Celine stepped into a restaurant for lunch, the polished marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. The rich scent of oak, fresh herbs, and simmering sauces wrapped around her like a warm embrace. Velvet drapes framed tall windows, and tasteful modern art adorned the walls, blending elegance with understated luxury.
The hostess approached with a poised smile. "Good afternoon, may I have your name, please?"
"Celine," she replied smoothly.
"Ah yes, Ms. Celine, Stacy made a reservation for you," the hostess added with a knowing smile, guiding her toward a secluded table draped in fine linens and set with sparkling glassware.
Celine settled into the plush chair, absorbing the refined ambiance, the quiet hum of conversation and clinking cutlery promising a brief, indulgent escape from her relentless world.
Celine unfolded the menu with practiced ease, her eyes scanning the carefully curated selections, each dish described with precise elegance:
"Handcrafted macaroni with aged Parmigiano-Reggiano," "Seared scallops with a champagne beurre blanc," "Truffle-infused wild mushroom risotto."
Her gaze lifted to the kitchen entrance, where the soft glow of warm light spilled out, and the faint rhythm of clattering pans and simmering sauces reached her ears. The promise of a well-crafted meal stirred something rare, a flicker of calm in her otherwise chaotic day.
She folded the menu and allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible smile. Stacy's recommendation was proving to be a welcome reprieve already.
August stepped out from the open kitchen, apron still clinging to his frame, sleeves rolled up to his forearms dusted faintly with flour. He was scanning the room, half-focused, until his eyes landed on her.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
"Well, well," he drawled as he approached her table. "You're the feisty redhead who stormed off after my kid cursed you."
Celine looked up slowly, her expression tightening. "You're the chef?"
"August Creed," he said, extending a hand with a crooked grin. "Owner, head chef… part-time toddler wrangler."
She ignored the hand and stood, picking up her purse. "I didn't realize this was your place. I'll find lunch elsewhere."
But before she could step away, his hand gently caught her wrist,not forceful, just firm enough to pause her.
"Wait," he said softly, eyes meeting hers with a rare steadiness. "At least let me make it up to you. One dish, on the house. If you hate it, you can storm out again. I won't stop you."
She hesitated. The warmth of his hand. The calm confidence in his voice. The quiet murmur of the restaurant wrapped around her like a coaxing song.
"I have impeccable taste," he added with a teasing tilt of his head. "And I make a mean macaroni."
She slowly sat back down, her lips twitching in spite of herself. "Fine. Impress me."
August's grin deepened, the kind that curled at the edges with both pride and challenge. "Coming right up," he said, before turning and disappearing into the kitchen.
Celine exhaled slowly, adjusting the napkin on her lap as if that would ground her. The restaurant buzzed gently, soft jazz playing above warm lighting, sleek marble tables, velvet chairs, and a wine rack that spanned the entire back wall. She hated that it impressed her.
A few minutes later, he returned, not with a waiter, but carrying the plate himself. He set it before her with a flourish: truffle-infused macaroni baked with aged Gruyère, topped with crispy prosciutto and a light drizzle of saffron cream.
"No pressure," he said, stepping back, arms folded. "Just my ego on the line."
Celine arched a brow, lifted her fork, and took a bite.
Silence.
He watched, clearly too amused.
Another bite.
She swallowed, then finally looked up. "You're not bad."
He gave a mock bow. "High praise from a woman who looked ready to report me to child services yesterday."
"I still might," she said, sipping her wine.
August chuckled. "Then I'll have to bribe you with dessert."
She smirked, setting her fork down. "Don't think I'm that easy."
He shrugged, unabashed. "Challenge accepted. Wait here."
As August disappeared again into the gleaming kitchen, Celine let her gaze wander around the room. The subtle hum of refined conversation, clinking glasses, and the soft glow from the chandeliers made the place feel like an escape from her tangled life outside these walls.
When he returned, it was with a delicate plate of dark chocolate mousse topped with a sprinkle of edible gold dust and fresh raspberries.
"Consider this a peace offering," August said, placing it in front of her.
She couldn't help but laugh softly. "You're persistent."
He winked. "Only when it's worth it."
Celine took a spoonful of the dessert, and the moment it melted on her tongue, a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips. "God…" she muttered, closing her eyes for a brief second. "That should be illegal."
August grinned, arms folded as he watched her reaction. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She opened one eye, mock-glaring at him. "If you're trying to win me over with food, it's working dangerously well."
"Good to know," he replied with a teasing edge. "So… does that mean I can convince you to come back?"
Celine set the spoon down slowly, her expression unreadable. "I don't do repeats," she said, then smirked. "But maybe I'll make an exception."
August's grin deepened. "I'll hold you to that."
Celine hesitated for a moment, then outstretched her hand, her tone cool but polite.
"Celine," she muttered.
August took it with a smile, his large palm engulfing hers, warm, soft, and calloused from years behind the stove.
"Celine," he repeated thoughtfully. "Nice name."
His gaze flicked to her lips before returning to her eyes, a teasing grin playing at his mouth.
"Let me guess… you were chubby at birth?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged, still grinning. "Only chubby babies get sweet names like that."
Celine narrowed her eyes. "I was not chubby."
"Shame," he said, releasing her hand with a chuckle. "I like chubby babies. They grow up to be dangerous women."
She stared at him, unsure whether to roll her eyes or smile. Maybe both.
August took a small step back, the teasing still dancing in his eyes. "Well then, Celine…" he gestured toward her plate, "Enjoy the food."
Then he straightened, offered her a small nod, and turned to leave. His apron swayed slightly with his movements, and the scent of spice and woodsmoke lingered in the air behind him.
She watched him go, lips twitching despite herself.
Charming bastard.