Chapter 12
Tim’s POV
The restaurant’s greeter practically sparkles with enthusiasm and attention, but her focus is unsettling. Her energy isn’t evenly distributed; she’s fixated on me, as if Brielle doesn’t exist. She can clearly see I’m here with someone-possibly on a date-yet chooses to act oblivious. This kind of behavior grates on my nerves. A truly skilled greeter treats every guest with equal care, showing no favoritism. I bite back my irritation and follow her to our table.
We barely settle into our seats when our drink orders make it to the bar. And then the news travels. It doesn’t take long-by the time our orders reach the kitchen, my sister has heard I’m here. Moments later, she bursts into view, clad in her chef whites. There’s something gratifying about seeing her in that uniform, a reminder of how much she’s achieved. Weathering fierce competition, rigorous training, and more than a few critics, she’s carved out her place as a top chef-her own restaurant, her own rules. She pulls me into a hug, exuberant, and mentions a family meal planned for Sunday.
I wince internally-I’d completely forgotten.
Would Brielle be interested? That thought lingers a little too long, and another swiftly follows. Maybe it’s too soon for something like this. Bringing her to meet my family feels steeped in risk. My mother might make assumptions about our relationship, ones I haven’t yet deciphered myself. But then again… Brielle’s fragile, so naturally guarded, and something inside me aches with the need to shield her. There’s a vulnerability clinging to her-one she’d probably deny-that mirrors the fear I’ve seen in the women from my mother’s shelter. She can wear her confidence like armor, but her eyes betray her. Whatever haunts her, it’s still there.
My sister flits away, humming contentedly, having delivered her message. I reassure her I’ll show up for dinner, barring work emergencies. She doesn’t question me; why would she? She trusts I’ll come through, just as I always have.
Brielle hasn’t looked at me for several minutes now. She’s scanning the restaurant, her gaze darting from table to table but never landing on me. The avoidance-it’s palpable, and I can’t shake the sense that something’s off.
“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching out to touch her hand. Instantly, she jerks back, but her hand doesn’t leave the table. That car ride. The same hesitation in her reactions.
Her eyes catch my mouth but still refuse to meet my gaze. “Huh?” Her voice wavers slightly.
“I asked if you’re okay,” I pull my hand away tentatively, gauging her reaction. Her attention now transfers to my retreating hand, puzzlement rewriting her features.
“Oh-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to space out like that!” The words tumble out like marbles scattering.
I chuckle lightly, hoping to ease her discomfort. “Anything you care to share?” My tone is playful, attempting to coax even the hint of a smile.
Her eyes flick to mine reluctantly. “It’s… embarrassing,” she half-mumbles, guilt shadowing her expression.
“Come on, you’ve piqued my curiosity now.” I prod gently. Before she can respond, our waiter returns, bearing a colorful medley of dishes. My sister has clearly decided to flex her experimental muscles
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today. Each plate is vibrant, aromatic, tantalizing—a display of culinary creativity.
Brielle’s expression shifts almost instantly from hesitant to intrigued. “What is this?” she asks, her hand hovering over one plate. She finally settles on sampling what looks like pasta, scooping a modest portion onto her plate.
I grin. “Taster plates. Every time I visit here, I get these-a sampling of dishes my sister’s been working on. I offer feedback: too bland, too salty, that sort of thing.”
Careful not to overplay her hand, I avoid mentioning that my sister owns the establishment entirely. A peculiar habit really-similar to how I failed to mention the exhibition belonged to her as well.
Brielle’s face lights up with genuine enthusiasm after one bite. “Wow,” she marvels, excitement bu bbling over. “This is incredible. You have to try it!” She offers me a spoonful like it’s second nature.
I accept with little hesitation, leaning forward to taste the flavors. She’s right; it’s divine, bursting with complex notes that linger long after. Together, we dig into the sample dishes, savoring every bite until the plates are wiped clean. Brielle glances down at the emptiness surrounding us, a pang of melancholy flickering across her face.
Soon, the waitress arrives to clear away the dishes and hands over a feedback form complete with photos and space for comments. I sidle closer to Brielle, and together, we jot down thoughts, collaborating seamlessly. Just as we finish, plates of desserts appear-and Brielle groans softly. Between bites of sweetness, though, her hums of appreciation make it clear she’s thrilled despite her protests. My sister’s skills are on full display, and Brielle indulges without restraint.
“I’m stuffed,” she murmurs eventually, rubbing her contented stomach. “I don’t think I’ll need to eat for
a week.”
Our departure from the restaurant feels victorious. The energy surrounding Brielle has shifted; she’s lighter now, her earlier sorrow seemingly eroded. As we ascend in the elevator back to the penthouse, I find myself reluctant to end this day. Her company has been… grounding, in a way I didn’t anticipate. There are commitments from today still lingering in the background-the exhibition, visiting my sister- but I’m already scheming how to extend this intangible connection we’ve built.
At her door, I hesitate. “Brielle,” I begin, “would you like to come over for coffee? My treat.”
The surprise on her face quickly melts into something warm. “I’d like that. You did promise me a view, remember?” My pulse flickers wildly at what sounds like flirtation, though I’m unsure if it’s intentional.
Leading her into my penthouse, I leave the door unlocked-a casual defiance of caution stemming back to my sister’s advice when I moved in. Stepping inside feels oddly intimate; Brielle meanders through the living room, exploring the space contentedly while I prepare coffee. From the window, she absorbs the sweeping view-a scene I’ve admired for years but now seems newly vivid seen through her eyes.
Carrying the coffee out, I find the lounge empty. Then, the sound of a toilet flushing reaches my ears. I walk toward the hallway and stop by the doorframe, waiting as she emerges from the room, her head down, absorbed in her phone.
It’s only when she raises her face that my chest tightens. Her eyes shimmer, brimming with tears, undone by whatever message has reached her phone. Everything I carefully orchestrated today to brighten her mood is erased within seconds.
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“Hey,” I say softly, the sadness threading my voice palpable. I don’t need words; she step laying her head against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her, anchoring her against knowing the tears will come but hoping she knows she doesn’t have to face the pain alo
