Don't Touch

Monroe is back, carrying a freshly smoked brisket. “Whoa, what's with the tornado style stirring?”

“I'm just ticked that Cheryl had the nerve to come here that way.”

“Arisa. . .” My name comes out of his mouth calm and smooth. “Don't worry about her. She's not ruining anything. If our food fails tonight, it's no one's fault but mine.”

“You mean ours.”

“No, I mean mine. I'm the owner, it's my restaurant, the only person this will hurt is me. A good review will elevate us both, a bad review only falls on me.”

“I'm not going to let you get a bad review,” I say as I turn the heat down on the sauce. “This man is going to leave here wanting more.”

“Kind of like how I leave you.” He grins and gives me a wink.

“You're so bad.”

“I know. I'm trying to lighten the mood a little.”

“Well, it's working.” I give him a flirty smile as I plate the fish and pour the sauce over the top.

“Beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks, I hope Dariel likes it.”

“Not the fish, I'm talking about you.”

My smile grows as I feel myself start to blush. “You need to stop, I'm trying to focus, and you're making it difficult. My head needs to be here, not somewhere else.”

“All right, I'll stop.” He chuckles as leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “But just so you know, I mean it. You really are so damn beautiful, and so is your cooking. Dariel is going to love it.”

“I hope so,” I say as I clean the edge of the plate and garnish the dish. “Fingers crossed.”

We finish the service, cooking for the food critic and the rest of the diners. Monroe keeps peeking into the dining room, hoping to catch some sign that the man is enjoying the food.

He's got a great poker face, though. I can't tell if he loves it or hates it. There's nothing there I can decipher.

“What do you think?” I ask Monroe. “Think he likes it?”

“We won't know until the article comes out.”

“That sucks.”

“It is what it is, but we can't stress about it.” He rubs my back up and down as we watch Dariel wipe his mouth and push the dessert plates away. “I think he's done though. I'm going to go thank him again for coming.”

He heads out into the dining room, and I'm left trying to read lips. Dariel shakes his hand, saying a few silent words, and then he's gone. Monroe turns around, spotting me spying and lifts his shoulders in a shrug.

“Well, could you read him at all?” I ask as he comes back in the kitchen.

“Nope. He thanked me, said I'd hear from him soon, and then he was gone. So, that's it, I guess. Now we just wait.”

The rest of the week is a mix of anxiety and bliss as the days blend together. He steals kisses when he can while we're cooking, and we've christened almost every area in the place after closing.

We fall into a rhythm at the restaurant. Cheryl is gone, and now it's just us. It couldn't be better. Monroe and I work so well together, complimenting each other perfectly. He's taken the time to teach me little tricks he's learned over the years. And I think I've been able to loosen him up a little. He's not tense or stuffy like he was when I first met him. There's a twinkle in his eyes that's new, and I really enjoy seeing that sparkle there.

By Friday, I'm frantically scanning the racks at the drug store, looking for the magazine. Monroe is already at the restaurant, but I know he's highly aware that the article comes out today. A part of me wonders if he's too nervous to read it himself. When I brought it up this morning when we talked on the phone, he brushed it off as if it means nothing.

He's nervous. He has to be.

Finally, I spot Flavor magazine. This month’s edition has a gorgeous bowl of pasta on the front, with fresh tomato sauce and Parmesan cheese. I flip to the contents page, running my eyes down the list until I see his name, Dariel Gershon, page seventeen.

I'm too nervous to read it here, so I buy a couple copies and bring them with me to the restaurant. As I stand outside, a part of me wants to read it with Monroe, and a part of me wants to read it here and now, just in case it's not good.

After a few seconds, I decide I can't read it on my own. I walk in and head straight for the kitchen. There are multiple things going at once on the stove. A giant pot is boiling, the steam is rolling up toward the air vent like smoke from a fire. A pan is sizzling with onions and peppers, and there's handmade rigatoni in a bowl on the counter.