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“Actually, Elsie, I know it’s outside of your job description, but would you be interested in—”
“Babysitting? I thought you’d never ask!”
Elsie, I’d discovered, had a very bad case of granny lust—which was unfortunate, since she had no children to provide her with said grandkids. Xavier was the closest thing she had to a son, and so she was always offering to take care of Sofia, who equally adored her.
“If you don’t mind,” I replied gratefully. “Sofia can’t go, but I’d like to check in on Xavi, especially if he’s had a hard day. Maybe if he can bear giving up some power to one of the sous-chefs, I can pry him away from the stove, too.”
Elsie looked doubtful at the idea but nodded anyway. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, my dear, but certainly, the boy would be glad to see you.” A crease formed between her brows as she considered. “Just be careful.”
I frowned. “Careful with what?”
Elsie grimaced. “With him. He’s in one of his moods tonight. Best to be quick, in and out.”
What exactly did she mean by that? Xavier was mercurial, yes, but it had never been something I couldn’t handle. Generally, when he had had a long day, all it took was a glass of wine and one of Sofia’s impromptu “plays” to make him smile again. His temper was actually becoming a thing of the past.
“Anyway, you’ve got to get yourself ready.” Elsie dropped her own purse on the counter next to mine and immediately started off in the direction of Sofia’s bedroom, where I heard her proclaim loudly, “Sofia, my dear, it’s a date for you and me! Shall we dine on fish and chips, lovey, or would you prefer a nice curry?”
EIGHT
Chez Miso occupied a corner in one of the trendiest neighborhoods in London, less than half a mile from Xavier’s Mayfair apartment. The weather was nice, so I chose to walk through the city, taking the rare moment to enjoy the bustle of the early evening without a four-year-old in tow. After a quick shower, I’d changed into a short black skirt, a flirty green top that matched my eyes, and a pair of espadrilles that lent me about five inches—always helpful when your boyfriend had you by more than a foot. I also happened to know that Xavier liked this skirt a lot. At least, it seemed like it, since every time I wore it, he copped a feel as much as he could get away with.
The menu was, like most of Xavier’s restaurants, a fusion of east and western cuisine—this one specifically a mix of French and Japanese comfort food, but elevated to something truly spectacular, if the reviews were to be trusted. My mouth watered as I entered the restaurant. Scents of what must have been the miso French onion soup (one of the restaurant’s signatures, Xavier had said) wafted from a few tables. I caught glimpses of a few other dishes I wasn’t familiar with. One looked something like deconstructed ramen plated around duck confit. Another seemed to be some form of sushi but was topped with a variety of fish I couldn’t place.
The whole place hummed, full of people eating at one of the thirty or so tables, and a few patrons crunched into the foyer and bar while they waited for another to open up. This wasn’t a surprise—all of Xavier’s restaurants I’d seen were busy. Whatever my duke was cooking, people wanted. Including me.
“Hi, Mal,” I greeted the hostess, whom I’d met the week before when Xavier had taken me here for dinner. “I’m—”
“Francesca!” She looked slightly terrified when she recognized me. “Oh—I mean, Ms. Zola—bloody—are you supposed to be—he didn’t tell me you needed a table—”
Okay, so more than slightly terrified. As the girl spoke, I could practically see her blood pressure rising. She looked like she needed to breathe into a paper bag.
“No, no, no,” I said, reaching out to touch her arm. “He’s not expecting me. Elsie said he was working late, and he had asked earlier if I’d meet him here. I thought I’d surprise him. He’s in the kitchen, right?”
“I—er—” The girl glanced behind her toward the kitchen doors. “Perhaps you’d better wait. I’ll clear a seat at the bar for you.”
I glanced at the bar, which was completely jammed. I didn’t particularly want to aggravate hungry, inebriated people by kicking one of them off their stool.
“Oh, it’s all right,” I said. “I won’t stay long if he’s occupied, but he’ll be happy to see me.”
I gave Mal what I hoped was a reassuring grin, then skipped around her, ignoring her clear distress as well as the irritation of the other waiting diners.
“Miss—Francesca—it’s not really a good time—”
“Thank you!” I called, giddy at the prospect of finally sneaking up on Xavier for once. He always laughed at how easy it was to sneak up on me, often making it into a game with Sofia. This time, I’d be the one to surprise him.
After a rather exhausted-looking waiter emerged from the kitchen, I slipped through the swinging door. I expected chaos—by this point, I knew that restaurant kitchens during dinner hour were a flurry of activity. Instead, every person in the place was stock-still.
No one turned to look. No one even noticed my intrusion. They were all watching Xavier, who was towering over a shriveled, miserable-looking man whose hunched, sallow body and wide-set mouth strongly resembled a toad’s.
It was the first time I’d ever seen Xavier in kitchen clothes. Usually, when he was working, he wore the suits of a businessman, looking more like an owner or investor than the people who actually made the food. Tonight, however, he was dressed as a chef in simple black pants and a white double-breasted jacket with a mandarin collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the tattoo twisting around his left arm.
He’d clearly been working hard, if the light sheen of sweat on his brow and rumpled black hair was any indication. He also looked as edible as anything they were making.
And angry. Very, very angry.
“What does this menu say, Le Fray?” Xavier demanded. “Tell me, what does this fucking menu say?”
The toadish man muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but it sounded as though it were in a French accent.
