Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Tobias winced. “God, the gold leaf—”
“Show. Him.”
Finn pulled out his phone, still grimacing as Tobias rubbed his hands together. “No way. Cheffy embarrassed about a dish he made? This ought to be good.”
“You have to promise not to—” The words died on Finn’s tongue, his brows pinching in. He glanced at me and then brought the phone to his ear.
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
His body went still, the kind of still that always made my stomach flip. His eyes locked on the floor, mouth slightly parted.
“Finn?” I took a step forward. “What?”
He looked up at me, pale.
“We got a star.”
Time froze.
All movement in the kitchen stopped, from where the dishwashers were scrubbing away in the back corner to where the chefs were prepping for tomorrow. All noise died, save for the playlist that hummed quietly through the speaker. We never heard it back here in the kitchen. It was always too loud.
But it was silent now.
Until everyone lost their damn minds.
“WHAT?!”
“No way. No fucking way.”
“We got a star?!”
“You’re talking about the star?!”
“PLAY THE VOICEMAIL!”
Finn, still in shock, fumbled to put it on speaker. And then we all heard it — the smooth, unmistakable voice of a Michelin Guide rep, congratulating Chef Finn Pearson of Pygo on receiving his first star. Official. Verified. Real.
Tobias screamed. Casey, one of our hostesses, started sobbing. Chefs were hugging, dirty cutlery and half-prepped dishes abandoned as everyone ran around like wild animals let out of a zoo. Someone screamed that they were grabbing the most expensive bottle of champagne in our cellar as I blinked and smiled and tried to wrap my head around it.
A star.
“I’m calling my mom!” Tobias yelled.
“I’m calling my ex just to rub it in!” Casey called out.
And Finn — my brilliant, reckless, maddening, passionate Finn — just stood there, blinking, staring at his phone like he wasn’t sure if it was a bomb or a gold brick. The eye of the beautiful storm.
My wine glass abandoned, I ran to him, sliding across the cleared part of the stainless-steel island until I collided with that gorgeous man. He laughed in surprise, his phone dropping to the floor, but I didn’t give him the chance to reach for it again.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into me, my lips caressing his with all the words I knew could never convey what I felt for him in this moment.
Finn inhaled the kiss, his hands finding my hair, the chaos around us muted as we leaned into that touch, into each other.
“You did it,” I whispered, tears stinging the corners of my eyes as we pressed our foreheads together. “I told you. I knew you would.”
“They called when we were prepping for dinner service,” he murmured, dazed. “I… I missed it. I missed the call.”
“You got the voicemail,” I said on a laugh. “And it’s real, babe. Somewhere in Los Angeles, they’re having a party and announcing your star. By tomorrow morning, the news will be in all the papers.” I shook my head, pressing another long kiss to his perfect lips. “You did it.”
“We did it,” he quickly corrected, his hands locking on either side of my face as his eyes searched mine. “I fecking love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And then we were torn apart, the team dragging Finn outside before I was hoisted up in the air to follow.
We tumbled into the street outside Pygo, where the light from the windows spilled across the sidewalk and the champagne became a weapon. Finn was soaked with it in under thirty seconds, laughing in a way I’d never seen — wild and free, like something had cracked open inside him and let the light pour in.
This was what it looked like to witness a dream come true.
Through it all, his eyes kept finding mine.
Like no matter how bright the spotlight, he could still only ever see me.
ONE WEEK LATER
The restaurant looked like a fever dream.
Sunlight spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on gold accents and flickering across velvet booths. The floor was a mosaic of tile — chaotic, colorful, magical. Hanging plants dipped from the ceiling. The lighting fixtures were warm and strange and beautiful — all curves and antique brass, casting shadows on the lacquered walls.
I took it all in slowly while I could, the quiet of pre-service something this restaurant rarely experienced. One fingertip skimmed the smooth marble of the host stand, the soft wood of the bar, the mismatched antique mirrors on the wall that made every corner feel infinite as I tried to grasp what we’d created, the recognition we’d earned.
It felt like so much more than just an award at a job, so much bigger than any atta girl I’d been given on a yacht. Pygo wasn’t just a themed tablescape and party or a seven-course tasting menu gone right.