Chapter 7 - Ronan Faces The Waitress Who Defied All OddsRonan didn't look at the bowl immediately; his intense gaze locked onto Tessa’s face standing across the table.
“You aren't Victor Voss,” Ronan noted, his voice carrying a deep, resonant rumble that demanded attention.
“Chef Voss collapsed fifty minutes ago; I took over his station,” Tessa answered without blinking.
“You’re a waitress. I recognize you from the south dining room,” Ronan said, leaning slightly forward.
“I’m a cook who wore a server apron to pay the bills, Mr. Callahan,” Tessa corrected him calmly.
Ronan’s eyes narrowed as he smelled the steam rising from the porcelain bowl between them.
It wasn't the refined, sterile French cuisine his high-priced chefs had forced upon him for years.
It smelled like home, like a kitchen in the Ninth Ward before the world turned cold and violent.
“What did you put in this broth?” Ronan asked quietly, his knuckles whitening against the table edge.
May you like
“Oxtail, beef bones, root vegetables, and a spice blend left to me by my late teacher,” Tessa said.
Ronan went completely rigid, the color draining from his face as if he had just seen a ghost.
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