I tug my coat tighter and step inside.
The familiar scent of roasted garlic and lemon thyme hits me like a hug. The low thrum of jazz in the background. Toni’s laugh from the kitchen. This place is part of me now. I should feel safe here.
But as I step farther in, my gaze lands on a woman seated at Table Seven, and my whole body goes cold.
Long legs. Creamy cashmere. A blowout so perfect it belongs in a hair commercial. She’s radiant in that casually expensive way that says she’s never once Googled “how to get wine out of thrifted flannel.” She’s laughing.
And across from her, like some nightmare I didn’t see coming, is Knox.
He’s not laughing. Not smiling. He’s tense, arms folded, jaw tight, but he’s there. With her.
Who is that?
She turns that glossy magazine smile on me and waves like we’ve met before.
“You must be Josie,” she says, standing with the grace of a runway model. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I blink. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“I’m Savannah,” she continues, breezing forward with one manicured hand outstretched. “An old friend.”
Old friend.
What the hell does that mean?
My palm itches, but I don’t reach for hers. Instead, I find my voice, thin, tight, barely there.
“Hi.”
That’s it.Hi.
Knox rises slowly behind her, his eyes on me like I’m a ghost he wasn’t expecting to see. He looks shaken. Guilty. Like he knows exactly how this feels, even if he doesn’t understand why yet.
Savannah’s smile tightens a little, just enough to notice only if you’re looking closely.
And I am. Someone help me, I am.
“Knox didn’t tell me you’d be here tonight,” she says with the faintest edge of something territorial in her tone. “What a fun surprise.”
I don’t know if it’s nausea or rage curling low in my stomach. Maybe both. My planned speech evaporates like steam.I need to talk to youturns to dust on my tongue.
“Just getting started,” I say, my voice clipped. “Welcome to The Marrow.”
I pivot toward the kitchen like my life depends on it, because if I don’t get away from them, from her, right now, I might forget how to breathe.
Behind me, Savannah laughs again, soft and melodic.
And when I glance over my shoulder, all I see is her blocking Knox’s path to me.
I get through the rest of the shift on autopilot.
Chop. Sear. Plate. Smile. Repeat.
It’s muscle memory now, my hands moving before my brain can catch up. Which is good, because if I actually think about what’s happening at Table Seven, I might spiral so hard I take a sous vide bag with me.
I keep catching glimpses of them through the pass, no matter how hard I try not to. Savannah's laugh rises above the ambient clink of glassware and polite conversation, too bright and too loud for a place like this. She touches Knox’s arm when she talks, her perfectly manicured fingers trailing along the ink on his forearm like it’s hers. Like she’s staking a claim.
He jerks away every time.
