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Dax arches his eyebrows when I appear on the sidewalk with Mila, as the barista called her, by my side. I give him a tiny shake to let him know that I won’t be using the borrowed SUV.
“Ferretti’s is always so packed. I don’t think we’ll be able to get in.” She scrunches up her nose, and the urge to bend down and kiss her rocks me.
I stick the tip of my tongue between my molars and bite until the pain makes some of my lust fade. “Let’s see.”
I’ve never been turned away from a table in my life, especially at a restaurant. I’ve financed more chefs in the world than people have stamps in their passports. The sun’s out, and the street is quiet enough that we can even hear a few birds. The tall brownstones and the rows of trees lining the sidewalk provide a buffer from the traffic that is only a few blocks away. Mila tips her face back and lets the sun’s rays soak into her skin. A handful of freckles dot the bridge of her nose and cheeks.
“What is Mila short for?” I ask, desperate to know more.
“Milana.”
“Are you from here?”
“Born and raised.” She tilts her head and eyes me. “You, though, you don’t seem like a native.”
“I’ve been known to move around,” I admit. We stop outside the restaurant. Inside, the place does look packed. The doorman narrows his eyes. Before I can say a word, Dax appears and slips a bill into the doorman’s hand while pulling him close to whisper in his ear. Knowing Dax, it could be, “Let my boss in or he’ll gut you in front of the pretty lady” or “Here’s a Benjamin. Let us in.” Either way, the doorman gives us a smile and opens the door.
Mila’s brows come together in confusion, so I send Dax back to the borrowed vehicle with a twitch of my eyebrow. “Dax was asking where to park the car, weren’t you Dax?”
“Yes, boss. I got the okay to park it across the street, so that’s where I’ll be.”
“Not while we’re eating,” Mila protests. “Come inside.”
Dax’s cheeks puff out in an attempt not to smile. “No, ma’am. I don’t like eating inside restaurants. I’m a park bench kind of guy.”
He ducks his head and moves off before Mila can add another invitation.
“It’s really okay if we all eat together,” Mila tells me.
I make some kind of noncommittal noise. Dax is a great guy. Been with me for nearly a decade. But I’d cut his balls off and feed them to my dog if he interfered between me and Mila at this point. “Like he said, he’s not a restaurant kind of guy.”
“Are you?” Mila asks as we approach the host stand.
“I’m a food guy. If there’s food, I’m going to be happy.”
“Oh, me, too. I love food. I like almost everything but apricots. I can’t even tell you why I don’t like them, but I don’t. The taste is weird for me.”
“No apricots,” I note.
The host greets us stiffly. “I’m sorry, but we are full today.”
“How about the chef’s table? We’d be good with that. Tell them it’s Jay Eaton.”
The host’s smile wobbles at the edges as if the name Eaton should mean something to him. “I, well, give me a moment.” He turns and walks down a hallway to our left.
“Chef’s table?”
“It’s a small place inside the kitchen where the chef serves food as he cooks it. It’s informal but nice.”
“Um, do you even know the chef?”
“No.” My hand hasn’t left her waist. I rub my thumb along her spine to ease the tension that has appeared. I don’t know if she’s more afraid of getting kicked out or of staying at this point.
The host reappears with a wide smile. “Mr. Eaton, please come this way. We have a special accommodation for you.”
I wink at Mila’s astonished face.
“Are you someone important?” she whispers.
“Not really.”
We are shown to a small wood-paneled room with a round table covered in a white tablecloth. One side of the room is all glass, and it overlooks a small garden with a water fountain.
“Perfect. I’ll take it from here. Whatever the chef wants to make us, we’re fine with. Except no apricots. Anything else you don’t like?” I ask Mila.
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t like something, don’t eat it.”
“Is that allowed?”
“It is today.” I nod toward the host. “Right?”
“Yes.” He nods in eager agreement. “Whatever you like, we make more of. Whatever you don’t like—” He draws a finger across his throat.
“We’re in agreement,” I say cheerfully and hold out the chair for Mila to sit in.
“I thought you said the chef’s table is in the kitchen,” she whispers when the host backs out of the room.
“Some are and some aren’t. There’s always one table in a full restaurant. You just need to know who to ask.” I move my chair so it’s close to hers. There’s no reason to have space between us.
