Page 54 of Sundown Somewhere

“Wait for me over by that statue.”

Winking, he turns on his heels and is off before I can object. That doesn’t stop me though.

“Huxley Adams Hayes,” I ground out, moving over to the spot he indicated.

I’m going to strangle him…

“Miss McLain?”

A deep, old-school Southern accent floats through the air, my name sounding like royalty with the way he forms the vowels. I turn, eyes landing on an older gentleman with silver hair and piercing blue eyes standing a few feet from me, dressed in a chef’s jacket, the name Whittaker stitched across the breast.

“That’s me.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss McLain. I’m Chef Whittaker, and I hear you are my personal guest this mornin’.”

He holds out his hand, but not to shake. I extend mine, only knowing how to proceed since my great-grandfather used the same move. He takes it, gently kissing my knuckles, as if receiving me in court. I smile, barely holding in my giggle. It’s been a long time since anyone greeted me like this.

Wait…did he say personal guest?

“I’m sorry…your what?” I ask. I am not following.

“My personal guest,” he repeats. “Ah, and is this Mr. Hayes?”

Looking up and past me, he smiles. I glance over my shoulder, Hux appearing by my side.

“Chef, thank you so much for accommodating this request,” Hux says, shaking the man’s hand.

“One does not tell Harriett Robinson no.” He chuckles, giving us a knowing wink. Miss Harriett. He knows Miss Harriett. Well, I never… “If y’all will follow me.”

We do as we’re told, moving swiftly through the lobby and dining room, past a number of other early risers. Chef Whittaker doesn’t waste any time, barging through the kitchen doors like he owns the place, taking no prisoners along the way.

“Here you are, my dears.”

Gesturing to a small wooden table, draped with a simple white tablecloth, Chef Whittaker smiles proudly. The table is set for two, with a small pastel carnation centerpiece, and my heart sings at the sight. A chef’s table. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Thank you.”

I sit, so overwhelmed by the whole kitchen I don’t know where to look. The busy staff bustles around us, not seeming to notice or care that we’re there—and probably in their way—moving about their business of getting Sunday brunch going. Sighing, I reach across the table and grab Hux’s hand, mouthing a thank you to him as well. He didn’t have to do this. But he did.

“Now, I am told that you are also a chef, is that right?” Chef Whittaker asks, standing by my side.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I own a diner, but that’s not really⁠—”

“She is,” Hux cuts me off before I can finish undermining myself.

Chef Whittaker nods to him, and I can tell they are both silently—or not so silently in Hux’s case—telling me to knock it off. The older gentleman places a piece of cardstock in front of each of us, then clears his throat.

“Well, today, we are taking care of you. A nice, romantic breakfast for two. So sit back, relax, and enjoy this tasting menu we have prepared. If you need to request a modification, that is no problem. Simply holler ‘Chef!’ and I shall come running. And once you are nice and full, I will show you around. But for now, we will get you started with some drinks, and give you a moment.”

A nice, romantic breakfast for two…

“When I asked Harriett if she still knew the chef here, I didn’t think she was going to send us on the Lady and the Tramp spaghetti date,” Hux mutters.

I sputter out a laugh. “Sir, fresh fruit and muffins, smoked lox crostini, spinach, feta, and sundried tomato frittata, and crêpes suzette are a far cry from spaghetti in a back alley. Oh, and our choice of mimosas or Bloody Marys.”

He shrugs, because he knows I’m right. Sure, the longtime Hayes employee might have had an ulterior motive—or maybe Chef got the message wrong—but this meal is spoiling us. Big time.

“Thank you,” I say again after a server drops off our choice of drinks, along with a basket of warm muffins with house-made whipped butter. “This is really special.”