The morning of the Police Benevolent Association dinner, Maxwell and I move through final prep like we're choreographing a ballet.
If ballet involved forty pounds of replacement Dover sole and my trying not to think about his hands on mine last night.
We haven't mentioned last night. Not the way he pressed against me. Not the way his voice dropped three octaves while "teaching" me to whisk.
Not the way he almost—
"Good work, Delacroix."
I nearly dropped my knife. Executive Chef Maxwell Ravencroft just complimented me.
In daylight. Where other humans could hear.
"I... thank you, Chef."
He nods, jaw tight, then moves away like I'm radioactive.
But I catch him watching me in the reflection of the pass, and my heart does this stupid triple-beat thing that can't be medically sound.
Don't think about hugging him. Don't think about launching yourself at him like a koala with attachment issues.
You're a professional. A professional who's about to prostitute herself, but still.
The event starts at six, and of course Kobe shows up early, sauntering into the kitchen in a tux that costs more than my annual salary.
"Don't you look delicious," he says, amber eyes tracking down my whites like they're lingerie. "The food looks good too."
"Mr. Spencer, you can't be back here during—"
"Kobe." He leans against my station, stealing a cherry tomato from my mise en place. "How many times do we have to have this conversation? You call me Kobe, I don't steal all your tomatoes. Everyone wins."
"Those are for garnish."
"They're for me now." He pops another in his mouth, grinning. "You look tense. Need a massage? I'm excellent with my hands. Ask anyone. Actually, don't ask anyone. But trust me."
"I should check on table seven's dessert course," I mumble, retreating before he can see how thoroughly he's undone me.
How is it normal to want three different men this badly? Am I broken? Is this what happens when you save your virginity too long—it compounds interest and now you want everyone?
The dining room fills with New York's finest, and I spot Armand immediately—silver fox hair gleaming, those calculating eyes scanning the room like he's shopping for souls.
I duck behind a pillar before he sees me, but my phone is buzzing in my pocket.
Armand: The Plaza. Suite 1847. Tomorrow, 8 PM. Wear something that shows off those magnificent legs I've been admiring all afternoon. I can barely concentrate knowing what's coming.
Bile rises in my throat when Scarlett intercepts me near the wine cellar, her dark curls practically vibrating with frustration.
"I'm going to commit murder," she hisses. "That woman at table twelve is a complete ice queen. I've tried three times to discuss the wine pairings, and she won't even acknowledge I exist."
"Which woman?" I scan the dining room.
"She came with Heinrich Vogler, the Austrian winemaker we've been trying to court for months. If I can't impress her, we lose our chance at his exclusive vintages."
I locate the woman in question—elegant brunette, early thirties, dripping in diamonds.
But when a guest drops a champagne flute two tables away, and the resulting crash makes every nearby guest flinch reflexively, the woman doesn't react at all.
Oh.
"Scarlett, I don't think she's being rude," I say slowly. "I think she's deaf."
"What? No, she can't be. She was responding to her husband earlier, and the host said she understood the menu perfectly when they arrived."
"Lip-reading. Look at how she watches faces instead of listening to voices." I touch Scarlett's arm. "Let me try something."
I approach the table, positioning myself directly in the woman's line of sight. When her dark eyes meet mine, I raise my hands and sign carefully.
"Good afternoon. My name is Raegan, I’m a sous chef at Lumière. Would you like to know about tonight's wine pairings?"
The woman's face transforms—surprise, then joy, then her hands flying in response.
"You sign?" Her movements are fluid, practiced. “Yes, please, tell me everything about the wines. My husband will be so impressed I'm actually participating! I was so certain no one here would understand. I didn't want to burden the staff with my limitations…"
"It's no burden at all. My sister is deaf, so I've been signing since I was a kid."
I gesture toward Scarlett, who watches our exchange with wide eyes.
"My colleague would love to discuss wine pairings with you. If you'll permit me, I can translate."
For the next fifteen minutes, I facilitate a conversation that transforms Scarlett's frustration into triumph. After they thank me profusely, I escape to check my phone again.
Maybe Armand canceled? Maybe he died? A girl can dream…
Then someone speaks directly behind my back. "That was beautiful."
I jump so hard my phone flies out of my hand. It clatters against the tile floor, screen facing up, Armand's message glowing accusingly in the dim light.
Kobe bends to retrieve it before I can move.
My heart stops. Time crystallizes into a single, horrifying moment as I watch his amber eyes drift toward the screen.
"Shit, sorry." He simply straightens, turns the phone face-down in his palm, and hands it back to me with a smile that holds none of his usual teasing. "Didn't mean to scare you."
Did he see? Oh God, did he see Armand's message about peeling me out of my clothes?
"You okay?" He steps closer, studying my face. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just startled. Long day."
"Right." He's quiet for a moment, then: "What you did back there… with the signing. That was incredible. You didn't just help with service—you gave that woman her dignity back."
His voice goes serious, which happens approximately never.
"Mrs. Vogler hasn't engaged with anyone at an event in years. Her husband told Jared she's been withdrawn since the accident that took her hearing."
"I just noticed she wasn't responding to sounds." My voice comes out strangled. "Anyone would have done the same."
"Anyone wouldn't have known sign language."
He steps even closer, close enough that I can smell sandalwood and something uniquely him.
"You're remarkable, Rae. The way you see people, the way you anticipate what they need before they ask. And Heinrich Vogler's wines are going to be on our menu because of you."
Kobe holds my gaze for a moment that stretches into eternity, then turns and walks away. Leaving me pressed against the wall trying to remember how breathing works.
"Holy shit."
Scarlett materializes like she was summoned by the scent of sexual tension.
"Did you see that? The way Kobe just looked at you? Like you're a five-course meal and he's been fasting for a month?"
"Letty, please don't start…"
"And Chef Maxwell!" She grabs my arm, spinning me toward the dining room. "He's been watching you all night like he's planning your murder or your marriage, can't tell which. And Jared nearly walked into a column because he was too busy staring at your ass when you bent over table twelve."
"It’s not like that."
"Is it?"
I follow her gaze against my better judgment.
She's right. Three sets of eyes from three different directions, all focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.
"Girl," Scarlett breathes. "What did you DO?"
Nothing yet.
But in twenty four hours, I'm going to do something that will make me unworthy of any of them.
"Did you finally make a move on them?" Scarlett demands. "Did you take my advice and show them what they're missing?"
"They're probably just making sure I don't fuck up again," I manage. "After yesterday's disasters."
"Right.” She rolls her eyes. “They're watching you like hungry wolves because they're concerned about your knife skills."
"You're delusional." My voice shakes. "They're not interested in me, Scarlett. Men like them don't want women like me."
But even as the words leave my mouth, I glance back at the dining room.
Three pairs of eyes find mine simultaneously, each gaze weighted with something that makes my knees threaten to buckle.
And for the first time, I'm not sure which one of us is truly delusional.