“You’re not washing any more dishes, Claire.”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
Draven and I are arguing in the parking lot of Tartine the next morning, but it’s not really an argument, is it? Not when we’re smiling at each other and I’m still glowing from our “honeymoon.” I’m also playing with the buttons on the front of his shirt and admiring the gold wedding band on my ring finger. How it catches the sunlight.
Holy cow. I’m a married woman.
I’ve married the man of my dreams.
“I’m putting you on garnishes,” he says, his tone brooking no disrespect.
I give it to him anyway. “Garnishes?Like sprinkling parsley on the plate?”
I giggle as he stoops down and throws me over his shoulder, giving my backside a resounding slap. “It’s an underrated artform.”
“It’s favoritism.”
“So be it, little girl. I own the restaurant.” He strides toward the rear entrance of Tartine. “When we own our own place in Maine, you can choose your role. Event coordinator. Décor. Or better yet, special assistant to the executive chef.”
“Hmm.” I grin at his flexing butt as he walks. “What wouldthatposition entail?”
“That position would entail…well, positions.”
My laughter carries across the parking lot. “You’re not taking me seriously.”
Stopping in his tracks, Draven carefully pulls me down from his shoulder and I assume my favorite position. Legs twined extra tight around my husband’s waist. He takes a moment to savor the hold, not to mention the way my breasts push up against his chest, ever so high and plump in the neckline of my tank top. He groans, but visibly composes himself soon after, kissing my nose. “You are the only person I take seriously in my life.” He touches our foreheads together. “I just want to keep you close to me until we can leave this place. Okay? Can you bear with me until I speak to Pierre about a buy out?”
“Just call me the garnish queen,” I whisper, stroking his face. “For now.”
“For now,” he agrees. “Very soon, I’m going to take you far away from here.”
“Well, well, well,” Pierre says, coming around the corner of the restaurant, flipping a set of keys in his hand. “If it isn’t the love birds back from their irresponsible day off.”
“Pierre, I’m not in the mood,” Draven says, his jaw popping. “In fact, I’m never in the mood for you.”
“Isn’t that too bad?” Pierre sniffs in my direction, eyeing the thighs wrapping around his brother’s waist and inserts his keys into the back door. “Let’s just get to work on that special sauce, shall we? We have a full dining room of reservations thisafternoon. The cops are coming to do crowd control.” With a narrowed gaze, he observes us both on his way into Tartine. “You really must share the exact recipe, brother. In case we have another day like yesterday.”
“I’m not sharing shit,” Draven says, carrying me through the backdoor.
“Now, now,” Pierre admonishes. “That’s not a team player attitude.”
Draven and I share an eye roll.
“I love you,” I mouth at my husband. “Just think about Maine.”
“Maine,” he whispers back, groaning with reluctance as he sets me down in the locker room and crosses to his locker, removing his chef’s coat. Tying on his cap. All the while, he watches me put on my apron and secure my hair up in a ponytail. “I love you,” he says, coming over to kiss my shoulder when we’re both ready to work. “I’ll signal you when it’s time to meet in the pantry.”
My cheeks warm significantly. “I’ll look forward to it.”
With a quick squeeze of my backside, Draven heads toward the kitchen and I follow, taking my position at the garnishing station. Normally, this would be something Draven does before sending dishes out to the dining room—and I know, because I moon over the man while he’s working. Garnishing is my job now, however, and none of the kitchen staff question the switch. They simply nod at me and await Draven’s instructions for the day.
“Before we get going,” Draven says, addressing the crew, “I would like to re-introduce Claire as my wife. We were married yesterday afternoon.”
A chorus of gasps go up, followed by a small round of applause.
“If you’re all wondering why I’m suddenly a bearable human being, look no further.” Draven regards me with so much love in his expression, my sight blurs. “It’s all her.” He swallows hard and drags his attention off me, clapping once. “Now. Onto the day’s menu…”
Feeling safe and adored, I pick up a knife and prep little springs of rosemary. I pluck petals off edible purple flowers and store them in a plastic containers, ready for service. Around the time I finish prepping, Draven nods at me on his way into the pantry and I follow, my heartrate kicking into a gallop.