My hands move to the zipper at the back of my dress and pull it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room, and let the fabric slip off my shoulders. Theo turns at the sound and freezes.
I’m standing there in nothing but my bra and underwear, the dress pooled at my feet, my skin pebbling in the cool air. I’ve never felt more exposed in my life and I’ve never felt more powerful.
“Emma.” His voice is hoarse, strangled. His eyes travel down my body slowly, taking in every inch, and I watch his hands curl into fists at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from touching me.
“I want you to see me,” I tell him, my voice steadier than I expected. “All of me. I don’t want to hide anything from you tonight.”
I reach back and unclasp my bra, letting the straps slide down my shoulders, letting the cups fall away from my breasts. The lace drops to the floor and his breath catches audibly, a sharp intake that sounds almost pained. My nipples tighten immediately in the cool air, pink and hard and aching to be touched.
Then I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my underwear and slide them down my legs slowly, bending forward to push them past my knees, giving him a view of my breasts swayingwith the movement. I step out of the fabric and straighten, standing before him completely bare. Completely his.
The way he looks at me makes me feel like a goddess. Like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Like hunger and awe are tangled up behind his eyes. “You’re perfect,” he says, his voice raw with want. “Absolutely fucking perfect, Emma. Every inch of you. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m never letting you go.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper back, the words feeling like a vow. “I’m yours, Theo. Take care of me.”
And he does.
With his hands and his mouth and his whole body tangled up in mine until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. He takes care of me over and over again until the early hours of the morning, until we’re both used up entirely and I’m holding onto him as tight as I can in the darkness and letting everything else go, feeling more loved than I knew was possible.
CHAPTER 21
Theo
It’s Friday night at Harbor & Ash, and the restaurant is absolutely slammed. Every table is full, the bar is three deep with people waiting for seats, and the kitchen is running at maximum capacity.
The chaos of a successful service surrounds me, servers weaving between tables, the sounds of conversation and clinking glasses layering into a hum that means everything is working exactly as it should. But tonight isn’t just any busy Friday. Tonight there’s a food writer fromSeattle Metropolitansitting at table twelve, taking notes between bites, and the stakes feel higher than they have in years.
Her name is Margaret Ashford, and she’s been covering the Pacific Northwest food scene for two decades. She’s written features on restaurants that went on to get James Beard nominations, profiles on chefs who became household names. A positive review from her doesn’t just bring in customers. It puts you on the map in a way that changes everything.
Alex and I have talked about this for years. Late nights afterservice, sharing a bottle of wine and wondering if we’d ever get the chance. If someone like Margaret Ashford would ever find her way to our little restaurant in Dark River. And now she’s here. We’ve gotten positive reviews before, but her voice carries a different kind of weight.
I circulate through the dining room, checking on tables, making sure water glasses are full and everyone has what they need. Table eight needs more bread. Table three is ready for their check. A couple at table six is celebrating their twentieth anniversary, and I stop to congratulate them and comp their dessert.
But my eyes keep drifting back to table twelve, where Margaret Ashford is sitting.
Eventually I let myself walk over. Her notebook is open beside her plate, her silver hair swept into an elegant twist, reading glasses perched on her nose. She’s working her way through Alex’s mango-glazed halibut, a dish I’ve eaten probably a hundred times and still dream about.
The fish is wild-caught Pacific halibut, pan-seared until the outside is golden and caramelized, then finished with a glaze of fresh mango, lime, Thai chilies, and a whisper of fish sauce that makes the whole thing sing. It’s plated over jasmine coconut rice and served alongside charred baby bok choy with a sesame-ginger drizzle. The colors alone are stunning, with vibrant oranges and deep greens against the white plate.
The expression on her face as she chews is thoughtfully neutral. Impossible to read. I’ve never wanted to know what someone was thinking more in my entire life.
“How is everything this evening?” I ask, keeping my voice casual. Like my palms aren’t sweating.
She sets down her fork and dabs at her mouth with her napkin, taking her time. “The halibut is exceptional,” she says finally. She gestures at her plate with her fork. “Your brother has a real gift.”
The relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. I keep my expression pleasant, professional, but inside I want to run to the kitchen and tell Alex that we might actually pull this off.
“He does,” I agree, feeling a swell of pride. “I’ll let him know you said so.”
“And you handle the business side?” she asks, her pen poised over her notebook.
“We share the load, but yes. Alex focuses on the menu and the kitchen, and I handle operations, finances, and front of house.” I gesture around the dining room. “Making sure everything runs smoothly so he can focus on what he does best.”
“That’s a good partnership,” she says, nodding approvingly. “You can always tell when a restaurant has that kind of balance. The food is only part of the equation. The experience matters just as much, and this place has a warmth to it. You feel taken care of the moment you walk in.”
“That’s what we’ve always wanted,” I tell her. “A place where people feel at home. Where the food is memorable but the experience is what brings them back.”
She smiles at that and writes something in her notebook. I resist the urge to lean over and see what it says. Instead I excuse myself to handle a minor crisis at the bar, where we’ve somehow run out of the good gin and need to make substitutions for three cocktail orders.
