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“Ah,” I say. “You mean, because of who my father is?”
She says nothing for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she says at last. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Oh, it’s no big deal.” I smile at her, taking in her discomfort. “Don’t worry, Natalie. You’re perfectly safe with me. And, indeed, you’d be perfectly safe with my father, too. He’s really quite the gentleman.”
Natalie stares at me for a long time and then gives a chuckle. “Alright,” she says with a shrug. “So wherearewe going?”
“Here we are now.”
The cab pulls up outside a rundown brick building with a small, hand-painted sign near the door: Anna’s Kitchen. I’ve been coming here for years, but never with company. Natalie follows me inside, where the smell of fresh bread and hearty soup envelops us.
“A soup kitchen?” Natalie asks in a hushed voice as we pass stacks of packaged food donations.
“A meal service for those experiencing food insecurity,” I correct her, and then shrug. “Yeah. A soup kitchen. One I help fund specifically for women and children in need. And they can always use extra hands, here. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she says nervously.
“Just remember,” I say, leading her through to the kitchen, “the most important thing tonight is to listen. And to serve the food, obviously. But listening is just as important, if someone wants to share.”
We reach the kitchen, where I grab two aprons from a hook and pass one to her with a flourish. Natalie takes it slowly, eyes darting around the busy kitchen interior.
I wonder if seeing this side of me has thrown her off balance. Good—shows her she isn’t theonlyone who can be hard to read.
Though her reaction in the cab told me a little something about her. She knows my reputation—or Daddy’s reputation, anyway. Perhaps that’s what’s been keeping her so jumpy the whole time? If so, I’m extra glad I chose Anna’s Kitchen as our “date” tonight.
She can see another side to me than the glamorous Mafia princess that the gossip columns like to play up.
The food is already made, so we begin to bring it through to the service station, where we work side by side serving out soup, stews, and sides like green beans, rice, or bread.
“Hi there,” I greet a woman who approaches my station, her two young children in tow. “How many can I get you?”
“Three plates, please,” she replies softly, her gaze flicking to Natalie, a newcomer, then back to me.
At first, Natalie seems hesitant in her interactions with the people here. But her innate kindness soon takes over. She smiles warmly and asks folks how they’re doing as she hands them their meals—and shelistens. Good.
I even catch her slipping an extra cornbread muffin to a young girl when she thinks no one is looking. The simple joy on that kid’s face makes my chest ache.
This is why I help fund places like this. Not for any self-serving reasons, but because everyone deserves to be treated with basic human decency.
I think Natalie Moreau has a similar view.
I like that.
Dammit, I likeher.
After cleanup, I take Natalie’s elbow and steer her toward the door. “Come on. I’m craving a greasy diner burger after all that soup.”
“Sounds perfect,” Natalie agrees, her eyes sparkling.
She really has enjoyed tonight. And I really have enjoyed her company, too. Natalie had been so open and compassionate, traits that are important to me in the people I let into my inner circle. Even Juno has her soft side, though she doesn’t like to admit it.
But seeing Natalie in action tonight…it’s stirred something deeper within me. And as we slip into a booth, the scent of sizzling burgers and hot fries making me groan dramatically with hunger, I can’t help but feel that this night…
This night is strangely perfect.
We order and soon we’re tucking into our plates of greasy goodness. Natalie sips her milkshake, studying me over the rim of her glass.
“Okay, so tell me,” I say, after a huge bite of my burger, “what’s your guilty pleasure? I mean, besides dropping a cool hundy on dates with beautiful women.”
