The staff moves smoothly once I finish. Glasses are filled. Plates arrive. The room exhales.
I make my first round, stopping at each table, answering questions, explaining choices. Someone asks about decanting time, while another wants to know why this producer over another. I answer them all, my hands steady, my mind focused.
I am halfway through the room when there's a recognizable shift.
It is not dramatic, no one points or reacts. It is just the awareness that comes when something familiar enters a space and changes its shape.
I look up and see him.
He stands near the long table, jacket dark, posture easy but contained. He's not speaking, yet, but I can tell he's listening to the man beside him, head slightly inclined. His hands rest loosely at his sides.
Ridge.
My pulse kicks into high gear, then settles into something controlled. I don't stop walking or let my face change. I finish my sentence, nod to the guest in front of me, and move on.
He is not on my list. I studied every name, and I know every seat.
When I reach the long table, I stop at the head and introduce myself to the group, like I have not already been doing this all night.
“I’m Coco,” I say. “If you have any questions about the pairing, I’m happy to answer them.”
A few smiles. A nod. Someone thanks me for the evening.
My gaze lands on him last.
He meets it without surprise. Without apology or claim.
“Good evening, Ms. Boudreaux,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply, and my voice does not waver.
I talk them through the second course, pointing out what to notice as they taste. I keep my focus on the table as a whole, not on him. I step away once they start eating and move on to the next group.
I don't avoid him, but I definitely don't seek him out. I let the rhythm of the room dictate my movement.
By the time I circle back, plates are being cleared, and glasses are empty. The noise level has risen. I stop beside his seat.
“You weren’t on my list,” I say quietly, but with genuine interest.
“I stepped in someone else’s place at the last minute,” he answers. His tone is even. “I didn't realize this was your event. I wouldn't have come if I had known?—”
I move away before either of us says something that does not belong in this room.
The tasting continues. Plates are cleared. Glasses are reset. I introduce the final wine and watch the room soften into that particular quiet that comes when people realize they are being given something rare. I answer questions. I explain choices. I correct one assumption gently and let another stand.
When it ends, it ends cleanly.
Some guests leave right away, a few stragglers linger, as they always do. Compliments are offered, hands are shaken, and slowly but surely, coats are retrieved.
The room empties in stages, sound receding until there is only the low murmur of the staff breaking down tables and the faint clink of glassware being collected.
I finish a quiet exchange with the chef and step back into the dining room.
Ridge is waiting near the edge of it, no longer seated, his jacket already on. He doesn't block my path, but he stands like a man who knows how to occupy space without claiming it.
“Coco,” he says.
I stop a few feet away.
