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“You ever had lamb?” Dante asks me once he’s back in his seat looking over the menu.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” I tell him.
“I think I might try it. What are you getting?”
“Probably the barbequed pork.”
“Yeah, it smells amazing.” He adjusts the knot on his tie. “You know, I saw a picture of a dessert from this place on IG the other day and it was unreal. Some kind of little basket made out of chocolate with raspberries and cream inside.”
“I saw that, too,” Rhett says, nodding enthusiastically. “Mia Petrov posted it.”
Rhett takes over talking to Dante, which I don’t mind a bit. I sip my beer in silence, looking around the crowded restaurant.
Fancy places aren’t my thing. Even though my dad was a top NHL player when I was growing up, my parents wanted to bring their kids up the same way they were raised. We lived in a nice neighborhood in Philadelphia, but not an upscale one. I played street hockey with kids in the neighborhood until after dark every night. We’d all watch Dad’s games on the only TV set we owned, which was in our living room. And Mom cooked for us most every night.
I’m more of a burger and beer kind of guy. Though I can’t deny the high-end beer at this place is damn good.
Finishing my first one, I set my glass down and excuse myself to go to the bathroom. It’s a slow journey because of the crowd in this place. I’m making my way past the bar when a woman reaches out and touches my arm.
“You’re that hockey player,” she says, eyeing me. “I saw you in that eligible bachelors article online.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” I extend my hand to her. “Knox Deveraux.”
“Hey, Knox. I’m Lindsey.” She gives me a once over and then smiles her approval. “My girlfriends and I are going out after dinner if you want to ditch your date and join us.”
“I’m at a business dinner, actually, but thanks.” I give her a quick nod and add, “Nice to meet you,” before heading in the direction of the bathroom.
I’m not in the mood for a Lindsey tonight. Easy women used to be fun, but nowadays I’d rather just spend the evening alone with good takeout and some baseball on TV. Or I indulge in my guilty pleasure…catching up on Days of Our Lives. Silas got me watching it because we room together when the team travels, and now I’m hooked. Damn show is so bad, it’s good.
After taking a leak, I’m on my way back to the table when I glance over at a framed magazine article hanging in the hallway outside the bathroom. My heart pounds when I see a picture of a smiling Reese in a white apron, her hair pulled back and a tall chocolate cake in front of her.
Magnolia Snags Award-Winning Pastry Chef. The article’s headline sends a wave of hope through me. I scan the lines of the story and see that Reese has been working at the very restaurant I'm standing in for the past seven months.
My mouth drops open in shock. For seven months, Reese has been right here in Chicago, and I had no idea. We could have passed on the street.
I have to see her. More than a year after our vacation fling, I still can’t get her out of my head. That has to mean something.
Walking back into the main dining room, I stop a server.
“Excuse me, but is it possible I can see your pastry chef?” I ask her. “Reese?”
The server furrows her brow, thinking. “She doesn’t usually work this late. Can I find someone else who can help you?”
Frustrated, I shake my head. “When can I catch her here?”
“She usually leaves by six during the week, I think. But sometimes she’s here later on Saturday nights.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Oh, and she’s got a day off during the week, but I’m not sure what day it is.”
“Thanks for your help.”
I walk back to the table, my blood still pumping hard from seeing that picture of Reese.
I’ve thought about her voice so many times since I last saw her. Pictured her face and relived our time together. Since I laid eyes on Reese, no woman has come close to capturing my interest the way she did.
And she’s in Chicago at this very moment. I want to see her. Badly.
“You okay, man?” Jonah asks as I sit back down.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
I’m not, though. I have to figure out how I can see Reese. I run through options in my head, trying to look like I’m listening to what Olivier is saying.
I could ask someone who works here for her number, but that’s not likely going to work. Maybe I could ask them to pass my number on to her, though?
No. I don’t have the patience for that shit.
