Chapter 1
One day earlier
Dell Rodgers woke ready to kick the day’s ass.
It was one week until she walked down the aisle and eternally linked her life to the man sleeping beside her, and her to-do
list was extensive. Seating charts, confirming the cake flavor, final dress fitting—yes, all of that, of course. But also, Pergo had just been named the top restaurant in San Francisco, and her dining room would
be overflowing for months—years! Last she heard, the wait to get a table was already six weeks. Not that she checked. She
had her assistant, Mariana, check things like that for her and recite encouraging stats and figures like a little bird when
she needed a boost. The new title bestowed upon them like the golden fondant set to grace her four-tiered tower of a wedding
cake the next weekend would mean an even bigger surge in patrons flooding her door for a taste of the best the Bay had to
offer. Case in point, Pierrick Moreau, a renowned food critic hailing all the way from Paris, was set to show up for dinner
that night.
She had her wedding, she had her restaurant, she had her book—a collection of recipes and stories from her life—coming out in a month and revving up publicity.
She had the handful of nonprofits her mother ran and to which she donated her time and money.
All of that kept her plate full enough. And then there was the fact in seven short days she’d be the daughter-in-law of the city’s mayor.
Yes, that last bit at times felt like a lethal amount of pressure, but pressure turned coal into diamonds, right?
And besides, she thrived on pressure. Being the chef de cuisine at a restaurant primed for a James Beard or a Michelin, if not both, left her able to handle anything.
Including marrying the mayor’s son in the social event of the season and becoming local royalty.
She sat up and swatted Tommy’s perfectly sculpted butt outlined by their luxe sheets. The round bulge under the silky gray
hardly jiggled thanks to all his work in the gym.
“Rise and shine. Busy day today,” she said.
Her fiancé groaned his customary greeting. “Every day is a busy day for you,” he said, still face down into his pillow.
“Well, yes. Ambition does lend itself to a full calendar. Now, get up. Unless you want Jason and Mariana to see you in your
underwear again.” She playfully swatted him once more.
He rolled over with a growl and propped himself up on his elbows.
Dell’s eyes couldn’t help perusing his bare chest and abdomen on display.
Tommy—Thomas Giovanni Moratto III officially, Tommy G.
to old friends, Tom to colleagues and his parents, and Tommy to her—remained an enviable shade of tan olive year-round.
Dell was a rosy shade of ghost beside him, as if someone had dropped a single bead of red food dye into a gallon of milk.
Tommy routinely punished his body into a seamless tapestry of toned dips and grooves she enjoyed exploring with her fingertips.
If they had nothing else in common, at least they were physically compatible.
“Ah yes, the dynamic duo,” he said flatly. “You know, when I proposed to you, I thought I’d be marrying you, not your whole entourage.”
“You’ll learn to love them. Now, time to get up,” she said.
He swung an arm around her and pulled her close, squeezing her body against his and kissing her. It landed like it always
did: like a warm, sumptuous pie with no filling.
Dell dutifully kissed him back, convincing herself once more the sense of a void was simply pre-wedding jitters and their
formal union would fill it.
She left him in the bed and went to brush her teeth and pull on her jogging gear. Once she was ready, she descended the stairs
and crossed the living room to enter the spacious and recently renovated kitchen in their Marina District home.
Like most every other structure elbowing for space on the San Francisco Peninsula, their house was sandwiched between two
others, separated only by a change in color. It was technically Dell’s house. Her father, a real estate mogul in the area,
had owned it for decades, from long before it carried a seven-figure price tag in the city’s skyrocketing market. He’d passed
the deed to Dell when she returned to the city to open her restaurant, and Tommy had moved in with her when they got engaged
a year ago. She loved its old charm: the ornate crown molding, the symphony of creaks and groans if she stepped on the hardwood
floors just right, the way the lights sometimes flickered when the wind blew too hard. It had no front yard, and only a back
patio, but the marina and windswept bay were a block away to make up for it.
They’d updated the kitchen with new appliances and a giant slab of granite as a prep area. Dell still lovingly slid her palm across the smooth stone island every morning, enjoying the slick iciness of it.
“Good morning,” she said to her favorite room in the house. The kitchen was her favorite room in any building.
“Good morning,” a voice responded.
Dell turned to see two of her favorite people letting themselves in her front door. Her best friend, Jason, was decked out
in black leggings and neon green running shorts with a matching zipped hoodie, looking like a six-foot-tall highlighter pen,
and Mariana, her assistant, wore her customary ensemble of business casual: a navy blazer over a white blouse and black jeans.
Her tote slung over her shoulder. She used the knuckle on the hand holding a Starbucks cup to nudge her glasses up her nose.
“Morning,” Dell greeted them.
Mariana crossed the entryway and beelined for the granite island, all business. She plopped her tote on a velvet stool. She
then went to the elaborate coffee maker imported from France while Dell retrieved a bowl from the cabinet and proceeded to
fill it with Raisin Bran. They moved like a well-oiled machine.
“You are trash for that cereal,” Jason said. “An award-winning chef and you eat sugar-coated bran flakes for breakfast.”
“Keeps my palate humble.”
“You should consider incorporating it into the menu at the restaurant: Raisin Bran crème br?lée.”
“That actually sounds delicious.”
“If you made it, it would be. I’ve actually been thinking about the menu lately—”
“How’s the weather today?” Dell spoke at the same time, not meaning to cut him off.
Jason corrected course. “Foggy with a frigid wind out of the northwest that feels like an ice pick in your ear. So, you know, summer in San Francisco,” he said, and sat on a stool beside Mariana’s tote.
“Perfect. I like jogging in the cold.”
“Well, then, you came to the right place!” Jason dramatically sang. His loud voice first thing in the morning always helped
wake her up. He took the coffee Mariana offered him and sipped. He adjusted the headband holding back his mane of wavy brown
hair tightly enough to pull his forehead and thick eyebrows up into a startled expression. “Where’s Prince Charming?”
Dell frowned at him, knowing the comment was sarcastic. Her best friend and her fiancé were not, to put it mildly, close.
Not yet anyway, but forging their bond was an item on her to-do list. It just wasn’t one that could be accomplished with the
ease of, say, renovating a kitchen or being named best restaurant in the city. She’d been whittling away at it for what felt
like forever, and with her and Tommy’s legal union on the horizon, damn it, she was going to succeed in making them friends.
“Two shots, extra hot,” Mariana said, and handed Dell her coffee just the way she liked it—the other thing that helped wake
her up first thing in the morning.
“Thank you, Mari,” she said, and happily took it.
“So, what’s—?” Jason started right as Tommy cut him off.
“Babe, have you seen my Stanford T-shirt?” He came down the stairs wearing only a pair of sweatpants.
Jason sat with his back to him, facing into the kitchen, and rolled his eyes so hard, Dell thought he might sprain an ocular
nerve. He mockingly mouthed Stanford T-shirt and sipped his coffee again. Tommy liked to slip mention of his alma maters into conversation, and Jason made it known he found this pretentious.
Dell shot Jason another smirk before she turned a smile to Tommy. “I haven’t, sorry.”
He padded into the kitchen, and Dell wondered why he was shirtless after the infamous underwear incident, which had left everyone
blushing. She suspected it had something to do with the fact her best friend, despite his protests, had a tiny crush on her
fiancé, and Tommy knew it.
“Maybe it’s in the hamper next to your Yale onesie,” Jason said, and snorted at his own joke.
In some bizarre show of retaliation, as if to prove he had claim over Dell now, Tommy scooped Dell into a gratuitous kiss. One verging on inappropriate in front of her assistant.
Though Mariana was in their kitchen first thing in the morning making them coffee before Dell had even showered, so her fiancé
stealing a smooch in his pj’s wasn’t too out of place.
“I’ll have to wear something else to the gym, then,” Tommy said once he released her. His bare skin was warm against her body,
even through all her spandex.
“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Moratto,” Mariana said, totally unfazed by the scene. She handed him a mug.
“Thank you, Mari. And how many times do I have to tell you? You can call me Tom. Also, you don’t have to make me coffee.”
“I get paid to make coffee, Mr. Moratto,” she said.
“And you’re damn good at it,” Jason said with a smack of his lips and a satisfied exhale.
Tommy turned to him with a sour look. “And what exactly do you get paid to do?”
“Satisfy your fiancée in ways you can’t.” Jason did not miss a beat.
Dell shot him another death glare. “Not necessary, Jay.”
“It’s true though,” he muttered.
Mariana mercifully broke up the banter by pulling out her tablet and reciting the day’s schedule. “Final dress fitting at
nine, confirming the cake at ten.”
“Cake?” Tommy interjected. “Didn’t we choose that months ago?”