. I choose you. The rest is a bonus.”