The Connoisseurs Part 3 | A Romantic Short Story
Tensions run high for a high-strung critic with a persecution complex and a heated chef with a knife to grind. A LVNDR Romantic Short Story. 18+
Amelia had tried everything to get the stain out of her blouse. No amount of water, vinegar, or hydrogen peroxide succeeded, so it remained a stubborn reminder of her night at the Chef’s restaurant. She stared at it for a moment before pushing it aside to pull down the dress she’d wear to that evening’s gala, wishing she could do the same to the memories that came with it.
How he’d looked genuinely embarrassed as he used the napkin from her mouth to dab at the hot sauce on her chin. How he’d draped a coat over her shoulders while he called an Uber. How he pressed a note into her hand when he walked her to the door: Friday. 10:00 PM.
She never showed up.
The new ballroom of the old hotel felt more like the ninth circle of hell than a gala.
Keeping her head high and eyes low, the Critic quickly strode towards her table on the far wall, her red gown’s chiffon hem bouncing at her heels. She was ten steps from her destination when a hand rested on her upper arm.
Amelia spun towards it instinctively — hopefully, she realized — her head having not had enough time to tell her heart how to react. A rush of emotions that ultimately crashed into another. Disappointment.
She hadn’t thought George, the other arrogant chef who’d evaded her personal life in the last few months, would care enough to find her. Then again, she hadn’t thought much of him at all these days.
“Always in a rush.” He didn’t drop his hand from her bicep. Rather, he gave it a gentle squeeze. An otherwise reassuring gesture that felt claustrophobic under his gaze. “It means a lot that you’re here.”
George hadn’t changed. Like the slightly burnt pocket square that had seemingly come too close to a flame, there was always something grittier beneath.
“Of course.” Amelia worked to keep her face straight, surprised how he could still make her blood boil. “It’s all part of the gig, after all.”
“Right, but I know you hate these things.” George nodded as if she’d offered a false excuse. No longer engaging in conversation, but going through a mental checklist of items to control the narrative that best suits his ego. “I had other plans, but then the restaurant got nominated, and I figured I’d show up.”
Amelia took a deep breath before offering a sickly sweet grin in return. His restaurant was not only nominated but favored to win the highest honor this year. An award which, despite having only been promoted to head chef three months earlier, George was taking full credit for
“Right,” Amelia mirrored his casual disrespect, dipping to lows she wasn’t proud of. George had always tried to rile her up. Light jabs at her cooking attempts or tiny critiques of her articles. All of which resulted in some mild hate sex that allowed her to forgive the actual moment. “I heard it was a rough transition.”
“We had to clean house, but it’s been great ever since.” George placed the hand from her arm back into his pocket. A facade of boyish sheepishness. “Speaking of… I heard you’re speaking to — what’s his name — Oscar?”
“Oliver.” If Amelia’s heart kept dropping at the thought of him, she’d need a cardiac monitor.
“Of course!” George said without any real apology attached to it. “I hope that place he wound up at is going okay.”
“They’re nominated, so I’d say it is.” Amelia knew she was on the brink of embarrassing herself, defending a man she barely knew. A man whose relationship she’d neglected her every instinct to see again in an effort to preserve the very reputation she was putting at risk.
George’s only response was to take a sip of wine. A knowing smirk falling behind its rim. Amelia’s anxiety went to war with itself in the silence. She knew she should walk away, but couldn’t do so without knowing one thing. “How did you hear about that?”
“I’m surprised he remembered, considering he’d drunk enough rum to flambé a bathtub worth of foster.”
Amelia whipped around to see Oliver, effortlessly cool in a burgundy suit. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around Amelia’s waist. “He was ranting about the many women he’s hooked up with.”
George’s face flashed a mix of anger and embarrassment. Amelia thought he might lunge. Oliver looked more playful than ever.
“I hope you don’t mind that I told him I’d appreciate it if he kept your name out of his mouth,” Oliver finished, looking at Amelia now as gently tapped her hip. A silent sign to turn away. “Best of luck tonight, Greg.”
Oliver ran a thumb across the bare skin of her back as they walked toward the table, where Meredith was seated, wide-eyed and staring. She’d obviously watched the entire interaction.
“Thank you,” Amelia could barely hear herself, but knew that Oliver did by how he took her hand in his and squeezed. “I’ve humiliated myself in a unique variety of ways, so it’s probably best that I just try to pretend everything between our first introduction and now never happened.”
“We could do that,” Oliver smiled, clamping his teeth to his lower lip before turning towards her, passing a full glass of red wine into her hands. “Or we could stop thinking so much.”
Against her better judgment, Amelia smiled. Silently, she brought the glass to her lips. When she lowered it, he gave a slight nod of his head. She finished the glass. Oliver pulled out Amelia’s seat before taking the one right next to her.
“They don’t usually seat restaurants with the media.”
“No, of course not.” Oliver was unraveling the napkin to place in his lap. Amelia blushed, remembering her makeshift blindfold. “I put in a favor.”
The Critic was trying to wrap her head around what he’d said when Meredith leaned over her shoulder.
“Do you have a speech prepared?” Her blonde bob swept across the boat neckline of her butter-yellow dress.
“Absolutely,” the Chef answered honestly. “I’m going to win tonight.”
Meredith offered a kind smile before letting herself be distracted by their boss approaching the table, dragging several restaurant owners trying to get his attention behind him.
Amelia was surprised. It was uncommon for a restaurant as new as Oliver’s even to be nominated. A win like that was unheard of.
“Will you let me hear it?” Amelia asked in a way of showing interest and softening the truth’s blow. She wasn’t one to lie or dodge a question, but she had learned how to deliver it.
Oliver took the napkin from her plate before placing it on her lap. He let his hand linger on her thigh before taking a sip of his wine and turned to make small talk with the critic to his left. Not like a politician looking for a constituent’s vote, but that of a boyfriend meeting their partner’s colleagues.
"You will.”