I helped Mila out of the car, and the moment her hand touched mine, that jolt hit again. Electric. Undeniable.
She felt it, too. I could see it in the way her breath caught, the way her eyes widened slightly before she smiled.
"This is it?" she asked, looking up at the building.
"This is it."
We walked to the door, and before I could knock, it opened.
A man stood there—older, distinguished, wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. But his smile was warm, genuine. Not the cold professionalism you'd expect from a place like this.
"Monsieur Ward," he said in accented English. "Welcome to Le Jardin Caché. We've been expecting you."
Inside, the restaurant was a revelation.
The entrance opened into a small foyer with marble floors and walls draped in deep green fabric that absorbed sound. Beyond that, the main dining room stretched out like a secret garden brought indoors—candlelight flickering in glass votives, ivy climbing the walls, flowers I couldn't name arranged in clusters that looked wild but weren't.
The ceiling was high, painted in soft blues and golds, giving the impression of twilight caught and held.
But what struck me most were the booths.
Private. Masked by sheer curtains that let light through but obscured the diners inside. You could hear the low hum ofconversation, the clink of glasses, but you couldn't see anyone clearly.
Intimate. Luxurious. A place designed for people who wanted to disappear together.
I was a little bit in shock.
The maître d'—the same man who'd greeted us—led us through the room to a booth near the back. He pulled the curtain aside, revealing a table set with white linen, crystal glasses, and a single candle burning low.
We slid into the booth, and the curtain fell back into place, cocooning us.
Mila looked around, her eyes wide, taking it all in. Then she turned to me, her expression half-amused, half-serious.
"Connor," she said quietly. "Can you afford this?"
I let out a cough of a laugh. "Truthfully? A new friend is paying. Because I'm pretty sure when the menus come, there won't be any prices on them."
Her mouth twitched. Then she laughed—real, unguarded laughter.
"We're like kids who snuck into a party," she said.
"Exactly."
The waiter appeared then, materializing from behind the curtain like he'd been waiting for the perfect moment. He was younger than the maître d', but carried himself with the same blend of elegance and ease. Regal and common at the same time. The opposite of stuck-up.
"Good evening," he said, his English flawless. "I am Philippe. I'll be taking care of you tonight."
I expected menus.
He didn't offer any.
Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and began listing dishes like he was reciting poetry.
"Tonight, the chef has prepared a selection for you. We'll begin withamuse-bouche—a quail egg with truffle foam and sea salt. Followed byfoie grasserved with fig compote and toasted brioche. For the main course,dover solein brown butter with capers and herbs, paired with roasted root vegetables. And finally, a tarte tatin with vanilla bean ice cream."
I understood maybe half of that.
Mila looked equally lost, but she smiled politely.
