Chapter 3

Remy’s POV

I wiped down the marble counter for the third time, even though it didn’t need cleaning. The evening rush had just passed, and the dining floor buzzed in the low hum of satisfied diners and clinking cutlery. Soft jazz drifted in from the ceiling speakers. The scent of fresh thyme and butter still hung in the air from the lamb we served earlier.

I checked the time. 9:12 PM.

The table in the far corner waved. I nodded to Marco who was already halfway to them. Efficient as always. I had hired him fresh out of school, and he had grown into the role better than most. My kitchen manager, Eloise, popped her head out from behind the swinging door.

“Chef wants to know if he can start prep for the basil crème. We’re almost out.”

“Tell him yes. We’re doing the fennel reduction again for the veal tomorrow. He’ll need clean jars.”

She nodded and disappeared.

I moved toward the host stand. We had three empty tables. A couple on a date, an older group finishing dessert, and a solo man staring into his espresso like it held secrets.

But all I could think about was him.

The man from St. Gabriel.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since Sunday. He sat two rows in front, left-hand side. Black coat. Stillness in his posture. He didn’t sing, didn’t bow his head. Just stared straight ahead like he was listening to something the rest of us couldn’t hear. His presence pulled me in like gravity.

I nearly choked when I saw him step into the aisle. I had looked away quickly, stared at the floor, and focused on the hymnal. But my palms were sweating. Thirty two years old and reacting like some blushing virgin because a stranger had nice shoulders.

Pathetic.

I didn't speak to him. I should have. But I didn’t. And now here I was, scrubbing counters and obsessing over someone I didn’t even know.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I’d seen attractive people before. This was different. This wasn’t just attraction. It was pressure in my chest I didn’t know what to do with. It was the way my eyes kept searching for someone who was never there.

The day moved, but I felt stuck.

When the doors reopened for dinner, I stayed on the floor longer than usual. Greeted tables. Asked for feedback. I was doing it for the restaurant. 

Once a man entered around eight, tall and broad-shouldered. My pulse jumped. But as he turned, I saw his face. Not him.

I went back into the kitchen and checked the roast. Then I checked the bookings list again. No unusual names. No new reservations that stood out.

“Chef,” Eloise called from the door. “Table three wants to speak with you. They said your cacio e p**e changed their life.”

“I’ll go in a minute.”

She left. I leaned against the counter and looked at the hanging ticket line.

I’d been alone for a long time but I had my routines. I had Noir. I had my staff. I had my name in local food blogs and enough regulars to stay full through the seasons. That was enough.

I wasn't some lonely romantic pinning for connection.

Until now.

Now I was thinking about a stranger who never said a word to me. I remembered the way he stood during the final hymn. He didn’t move. He just watched. He looked like someone who didn’t believe in anything but came anyway.

I wanted to know why.

And I hated not knowing.

My memory flickered to the last time a man looked at me like that. He swore he'd stay but he lasted just six months before I caught him balls deep in a random dude. Lessons learned.

“Remy?”

I turned. Marco was beside me.

“Reservation for two at ten just confirmed. Want me to hold Table five?”

“Yeah. The corner booth. Candles lit.”

He walked off. I pulled my phone from my pocket and stared at the screen. No messages. I tapped into my recent calls. His name wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. He doesn't fucking know me.

“Chef sent you a plate,” Eloise called from behind the bar. She placed it in front of me—a fresh sampling of the goat cheese tart we were testing for the winter menu. “He said to give feedback.”

I took a bite. The crust was perfect, but it needed a touch more acidity. I nodded.

“Good. But tell him to cut back on the honey glaze.”

Eloise nodded and ducked back.

I walked over to table three. An older couple smiled up at me.

“Chef Remy, we adore the cacio e p**e. It's always perfect,” the woman said.

“Thank you for coming again. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

We talked briefly about the new seasonal menu. They asked when I’d be adding more vegan options. I promised them I'd look into it. I smiled. I nodded. But my mind was elsewhere.

I returned to the bar, poured myself a glass of water, and leaned on the counter.

“Everything alright?” Marco asked.

“Just a long day. Why?”

“You’ve been… quiet. Focused. But not your usual focus.”

I looked at him. “I’m fine.”

He gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me, but he knew better than to press.

I wasn’t fine. I couldn’t focus. It had been years since someone threw me off like this.

At 9:48, the couple at Table 6 asked for the dessert menu. I walked over personally. They smiled. I explained each item in detail, pausing to answer their questions. I could see the excitement in their faces when I described the chocolate trio. That never got old.

I returned to the kitchen just to breathe.

The chef was plating for a last-minute walk-in. His hands moved fast. Focused. Eloise looked up when I entered.

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I’ve slept.”

“Then maybe you need a drink.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Remy.” Naima, our pastry chef, popped out of the back with a tray of mini crème brûlées. “Can I place these on the house for Table two? It’s their anniversary.”

“Yes. Add a note. Handwritten. Make it personal.”

“Already did.”

She smiled, and for a second, I remembered what grounded me. This place. These people.

My staff left soon after. I stayed. I needed the quiet.

I walked through the dining floor slowly, resetting chairs, adjusting lights. I couldn’t explain why I felt unsettled, but it was there. Like something had started, and I didn’t understand it yet.

I went back to the kitchen and cleaned the edge of the marble counter again.

My phone buzzed at 10:03

Unknown number.

I answered without thinking.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

A breath. Then a click.

I stared at the phone for a moment before locking the screen. It must have been a wrong number. Or a warning. The last time I heard silence like that, my car windows exploded two hours later.

The door chimed at 10:07

Footsteps.

Definitely not my staff.

The night porter didn’t usually let people in without checking. I walked out of the kitchen, frowning, prepared to tell whoever it was that we were closed—

And then I saw him.

He stood by the host’s podium, tall, dark coat draped over his arm, eyes scanning the room like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be there after all.

It was him. The man from church.

I felt my chest tighten.

He looked around, then his eyes landed on me. Locked. Held.

Neither of us moved.

Then he spoke. His voice was velvety and sweet.

“I have a reservation booked under Kerr.”

I blinked. He had planned to be here.

Eloise hadn’t known it was him. Neither had I.

“It says there is a reservation for two.” I secretly hoped he'd be the only one though.

“Yeah, the other person should be here any time from now.” He looked at me like he was checking me out. His gaze lingering on the ink peeking from my rolled sleeves.

I stepped forward, not sure if I was breathing properly.

“Right this way,” I said.

I didn’t trust my voice with anything else.

He followed me in silence as I led him to table five. A private booth near the back. I motioned for him to sit. He did.

I tried not to stare. But he was clearer now. Realer. His presence was heavier than I remembered.

I controlled my shaky hands as I handed him the menu. He didn’t look at it.

“You were at St. Gabriel’s yesterday.”

My mouth was dry.

“You noticed,” I bit my lip, silently congratulating myself that I was been seen by him.

“Noticed?” His voice was a little louder than before. “You basically tapped me in the church.” 

I looked at him closely now. He had a troubled look on his face, shadows under his eyes like he hadn't slept. I still couldn’

t look away. My hands tightened behind my back.

“I didn’t know your name,” I said. 

“Callum,” he said. “Callum Kensington.”

 That name hit me hard.

“You?” I stared at him wide eyed.