“Occupational hazard.”
I tilt my head. “When are you coming?”
She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t tell restaurants when I’m visiting.”
“Not even when they’re expecting you?”
“Especially then.”
“It should be a surprise,” she adds, primly.
I watch her for half a second longer than strictly necessary. The prim act doesn’t quite cover the fire in her eyes, green and sharp and very much enjoying the argument. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, auburn and glossy, the kind that looks soft enough to sink fingers into, and I have to actively tell my brain to behave. This is not the time to notice her curves, generous and unapologetic, or the way she fills the space like she belongs there.
Focus, Tom.
“You’re not coming to review me,” I say. “You’re coming to do a feature.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I know the difference.”
“Then you’ll need more than a surprise visit and a plate of pasta,” I reply. “You’ll need the story. Why the place exists. How we work. Where the food comes from.”
Her mouth tightens. “I don’t usually do kitchen tours.”
“You will this time,” I say. “You need to see that everything is made from scratch. The sauces, the pasta, the lot. No shortcuts.”
She considers that, head tilted, eyes bright. I get the distinct impression she’s used to being the one with all the power in these exchanges.
“Fine,” she says eventually. “I’ll put it in the diary.”
“When?”
She taps her tablet, far too casually. “Six months.”
Six months.
My blood starts to boil again, anger flaring, hot and immediate. “By then my restaurant will be dead in the water.”
She looks up. “That’s dramatic.”
“It’s reality,” I say. “People in this city are obsessed with your column. One bad line hangs over a place like a curse until you lift it. This is my livelihood.”
I don’t mean to sound quite that raw, but there it is. She studies me properly now, not as a problem or a nuisance, but as a man who’s put everything he has into four walls and a menu.
Something softens. Just a fraction.
She exhales. “You really believe that.”
“I know it.”
Beckett shifts behind the desk, clearly fascinated. “This is better than telly,” he mutters.
Chloe sighs and scrolls again, quicker this time. “Next week, Thursday.”
“Thursday,” I repeat, barely daring to trust it.
“Yes,” she says. “I’ll come Thursday. Early. I’ll eat properly. I’ll look at everything.”
“And the kitchen?”
