Page 116 of The Wild Card

“And if the sous chef turns out to be a dud, that’s okay too. The right person is worth waiting for.”

I don’t tell her I’m afraid I already found the right person and lost him.

Some things a mother doesn’t need to know.

* * *

“He’s cute,” Sadie had said. “Really cute. And nice. And emotionally available. You know, all the things your fake boyfriend wasn’t.”

“Sadie—”

“Just one date. One dinner. If you hate it, I’ll never mention his name again.”

So here I am. Saturday night. A trendy new farm-to-table place in Uptown. Sitting across from Reece the sous chef, who is, objectively speaking, extremely cute.

Dark curly hair. Warm brown eyes. Easy smile. He laughs at my jokes, asks follow-up questions, and hasn’t checked his phone once.

He’s perfect.

And I feel absolutely nothing.

“So, Sadie says you’re working on a cookbook?” Reece leans forward, genuinely interested. “That’s amazing. I’d love to hear about it.”

“It’s, um.” I push a roasted carrot around my plate. “It’s about cooking for people you love. Learning their tastes, paying attention to what they need. That kind of thing.”

“That’s beautiful. Food as a love language.”

“Yeah.” I take a sip of wine. “Something like that.”

He launches into a story about his culinary school days, something about a disastrous soufflé and a temperamental chef instructor. It’s funny. He’s funny. I laugh in all the right places.

But my mind keeps drifting.

Crew would’ve made a comment about soufflés being structurally unsound. He would’ve asked three clarifying questions about the technique involved. He would’ve sat there with that serious expression, cataloging every detail like he was preparing a tactical briefing on French pastry.

Stop it.

“You okay?” Reece asks. “You seem a little distracted.”

“Sorry. Long week.” I force a smile. “Tell me more about the restaurant. Do you like working there?”

He does. He tells me about the menu he’s developing, the head chef who’s taken him under her wing, his dreams of opening his own place someday. A small spot, nothing fancy. The kind of neighborhood restaurant where everyone knows your name.

“That sounds wonderful,” I say.

And it does. It really does. This is exactly the kind of guy I should want—passionate about food, warm and open, someone who talks about the future like it’s something to look forward to instead of something to survive.

So why do I keep thinking about gray eyes and a stiff posture that doesn’t know how to relax?

“Can I ask you something?” Reece sets down his fork. “And feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”

“Sure.”

“Are you over him? Whoever he is?”

I blink. “What?”

“There’s a look people get when they’re not quite over someone.” He smiles gently, no accusation in it. “You’ve had it all night. I’m not offended—I’ve been that person too. I just figured I’d ask.”