Page 25 of Sunrise (Monarch Club #3)

Knox

The rest of the afternoon is a blur, and I end up late for work.

Good thing I’m the boss.

Vault and I spent the entire afternoon together, and I think we both have massive weights lifted from our chests. I’ve never seen him more at peace in my life than when we finished kissing the hell out of each other before saying goodbye.

There was light back in his amber eyes, guys.

This is huge .

We’re not at the finish line yet, but this breakthrough is worth celebrating. He and I discussed Sophie a little more and came up with a plan to romance the fucking shit out of her.

Vault’s still back at my place, setting things up.

I promised to only work for a few hours and then I’ll come home so we can spend time with our girl. It’s Friday and we’ve got the whole weekend to have fun.

“Where’s Tristan?” He’s nowhere in the kitchen.

“Called out sick,” says the dishwasher.

I’m fucked.

No one else can run the kitchen but the two of us.

Quickly shooting Vault a text, I let him know, then stuff my phone away and get to work.

I’m flying so high I can’t be upset about this little hiccup.

Vault and I are on the path to happily ever after, and we’re taking Sophie with us. One night of working late won’t hurt.

By nine, I’m in such a groove, it’s glorious. Pressing my finger on the filet to test the doneness, I finish it off by spooning more melted butter onto it before I plate the fucker.

Mila rushes in. “Chef!”

“Yeah?” I shimmy the pan on the right front burner to work on the risotto.

“I think there’s a food critic here.”

Now she’s got my full attention. “How do you know?”

“I don’t. Not for sure. But he’s ordered a ton of dishes off the menu. What else can it be?”

“A dude who’s hungry?”

She shakes her head. “It’s got to be a food critic. I bet Tara put some feelers out and they’re starting to take the bait.”

I don’t know about that. Tara would have warned me first. “Point him out to me.”

We slink to the door and poke our heads outside.

“There,” she whispers, directing my attention to a middle-aged suit daddy in the center of Midnight Run. He’s drinking something in a crystal glass.

“He ordered a Negroni from the bar before he was seated.”

He would have needed a reservation. “What’s the name?”

She opens her iPad and checks. “Max Born.”

Never heard of him .

I pull back and shut the door. “What did he order?”

Mila checks her iPad again and runs down the list. “Risotto, filet wellington, lasagna, eggplant parm napoleon, calamari with a garlic aioli instead of spicy marinara, the truffle fries, and the lobster tail with double butter.”

“Holy shit.” Damn you, Tristan, for not making it in tonight! “Okay, I can do this.”

Let’s be so for real. Even if Tristan was here, I wouldn’t let him make a single one of these dishes. I’m practically buzzing as I get the order going.

Some people cave under pressure. I do my best work during these moments.

Everyone in the kitchen scrambles to keep up with the rest of the orders coming through, and I plate every last dish and serve them all together, per Max Born’s wishes.

Mila struggles with the huge tray but gets it to him.

“Atta girl,” I whisper from the door.

“What are you doing? It’s bad luck to watch,” a line cook hisses. “Get away from the door, Knox. You’re never supposed to see the critics. Back away, before you’re screwed.”

Shit, I’m not trying to jinx it, so I slide away from the door and go back to helping the rest of the staff prepare other meals.

Tara suddenly bursts in, fluttering like the glorious butterfly that she is. “Hey guys, how are we doing down here tonight?”

I grab her hand and pull her into the corner. “Did you know there was a food critic here?” The look on her face makes it an obvious nope. “Did you invite someone to dine here or anything?”

She flushes and shakes her head.

That’s weird.

Tara squeezes my hand, her eyes suddenly lighting up. “Knox, this is huge .”

“Well, he’s probably not a real food critic if you didn’t invite him.”

“That’s not true!” She smacks my arm. “They don’t need an invite, babe. They just need a table and a menu. I’m sure he heard of Midnight Run and is here to experience your divine cooking for himself.”

“You think so?”

“Why not?” She squeaks with excitement. “Honey, your food is ah-maaaazing!”

Her confidence in me makes me feel like a million bucks. “His name is Max Born. Sound familiar?”

She frowns and shakes her head. “No, but they sometimes use fake names.”

That’s annoying.

“Well, I made everything he wanted. Guess we wait and find out if he likes it.” I freeze. “How the fuck am I going to know if he likes it?”

“He will.” She pats my cheek. “Have faith in yourself, Knox.”

I need to put more faith in that damn filet wellington. What if the pastry is soggy on the bottom? Fuck. I’m second guessing everything I’ve plated.

After about ten minutes of overthinking everything I’d made, Mila rushes back inside and gives me two thumbs up, then vanishes to serve another table.

I poke my head out and see Max sampling the risotto.

We make eye contact .

Oh shit. I’ve been caught.

I probably should shut the door and get back to the pan I’ve left on high heat, but instead I own up to the fact that I was caught spying and head straight towards him. “Thank you for dining at Midnight Run tonight. I hope everything’s up to your standards.”

He finishes chewing and washes it down with the rest of his Negroni.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so now I’m just standing here, awkward as fuck. “Would you like another?” I’m already grabbing his empty glass when he stops me by putting his cold hand on mine. For some reason, my Spidey senses activate. I don’t think I like this dude.

“You’re the chef?”

“I’m the owner, chef, and everything in between.” I glance at my hand, giving him a silent warning to let the fuck go. He gets the message.

“I’m Max Born.”

“Nice to meet you, Max.”

“This place used to be a shithole strip club, am I right?” He taps the table with his thumb. Thump-tha-thump. Thump-tha-thump .

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. If I have to choose between a good review and my instincts, there’s no contest. “You need to leave.”

He scoffs. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I roll my shoulders back. He’s a big guy, but so am I. “Please leave.”

He doesn’t pay for the meal. He doesn’t say a word.

But he fucking smiles when he exits Midnight Run, and I know I’ve made the right decision.