“Appropriate.” It sounds like she spit out the word. “You know what would have been appropriate? Not coming at all. It’s her opening night, Vin.”
“And she’s family. Which means I belong here.”
“You know that is not what I—”
“Siena.” Matti’s voice is quiet. She pulls back, but her eyes don’t leave me. The expression on her face is a promise this conversation isn’t over. She’s right. It isn’t.
The kitchen door swings open, and as far as I’m concerned the whole fucking restaurant comes to a standstill.
Sophie heads away from my table, weaving through dining room like each person eating is a guest in her home. That dress she has on, the cleavage she’s showing, holy shit, and the way the fabric hangs on her beautiful ass. I cannot stop staring, mesmerized as she stops and laughs at something someone says.
She keeps her gaze forward, stopping to chat with a guy sitting alone with a bottle of wine. It takes me a second to realize who it is: fucking Gavin. God damn it. That fucker is back? I feel a flash of pride remembering that her new year’s kiss was with me and not him, that I pulled her away from him and made her come screaming my name, but it immediately fades when I wonder ifhe’s erased those kisses from her, if he was the last man to put his hands on her body.
I watch her work the room. She stops at an older couple near the door and crouches down to their level. Whatever she says makes the woman press a hand to her chest and squeeze Sophie’s arm. She brings a small plate from the kitchen to another table, asks them to try it, and glows when they light up after taking a bite. She touches the back of a chair here, straightens a tablecloth there.
Our waiter pulls her to the side and whispers in her ear. His gaze darts in my direction, but hers never does. After she responds, he nods and heads back to me.
“Sir, the chef says the dish you requested isn’t on the menu and we aren’t able to—”
Fuck it. I stand abruptly, ignoring everyone behind me and whoever puts a hand on my arm trying to pull me back into my seat.
She’s talking to a food critic with a press pass on his chest when I reach her, and she wraps up the conversation with a hand briefly on his and a promise to bring something from the kitchen. She can feel me behind her the whole time. I know she can.
When she turns to face me, her smile is perfectly professional. It doesn’t reach her eyes. The emptiness, the lack of care, the complete 180 from how she used to look at me—it’s the worst pain I’ve felt in my life.
“Chef.” I keep my voice even.
“Vincenzo.” Just as even. “Welcome to the Arsenal. Are youenjoying the evening?”
“Don’t.”
Her smile holds. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t pretend to be fine, like we’re nothing more than acquaintances.”
“I’m not pretending.”
I scoff. “You’re saying you’re not angry? Bullshit.”
She tips her head slightly. “Should I be?”
“New Year’s Eve—”
“New Year’s Eve was nothing.” The smile stays in place because people are watching and she knows it. She’s better at this than I am. “What hurt was how you ended things over a year ago. With no real explanation. Without saying goodbye.” She pauses. “At least not a respectful goodbye.”
“I’m trying to explain now.”
“Are you?” She glances toward the door, watching the hostess seat new guests next to Valentina’s table—even Valentina’s here? “Vin. It’s genuinely lovely that you came tonight, but now really isn’t the time.”
“You don’t have feelings about it? About me?”
“Of course I do.” She says it simply.
“Then tell me.”
“I don’t care to discuss it with you.”
I grip her arm, stopping her. “Don’t walk away from me. Answer the question.”
