“You are distressingly happy.”
I whirled at the sound of Maribel’s voice, and arched a brow to match the one she wore. “Good morning, Bel.”
She shut the door behind her and shook her head. “Don’t give me that. What are you so freaking happy about? Are things going well with your old new husband?”
I kind of loved that phrase. Old new. It was true: Malik and I had a level of comfort that I’d never found in any relationship since him, but given the years we’d spent apart, it was like relearning him all over again. Yeah, old new worked for me.
“Things are definitely going better. Not quite so rigid.”
She smiled and sank into the chair. “Glad to hear it. So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
From the first time I’d been at Malik’s house, I had a hankering to create a variation of his ridiculously delicious desserts. Something to highlight what made them so good, but to put my own spin on it. Because that’s what I did.
I took my seat and tapped on the desk with a pen. “Dessert,” I told her.
“You were talking about that earlier and we were interrupted, weren’t we? What’s on your mind?”
For the next few hours, she and I went through various ingredients, discussing what textures would work best with what meals. Something light and crisp as an accompaniment to the fish meals. Something darker, more decadent, to go with the steaks. Something semisweet, with the tiniest bitterness, to offset the sweetness of a port wine. Our pastry chef was either going to have a field day or cuss me out, but he didn’t come in until four.
The door opened suddenly, scaring the absolute shit out of us.
Christopher stood in the doorframe, a folder in his hand, and I couldn’t tell if he was furious or exuberant. Either way, his cheeks were flushed, almost ruddy, and he was waving a folder in his hand.
“DeShawn,” he said, not bothering to close the door. Maribel rolled her eyes, stood to shut the door, and he took her seat.
“No, sir,” I said. “You can take the other one.”
He cocked his head to the side. “But she got up.”
“Not to leave. She got up because you didn’t have the courtesy to close the door. Just like you didn’t have the courtesy to knock before entering. Move to the side.”
Christopher looked ready to argue with me over what I’m sure he considered to be a ridiculous conversation, given there was another chair in the room. But whatever was in those folders must have changed his mind, because he grumbled, then stood and shuffled over.
Maribel took the one she’d briefly vacated and gave me a surreptitious wink. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” I told her, then looked at Christopher. “What is it?”
“Criteria’s always booked. Booked a few months in advance.”
I nodded. This wasn’t news.
“I talked to the maître d, and you’re booked so far out that the system can’t handle it. They’re actually having to tell people to call back in a month or so to make reservations.”
I frowned and leaned forward, pulling the folder from Christopher and flipping through it. Sure enough, we were booked out for the next four months, top to bottom, and from the notes, it looked like many of these people were first-time patrons.
“What the hell is causing this?” I asked.
“You,” Christopher said, as though that was obvious. “You and your new boyfriend, husband, whatever you really are.”
“Oh, that’s definitely his husband.”
I cut my eyes to Maribel and half stuck my tongue out at her, but she didn’t back down.
“Oh,” Christopher said, and sank into his seat. “That’s interesting.”
“What? You thought we were joking?”
“Well, yes.” He sat up and waved a hand. “DeShawn, you have to understand. You have a reputation. You’re a bit of a player.” My shoulders stiffened and Maribel put her hand out and moved it up and down a couple of times, telling me to pump my brakes. Which I had to do, because Christopher was right. “But that’s what makes this so great. People are enthralled by the man who’s made you settle down. Everyone wants a piece of him, or what have you. It’s outstanding.”
“Okay, so this is great and all, but what are you telling me this for? This news is the kind that you could easily utilize without my participation.”
He clicked his fingers at me and pointed. “Under most circumstances, yes. But this is unique. People want access to you, and not just to you. To him.”
My stomach tightened at the words, and I was transported back to the conversation Malik and James had had when I’d first shown up. About Malik protecting me from them, not using me as a gimmick to increase their stature. That now made a hell of a lot more sense than I’d given credence to before.
Christopher didn’t seem to notice a stitch of the turmoil on my face, but if the slightly flared nostrils and tilted head were any indication, Maribel did.
“So,” Christopher said, oblivious to my worrying thoughts, “what I’d like to propose is that Malik be here as a special guest a couple of nights a week. On top of the gala this weekend, of course, which...” He paused and his gaze sharpened for a brief moment. “I notice you haven’t RSVP’d for. I assume he’s going to be your plus one, right?”
Mother of hell. I’d completely forgotten about the gala. Hadn’t brought it up, hadn’t even remotely considered it. I nodded at Christopher, though. “I’ll be there. I need to check with Malik and make sure he’s available as well.”
Christopher opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to remember at the last minute that most restaurants, including ours, were open Saturday night. This was the rare occasion where we were closed for the event. He nodded. “Well, it’s not like you can bring another plus one, right?”
Sometimes I truly wanted to hit that man. “Right.”
He hummed, like he was thoroughly pleased with himself. “So convince Malik to come down here a couple nights a week, parade him in front of the guests for a bit, and they’ll love it.”
I held a hand up. “Wait.”
Christopher paused, halfway out his seat, and sat back down.
“One, I’m not giving you any guarantees. Malik’s coming here has to be fully of his own volition, and I will not press him. Two, for every night he agrees to come down here, I agree to go up there. His presence boosts our restaurant, and my presence boosts theirs.”
Christopher looked like he’d sucked on an entire bag full of freshly zested lemons, but he nodded. “So long as it doesn’t interfere with your duties.”
“No more than his presence here interferes with his, right?”
Christopher gave me a withering stare that might’ve made me back down five years ago. I held his gaze, and he rolled his eyes before leaving.
“Jesus fuck,” I whispered after Maribel again got up to shut the door.
“He’s a real the piece of work, isn’t he?” she said.
“For sure.” He hadn’t always been that way, and he’d been the first to admit my presence had been a game changer for his company. Somewhere along the way, though, he’d forgotten that people were...people, and not just tools to make him more money. It was increasingly obvious, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it.
I opened my top desk drawer and pulled out my phone. “Let me text Malik and see if he’s willing to come to this dinner right now before I forget.”
Me: hey, are you available this Saturday?
Malik: I can be. What’s up?
Me: I’m expected to attend a gala at the International Spy Museum. Will you come? Be my plus one?
Malik: is this going to be one of those things where I show up on your arm and you’re stuck running laps around the room while I stand in the corner by myself?
Fuck, that sounded miserable. And was also likely the truth of what would happen.
I looked up at Maribel, who seemed to be on the very edge of her seat waiting for a response. “You’re going Saturday, right?”
“Yeah. Me and Jesus will be there. Might even get me a new dress for the occasion.”
“You mind keeping Malik company in case I’m forced to, you know, entertain?”
“Or cook, since there’s supposed to be a little competition going on, too, right?”
Dear god, I’d totally forgotten about that, but I nodded. “Right. That too.” They were doing a version of that “basket of ingredients, make something amazing in twenty minutes” competition, live during the banquet. It actually sounded like a ton of fun, one of the few parts I was really looking forward to.
“One hundred percent here for it. I’ll take care of him.”
The look on her face guaranteed me they’d be trading most-embarrassing-DeShawn moments the minute my back was turned. Why that made me happy, I didn’t know, but my grin was broad as I typed out a text to Malik.
Me: there may be a bit of a cooking competition going on, but my head chef Maribel and her husband will be there. She told me she will take very good care of you.
Malik’s response was an eyebrow raise emoji, which made total sense to me. Then—
Malik: that sounds like it might be fun. Count me in.
Me: great. There’s something else I need to talk to you about, but it can wait till we get home.
Malik: that sounds ominous.
Me: it’s not, more logistical than anything. And not pressing.
Malik: in that case, let me get some work done so I can be ready. I’ll see you at home.
That word, home? Boy, it did something to my insides, and my fingers weren’t nearly as steady as they had been when I responded.
Me: yeah, of course. See you at home.
“If you tug at that bow tie one more time, I’m going to glue your arm down by your side. I am not retying it for you.”
I glared at DeShawn but let my hand fall. “I’m not comfortable with bow ties.”
“Bow ties have nothing to do with comfort,” he said, smoothing the lapels of his clearly custom-made tuxedo, adjusting the arms so the French cuffs and cufflinks showed through, then straightening his jacket. “But you look outstanding, and I can’t wait to show you off.”
None of those words felt fake. They felt almost too real, and what the hell had I done to deserve them? I leaned forward and took his lips in a soft kiss, then straightened.
DeShawn looked magnificent tonight. He’d had an early morning appointment to get his locs tightened, and he’d let them hang loose, falling thick and perfectly groomed around his shoulders and down his back. His tuxedo was black, but in the light, there seemed to be hint of...something. Not so much a shimmer, nothing like that, but maybe a texture? A pattern? I couldn’t tell, but the effect was stunning. And stirring, if you listened to my dick, which I was trying desperately not to do.
He’d dragged me to his manicurist and forced us both to get a mani-pedi combo, ignoring my protest that no one was looking at my feet. But my nails did look clean as fuck; I had to give him that. He even sat with me at the barber’s, laughing and regaling the guys while I listened to conversation swirl around me. By the time we got back to the house to change, I was exhausted. I didn’t know how people who wore makeup did this, because I was ready for bed, and the night hadn’t even begun. We’d taken naps—in separate bedrooms, which I was nonsensically upset about—and now were headed out the door, Corey and Bruno keeping a safe distance. It was almost like Corey had taught Bruno to stay back when their humans were dressed to the nines like this. Must have some experience with these types of events.
“You ready to go?”
I nodded. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
“Good. The town car should be pulling up.”
I spun to face him. “Town car? What the hell do we need that for? I can drive, you know.”
“Because there’s a lot of alcohol at these events. And even though I won’t be drinking until after the competition, I don’t want you to have to limit yourself. So the town car will be here to take us down, and to pick us up when we’re ready to go.”
It made sense. It did, yet it still made me feel like a tiny celebrity. Which was exactly what DeShawn was, sans the tiny part. It was a reminder of how real this was. Sure, we were putting on a show for the cameras, but people were genuinely going to be scrutinizing us, how we behaved around one another, how we spoke and touched and kissed.
“Here.”
I looked down to find a small tumbler with a shot of what smelled like bourbon in it. “What’s this for?”
“Your nerves are sky high. Take it.”
No sense in arguing. I took it to the head, and as soon as I finished, DeShawn’s phone beeped. “Car’s here. Let’s go.”
The ride to the venue was just under an hour, but I couldn’t keep my mouth from falling open as the driver walked around to open the door. On my side. DeShawn cursed under his breath. “Shit, I should have thought about that. We should have switched sides.” He winced and gave me a sheepish grin. “Ready to be blinded by the cameras?”
I looked back at him and winked, pulling together all my bravado. “I’m a nobody. Cameras won’t flash until they see you. Let’s go.” I nodded to the driver and stepped out the door.
The first flash of light was overwhelming, but as I expected, it died as quickly as it’d started. I turned and held my hand back in, and I couldn’t tell if DeShawn was rolling his eyes or glaring at me. Either way, it made me laugh. He clasped my hand and I held on for dear life as he climbed out of the car, stopping to smooth his jacket down once again.
And if I had thought the yells and flashing were a lot before, they were nothing compared to the reception DeShawn got once they realized it was him.
“Chef DeShawn! Chef DeShawn!”
He leaned into me. “Smile pretty. This could take a while.”
A while? We were on a literal red carpet, cordoned off on each side. DeShawn drew me to one side and smiled. I know I looked like a deer in headlights, but DeShawn laid his hand on my back and squeezed.
Focus on him. Don’t worry about anything else, just focus on him.
That’s what I did. I have no idea how long it took us to get through the line of waiting photographers—the fans would manage to scamper through and seek selfies with him, with me, with us—but eventually we made it to the front and into the museum.
“Stand here for a moment,” DeShawn said. “Give your eyes a chance to adjust.”
I did as he said, blinking until the white flash of bulbs stopped popping up every time I closed my eyes, then followed him down the hallway into the large gathering.
“There’s Maribel,” he said, pointing to a woman in an absolutely stunning gold-sequined, spaghetti-strap dress with a scoop neckline and slits up the sides of both legs.
“Goddamn, mamacita, look at you.” DeShawn held her at arm’s length and then made the twirling motion with his finger.
She laughed and obliged, then shook her hips a little. “I am ready to dance,” she said, then popped the man standing next to her. “But this big lug won’t dance with me.”
“Querida, I would do nearly anything for you, including letting you wear this ridiculous dress in public. But if I dance with you in front of this crowd, it will be a show they won’t soon forget, and that is not my particular kink.” He held his hands out to both of us, and we shook.
“You guys, this is my husband, Jesus. Jesus, this is DeShawn, who I work with, of course, and you must be Malik,” she said, finishing her sentence with me.
“I am, and it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.” I shook her hand, but she leaned forward to give me a quick peck on the cheek before stepping back.
“Please tell me we’re at the same table,” DeShawn said.
“Yes, and thank god for it. These people are so pretentious.”
I didn’t even have to look around to know she was right. People swanned in as if this place, this museum, was their birthright. This was a place for people to see and be seen. Hell, I didn’t even know what the gala was allegedly for, and I’d bet dollars to donuts most of the people here didn’t either.
“Let’s find our table,” Maribel said suddenly. “I am not accustomed to wearing heels anymore.”
And I wasn’t accustomed to wearing a tux, so I was down to find a seat immediately and blend into the background.
We found our table and had just settled in when the announcer came on to start the first competition. And, of course, DeShawn was called up for it. He stopped with his hands on the back of my chair and gave me an apologetic grin. “Duty calls.”
He leaned in and I palmed his cheek. “Go on and kick ass.”
His laugh was loud and bright enough to draw more than a few eyes our way. He kissed me, the barest brush of our lips together, before he stood and walked toward the raised mini-kitchen set up at the front of the room.
“Ooh, I think he likes you,” Maribel singsonged, and it reminded me so much of something Sheila would do that I didn’t try to stop my mock glare, which resulted in her cackling. Just like Sheila.
Someone pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and I tensed, trying to remember why the guy looked familiar. Then I groaned. What strings had Noah Tippin pulled to be seated at our table? A hand landed on his arm, and of course it was Heidi. Because heaven forbid DeShawn and I could show up anywhere without having to see these two.
“My, didn’t I get lucky, being at this table?” he said, not bothering to introduce himself or Heidi to Maribel and Jesus. If I looked up the definition of bad penny, I’d probably seeing his overly smug, smiling face staring back at me.
Jesus stiffened, and Maribel rolled her eyes. “The way you say that, you’re fooling no one.”
The guy shrugged and sniffed his drink before taking a sip. “What can I say? I have connections.”
I didn’t know what their deal was, but I was determined not to let them sully my evening. I laid a soft hand on Maribel’s arm. “Let’s watch DeShawn. See if he remembers what to do in the kitchen.”
She waggled her brows at me and opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then glared at Noah and Heidi and shook her head.
Up on stage, DeShawn was with two other chefs at a long table, a basket in front of each of them, cooking stations behind them. At the front of the room, a large screen showed us what was going on, and when I looked behind me, I saw smaller TVs, probably projecting it to people seated farther back. I couldn’t tell what ingredients they were cooking with, or maybe it’d been announced and I just hadn’t been paying attention. What I saw was that DeShawn had all the seasonings, and I smiled. One of the things I’d had to learn to accept was that D seasoned like his life depended on it, but those jars getting back where they belonged? Forget about it.
“So, tell me how playing married is going.”
I startled at Noah’s voice. I’d been so focused on DeShawn I hadn’t noticed him move to the seat next to mine. DeShawn’s seat. “Pardon me?”
“Oh, come on. We all know a man like DeShawn Franklin isn’t really married to a nobody like you.”
“You do realize we’re actually married.”
“A technicality. Literally. There’s no way he stays married to you when whatever charade you’re putting on is over. I haven’t figured out what it is, but I will. Even though the way he stuck up for you with Heidi here was cute, I’ll give you that.”
I inhaled deeply. Channeling some of DeShawn’s calm wasn’t my forte, but I gave it my best shot. “Why do you and Heidi have such a bee in your bonnets about us? We’re minding our business, and it’s a little creepy.”
He flushed, his cheeks going a deep red before he smiled and smoothed his napkin over his lap. “DeShawn is an exceptional chef and one of the most recognizable faces in the cooking world. His love life, for better or worse, is a matter of public interest. I’m just doing my job.”
Which apparently consisted exclusively of irritating me. And he was doing a good job, as my frustration levels ratcheted higher. Maribel nudged me with her knee, a subtle signal to calm down, and I inhaled as deeply as I could through my nose, hoping Noah didn’t noticed how rattled I was. He was a smarmy ass, but my heart still tripped and fell over itself. Not just because I hadn’t expected to be cornered, especially while DeShawn wasn’t there, but because he was right.
No way DeShawn stayed when this was over. We were helping each other in a mutually beneficial relationship, and at the end of it, he got Grandma’s home and I got enough funds to help with a chunk of the projects at the restaurant. DeShawn would go back off to gallivanting with whatever man looked gorgeous on his arm, while I faded back to the shadows.
A glance at the projector showed the other contestants were gone, but DeShawn was still up on stage. And the grin he was giving the host was tight, not genuine. He didn’t want to be there. And I didn’t want to be here.
Next to me, Maribel leaned forward and narrowed her eyes at Noah. “Are you done being an insufferable puta right now?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”
“It’s none of your damn business,” I said, my words almost a growl. “What happens between me and my husband is our business, and you’d best stay out of it.”
He put his hands up and settled deeper in his chair, but I didn’t believe for a single second anything was over. I looked up and watched DeShawn work, trying to let his confidence on stage soothe me. Because I was done with this night, and we’d barely begun.
Being up there for one competition was fun. Being up there for three was a pain in my ass, especially since I was the only one who was up here for all three rounds. Allegedly, it was a competition to showcase the various chefs who’d come to the gala, but since I was the local, as one judge called it, they’d changed their plans at the last minute and kept me up there the entire time.
From my spot on the raised dais, I searched for Malik and found a white couple I couldn’t quite make out also at the table. But Malik didn’t look comfortable the way I would have expected with Maribel and her husband running commentary next to him. He was sitting too damn tall, his shoulders stiff, his gaze stony. Not at me, but at the projectors showing us on a larger screen. Whatever the hell was going on, I wanted off this stage and back with him.
“Three minutes,” one of the volunteer judges called out, and I looked down at my meal.
I hadn’t even been paying attention to the dessert I was creating, a lemon-ginger ice cream confection I was serving with a raspberry-mint brownie. I’d played with the idea for so long—from the moment I’d tasted Malik’s brownie—that it apparently had just become its own concoction when I wasn’t looking.
I cut the brownies and plated them, grabbed small ramekins for the ice cream, then aerated a lemon zest whipped cream and mint leaf as garnishment. Whatever happened, I was off this goddamn stage as soon as we were done.
The buzzer sounded and I sighed along with the other contestants. One patted my arm. “You were totally in the zone there. Moving like you could make dessert in your sleep or something.”
“Felt that way.” I glanced at his meal, what looked like a bread pudding. “Did you really make bread pudding in thirty minutes? Goddamn.”
The chef looked almost sheepish. “Yeah. It’s my favorite dessert. Had to figure out a short version for my own needs.”
I laughed and we waited while the judges ran through their comments. I didn’t even hear what they had to say about mine, but I was more than gratified to hoist the overall winner’s trophy. One, it was a little silly because I’d been the only one up there for all the rounds, but two, it meant I was done and could get back to Malik immediately.
I paused for the obligatory pictures, my grin growing more strained the longer it went on. When I finally returned to the table, the guy had moved back to his position and I groaned.
“Noah, what are you doing here?” He’d been showing up everywhere we went since that impromptu night at Franklin’s, either him or Heidi, who sat there playing innocent next to him. They were birds of a feather, Heidi always playing passive to Noah’s aggressive. I wasn’t sure if they actually worked together, but their relationship had a level of symbiosis that set my teeth on edge.
“I was assigned to this table, thank you very much. You’re always so rude.”
Because you’re a fuckboy sat on the tip of my tongue, but I kept quiet, instead sinking into my seat and squeezing Malik’s hand. “I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.”
“One second place and two firsts,” he said. “Not bad.”
I smiled, the warmth in his voice making me forget everything else for a few moments. “Yeah? Thanks.” Malik leaned in and I kissed his chin before straightening. “I’m still upset about the appetizers, though.” That was the one I got second place in. “I still contend mine were better.”
“I’m sure they are. You make them for me when we get back home, and I’ll be the final judge.”
His smile was bright, almost eager, and Maribel cleared her throat. “You two are almost too cute,” she said.
“Hush your mouth. There’s nothing cute about us.”
“All evidence to the contrary, of course.”
I stuck my tongue out at her, and Malik and Jesus laughed. But then the music started, and Maribel got to jamming. She grabbed Jesus’s wrist and shook it lightly. “Please? Just one turn on the dance floor.”
“Absolutely not. You know how I get when you dance.”
Maribel leaned over him to us, lowering her voice and cupping a hand to her mouth so Heidi and Noah couldn’t make out her words. “He gets horny.”
Jesus shrugged but didn’t deny it. She pouted, and I couldn’t stand it. “Bel, dance with me?”
Maribel beamed. “Yes, absolutely.” We paused and looked at Malik and Jesus.
“Y’all okay with that?” I asked.
Malik nodded. “Oh, I am. I love watching you move.” If I were the blushing type, I’d be red as hell. Instead, I mock glared at him, then turned to Jesus.
“Sí, this is a much better option.”
“And you’re gay, so he’s not worried about you coming on to me.”
I threw my head back and laughed. Jesus splayed his hands in the what can I say motion.
“Well, he’s right. Let’s go.”
I checked with Malik one more time, but the grin on his face was warm. I hated leaving him again, but we’d only be on the dance floor for a few minutes, and Maribel truly did deserve to show off that dress. The floor quickly crowded with other people, and we shimmied and danced and laughed. And it was an absolute blast, one I couldn’t get enough of. One I needed more of. Just not with her.
After we’d been there for who knows how long, she leaned up and whispered, “My feet. The shoes. I’ll pay for this tomorrow.”
“Then let me get you back to your man.”
“And let me help you back to yours.”
The music changed, a familiar refrain starting up: Tamia’s “Can’t Get Enough.” I found Malik chatting with Jesus at the table. Malik watched me even as he spoke, and his eyes didn’t waver when Jesus laughed next to him.
I kept his gaze. One brow rose, slowly, as if confirming what we wanted. I nodded. That slow brow raise was matched by a slow smile, and an even slower wink.
I escorted Maribel back to Jesus, and held my hand out to Malik. “Wanna show ’em how we do this?”
Malik didn’t answer, but he took my hand and we walked back to the dance floor. We maneuvered through the crowd until we stood roughly in the center, and waited. The DJ had played the opening stanzas on a loop, and when she saw us standing side by side, she grinned and gave us a thumbs-up.
The line dance had been one of our favorites when we were married. It looked complicated, with the rocking and three-quarter turn moves, but was fairly basic when it came down to it.
Then Malik took my hand—not part of the dance—and spun me until I was in front of him, and held me around the waist while we moved. Then he turned me again, so we faced each other, and did the dance in reverse so we’d move in the same direction, something I’d never been able to master. But he’d always said there was no point in having a favorite dance if he couldn’t hold his husband while he did it.
The world fell away. There was only me, only Malik, only the memories of times when things were so good between us. When there was nothing I wanted more than to always be with him, hold him next to me, see the pure joy on his face when we danced.
God, how could I have forgotten this?
I tightened my grip on him. Words garbled around my brain, refusing to create a cohesive sentence, but I opened my mouth to speak anyway. And then the people surrounding us broke into applause, forcing my attention back to the present. The song was over, but from the heated look on Malik’s face, the night was far from it.