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“You’ve married her, and I presume you’ve fucked her. So, what else is left?” he asks, face contorted in confusion. “Are you going to skip out on family meetings to take her on date night?”
“We have a plan.” I raise my voice more than normal and fight to keep it even. “I’ve been here all day, and now I’d like to eat. Is that a problem?”
He steps forward so we are almost chest to chest. If anyone else approached me that way I’d shove them back. “It is a problem if this woman has made you weak. If you’ve allowed your emotions to cloud your judgement.”
I stare down at him as blankly as possible. “What emotions?”
My father raises a gray eyebrow, shakes his head, and steps away. “Nice try, but I see it, Luka. The feelings are swallowing you up. If you aren’t careful, this girl will consume you.”
I want to storm out and show him he doesn’t know what he is talking about, but my father leaves first. It is the way I was raised. A conversation isn’t over until he says so. As soon as he turns to leave, I spin on a dime and march through the front doors and into the early evening.
I should have argued with him. Disagreed with his assessment. Told him he doesn’t know anything about my relationship with Eve. Except, maybe he is right. As much as I want to deny it, I can’t help but worry about my growing feelings for Eve. I don’t know what they are or what they mean, but the way I threw myself in front of her at the wedding when shots rang out tells me one thing: these feelings might get me killed.
* * *
Iforget about all of my worries and doubts the moment we step into the restaurant and Eve realizes where we are. Her mouth falls open and she spins around to stare at me.
“Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug, biting back a smile. “Where are we?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, no, no. This is not Véronique Cauchon’s restaurant. It isn’t. It can’t be.”
I point to the sign behind the hostess stand that bears the famous chef’s name. “You might want to tell the restaurant that, then. Pretty embarrassing about their misleading sign.”
She elbows me in the side and then grabs my hand. Her fingers wrap around mine like they were made for that very thing, and I ignore the flutter in my chest. “How… how did you – how the hell did you get a reservation? This place is always booked for months in advance.”
“I pulled a few strings.” Truthfully, I paid an obscene amount of money.
At that very moment, the hostess appears—a blonde woman with drawn on eyebrows and unnaturally poofy hair. “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov. This way, please.”
The wedding descended into chaos before the minister could announce us as “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov,” so when the hostess says it, I’m momentarily taken aback. It sounds strange. But also normal. If Eve is surprised by it, as well, she doesn’t react. She keeps a firm grip on my hand and pulls me deeper into the restaurant. As the hostess passes open tables and booths and seats at the bar, Eve looks back at me, nose wrinkled in confusion. I just shrug like I’m not sure what is going on. But when the hostess leads us to the swinging doors that open into the kitchen, Eve stops cold.
“Where are we going?”
“You should really follow the hostess,” I whisper, urging her forward. “She’ll think you’re being rude.”
“But, Luka,” she argues, fighting against me as I push her through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.
Eve has been in plenty of restaurant kitchens before. She isn’t surprised by the bustling of the cooks, the steam and smoke billowing out of pots and pans, or the voices echoing across the room about sauces and plates and what needs to be chopped. But she stands frozen when she realizes who is standing in the middle of all of it: Véronique Cauchon.
Véronique is a petite woman with pitch black hair and a severe bob haircut that makes her already angular features seem even sharper. Still, she looks friendly when she smiles and walks towards us.
Eve stumbles back into me as if she wants to melt into me and disappear. I don’t let her. I push her forward.
Véronique wipes a hand on the dish towel hanging over her shoulder and then sticks her hand out for a shake. “You must be Eve.”
Eve’s mouth opens and closes, and the pinches the material of her simple cotton shift dress.
I step forward to shake the chef’s hand and seeing me do it seems to help Eve. She follows suit and grips Véronique’s hand in both of hers.
“It is so nice to meet you. You are…wow. You have been one of—no,the onlycooking hero to me for so long. I just…I love you.”
The chef is sweet and smiles at how flustered Eve is. “That is what your husband told me on the phone. He said you two just got married, so I thought it would be my wedding gift to you to cook something with you in my kitchen.”
Eve sags against me, and I have to grip her waist to keep her from falling to the ground. “Are you serious? You want to cook with me?”
“If you’d like?” Véronique says.
