Page 89 of One Killer Night

“Cue the shoes,” he says, then pops his head up as his sous chef reappears, holding more broth.

“Exactly. A custom pair of cream-and-white leather Converse high-tops with stars, flowers, and the quote ‘Dreamers or fools’ wound up the back.”

Wannabe Gordon Ramsay sous looks at me. “I think you should say, ‘Accept this ring, and we’ll walk this path together—’”

Chase scoffs, then takes the offered spoon and slurps the soup again before he says, “Do you think that this man would go to the length of re-creating their first date down to the smallest detail, only to bring it all home with ‘We’ll walk this path together’ as he proposes? How dare you.”

“Because he got her shoes instead of a ring.”

Chase shakes his head like he’s disappointed, then motions to the soup. “That’s not bad. Good job. But you still have to go be ashamed. Hide your face because that was terrible love advice.”

“Sorry,” the sous chef offers before Chase points at me.

“Noah, please tell these Neanderthals why you got shoes. Apparently, they need a lesson in love as much as how not to overuse the fucking salt.”

I grin and look down at my hands as I remember that first night.

“I got the shoes because the night we met, I took one look at her and knew exactly what I’d create. She inspired me, and I didn’t even know her. I’ve always seen Goldie for exactly who she is. And later that night, when she told me that she wanted me to make her a pair for her birthday, I banked my creation in my memory. Funny part was she wouldn’t tell me when her birthday was. She actually said, ‘You’ll have to stick around and find out.’ So, here I am ... stuck, hoping she will be, too, because I tied the ring to the laces.”

There’s silence, and it’s then I notice all the guys in the kitchen staring at me.

“Do you hear that?” Chase bellows like he’s some kind of gladiator. “That,” he emphasizes, stabbing his spatula in the air, “that is fucking romance.”

Applause erupts, and I laugh harder.

But as it dies down and everyone goes back to work, he leans over the steel counter and whispers, “You’re not saying that, right?”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “No, dick. I’m not.”

Chase smirks and throws out some orders as he walks around the island to give me a bear hug.

“Proud of you, dude, and once you’re in the family, we can really put the hard press on the future recipient of my will. ‘Evie Beckett’ has a ring to it.”

I smack his face playfully as he fights me off before I put him in a headlock. He still doesn’t shut up.

“And if Evie doesn’t work out, then when you move to LA, you’ll have to hook me up with all that fine Hollywood ass.”

He wiggles out, swinging at me, but I dodge it as we both grin. “Well, the upside about women in Hollywood is they’re used to guys with terrible personalities.”

His face deadpans as he holds up his hands, and I walk backward out of the kitchen, grinning while he yells at me.

“Oh, come on. It’s not terrible. It just requires some getting used to.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what the doctor says before he gives a rectal exam.”

I mouth “Sorry” to the waitstaff as they glance up from setting tables for dinner service.

Chase peeks his head out from the kitchen. “I guess that tracks ... I do love anal.”

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe out as the maître d’ clears his throat to the giggling staff.

The minute I hit the street, the brisk air feels like a deep breath and a shot of adrenaline, making me wired as my mind races back to the fact that tonight I’ll be engaged to Goldie.

If she says yes.

She’s going to say yes.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, noticing a missed call from an unknown number, but I ignore it, opting to text my girl instead.