Chapter 32
SNICKERS
As Chef Henri’s ma?tre d’ pulls a chair out for Pip, the first thing I notice is her dress.
Instead of wearing one of the conservative designer dresses selected for her, Pip is stunning in a deep burgundy vintage number.
It hugs Pip’s curves like it was made for her.
“Bold choice,” I say, adjusting my bow tie. “How did you get Clare's authorization to wear it?”
“Simple. I didn’t ask. You taught me about finding my rhythm. This dress is me.”
Kit circles our table, camera clicking. Through the glass dome, I spot Clare conferring with Henri’s PR team, probably discussing how to spin Pip’s dress choice.
Piglet yips softly from his cushioned chair, his tuxedo bow slightly askew.
When Pip reaches to fix it, her knee presses against mine. Accidental or not? Either way, the contact sends an unexpected jolt through me.
“Tell me about one of your most dramatic nights as a DJ?" Pip asks.
"Every night was drama. What are you asking?"
"Just a moment that sticks with you."
"All moments stick with me. All are special. But since you ask, it was back when I was first starting out. My first gig in Berlin. I was in a tiny underground club, barely room for fifty people. The power went out right as I started my set.”
“What did you do?”
“Found one battery-powered speaker. No effects, no mixing board. Just pure vinyl and instinct.”
Her eyes catch the candlelight. “And?”
“Best night of my life. The crowd moved like one organism. Raw. Real.” I find myself leaning closer. “Sometimes when you strip everything away...”
I pause, aware of Kit’s camera but suddenly not caring. “You find what matters.”
“Like in the kitchen today?” Pip smooths her dress, a gesture I’m starting to recognize as nervousness. “When you made Henri let you put on your playlist?”
“Exactly. Music has a way of cutting through the noise.
“Each track is like...” I search for words she’ll understand. “Like a Polaroid of a moment in time. That night in Berlin—I can still feel the heat, smell the rain coming through the broken windows.”
Piglet shifts, pushing up onto his hind legs, his front paws hovering just below the table’s edge as he stretches. He looks so adorable we both instinctively reach to pet him at the same time. Our fingers brush anew.
I feel like electricity shot through my soul.
Around us, cameras click like distant rain. But I’m not seeing Kit, I’m not seeing any of them.
Pip leans forward slightly, creating a bubble of privacy in what’s come to be a very public space.
“Let’s give the photographers and tabloid hacks something else to write about. Want to pull funny faces and talk greeting card sales projections?”
Pip’s attempt at humor makes me smile.
Kit’s camera swoops in to catch the moment. But for once, I don’t feel like I’m performing.
The candles flicker as a server fills our wine glasses.
Then two more servers approach, each carrying a silver-domed tray.
“Your first course,” they announce in unison, positioning the trays.
Pip starts to say something, but their synchronized lift of the covers stops her mid-sentence.
For a moment, everything freezes.
Where our appetizers should be, a single playing card rests on each plate—the Queen of Hearts, torn in half. Beneath Pip’s torn piece, something is written in red ink.
Stay away from my king.
Piglet growls.
Kit rushes toward us.
My eyes are glued to Pip’s face as she stares at her plate, her face pale.
She’s struck again.