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)
I knew without question that the showrunners would eat this up and take every opportunity to get more out of the audience before they let the season really die.
Before I could fall too far into the spiral, I shook my head, setting the phone face down on the nightstand. “Who cares. I’m just glad it’s over.”
Finn rolled to face me. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you. Pygo? You’re really doing it. You’re getting back on the horse.”
“I was so nervous to tell you.”
“Why?”
He gave me a look. “The last time I tried to talk to you about opening a restaurant…”
I laughed, cringing. “Yeah, okay. Fair. But I think we’ve learned a few things since then.”
“Apparently so.”
“I really am proud of you,” I whispered, eyes on his mouth.
“Thank you,” he said, kissing me once. Then again, a little slower. His fingers started bunching the silk fabric of my dress, hiking it up my leg inch by inch. “But now I’d like to talk less about pride and more about you in this feckin’ dress…”
I let out a breathy laugh as he tugged me into his lap, rolling until I was on top of him, and he could properly tug that fabric up over my hips.
“I’m excited about the new position,” I said, breath hitching as he kissed down my neck.
“Being on top?”
“Chief stew,” I exhaled on a laugh. “But… I’ve been thinking about maybe another job opportunity.”
He was still focused on undressing me, the zipper along my spine expertly unfastened by those master chef hands of his. “Oh?”
I was panting more now from what I was about to say than his touch. “Would you think I’m crazy if I said… I might want to be a part of the restaurant?”
His whole body stilled as soon as he peeled my dress over my head. Then I was naked, save for my panties, sitting in his lap after having said the last thing he expected.
“What?”
Fuck.
The look on his face was either confusion, like he didn’t hear me right, or it was horror. Here he was about to chase his dream, and I just invited myself to crash it.
“No, never mind,” I rushed, cheeks heating. “It’s a bad idea. I don’t know why I said that, I—”
He cut me off with a kiss — urgent, possessive, smiling against my mouth.
“Are you fecking joking?” he said, pulling back just enough to speak. “Be a part of it. Run it. Own it the way you own me, Em. It would be my honor to do this with you.”
“Really?” I whispered.
“Yes, you beautiful eejit.”
I grinned, breathless. “I just… I got so excited thinking about crafting the experience with you. Making this thing ours. The interior design, the menus, the lighting, the uniforms. Every little touch. I want to be in it with you.”
“I’m in,” he said instantly. “But what about purser?”
I paused, feeling the weight of the decision settle in… and then lift.
“I don’t know if it was the show souring my outlook, or if everything just played out for me, but… I think maybe this whole chapter was a phase. One that led me to the next part of the journey,” I said. “Kind of like what you said about the restaurant in Dublin. I love my job as chief stew, I do. But when I think about building a Michelin-Star restaurant with you—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he laughed, sliding his hands up my thighs. “Getting ahead of ourselves, are we? That’s hard to do.”
“We’ll do it,” I said, no hesitation.
Finn’s eyes darkened as his hands found my hips, his mouth catching mine again — this time with fire. “Fine. We’ll do it. Now, let me do you.”
I barked out a laugh into his next kiss, but then I matched his frantic energy, the two of us shedding clothes as fast as we could.
Just like that, the rest of the world faded.
The cameras, the crew, the audience, the drama — it was all behind us now. We were all that remained. Our time on the Sinking Sun was over.
A new dawn was rising.
I had a feeling it’d be the brightest day yet.
TWO YEARS LATER
The kitchen buzzed with a low hum of life — pans clattered in the sink, someone was laughing in the back, and the sharp scent of citrus and fire lingered in the air, long after the last dessert had been torched.
It was just past midnight at Pygo.
We’d closed an hour ago. The guests were gone, the lights in the dining room dimmed to that soft golden hue we always said made everyone look ten percent hotter and twenty percent richer. And back here in the kitchen — this was our sanctuary. The pulse of the restaurant.
Finn moved behind the line like it was still mid-service, sleeves rolled up, apron smudged and messy, hair mussed from the rush. I leaned on the bar across from him, sipping a glass of red, watching him. Admiring him.