The Woman Who Sent Back the Lobster

By Friday evening, Marcus Reed had convinced himself that Camille Whitmore was no longer his concern.

He had a restaurant to run, twenty-seven employees depending on him, and a new seasonal menu that needed to be perfected before the weekend. Whatever had happened between him and the beautiful woman in the red dress belonged to the category of strange customer encounters that chefs collected over the years and eventually forgot.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Then, at six-twenty, Daniel Brooks appeared beside the kitchen pass.

“Chef, your favorite customer is back.””

Marcus didn't look up from the salmon he was checking.

“She's not my favorite customer.””

“Of course not.””

“Daniel.””

“I'm just reporting the reservation, Chef.””

Marcus finally turned.

“What reservation?””

“Table twelve. Two people. Under Camille Whitmore.””

Marcus stared at him.

“She made a reservation?””

“Yesterday afternoon.””

“And you didn't think to mention that?””

“I figured you'd prefer to discover it naturally.”” Daniel grinned.

“Like a surprise health inspection.””

Marcus pointed his tasting spoon at him.

“Go back to work.””

Daniel disappeared, laughing.

Marcus returned to his salmon, but his concentration had fractured. Camille had promised nothing during their last encounter. She had apologized to Daniel, then left without asking for Marcus. That should have been the end of it.

Instead, she had returned.

At six-thirty, he spotted her through the kitchen doors.

She wore a dark blue dress with simple gold earrings. Her makeup was understated, and her hair fell in soft curls around her face. She was seated at table twelve with another woman, a striking woman with short natural hair and a tailored green jacket.

Camille wasn't looking toward the kitchen.

She was listening to her companion.

That, more than anything, caught Marcus's attention.

He had expected another performance. Instead, Camille seemed entirely absorbed in the conversation, occasionally laughing and reaching across the table to touch her friend's hand.

For a moment, she looked like someone who had never sent a lobster back in her life.

“Chef?””

Marcus turned toward Andre.

“What's wrong?””

Andre followed his gaze.

“Oh, nothing. You're just studying the dining room with the intensity of a man inspecting a suspicious package.””

“Check the sauce.””

“The sauce is fine.””

“Then check it again.””

Andre laughed and returned to his station.

Marcus shook his head, annoyed with himself.

He was not going to approach Camille merely because she had returned. If she wanted to eat, she could eat. If she wanted to speak to him, she could ask. He had already made his boundaries clear.

Then Daniel approached the pass with an order.

“Table twelve wants the roasted chicken.””

Marcus glanced at the ticket.

“Any special requests?””

“No. Just the chicken, the collard greens, and the sweet potato purée.””

“That's it?””

Daniel nodded.

“No complaints about the butter, the lemon, or the emotional temperature of the plate?””

Daniel nearly dropped his order pad laughing.

“No, Chef.””

Marcus turned away before Daniel could see his smile.

He prepared the chicken himself.

The bird had been brined overnight, roasted until the skin was crisp, and finished with a pan sauce infused with thyme and roasted garlic. The collard greens were slow-cooked with smoked turkey, and the sweet potato purée carried a subtle warmth from nutmeg and black pepper.

He plated the dish with the care he gave every customer.

When Daniel reached for it, Marcus held the plate for another second.

“Make sure it's hot when it reaches the table.””

“Yes, Chef.””

“And tell her the kitchen hopes she enjoys it.””

Daniel's eyebrows rose.

“That's a very personal message.””

“It's a message about the food.””

“Absolutely.””

Marcus released the plate.

Across the dining room, Camille thanked Daniel when he served her meal. She tasted the chicken, closed her eyes briefly, and smiled.

Then she continued talking to her friend.

She didn't call for the chef.

She didn't summon the manager.

She didn't even glance toward the kitchen.

Marcus should have felt relieved.

Instead, he found himself irritated by a feeling he couldn't name.

At eight-fifteen, Camille's companion excused herself to take a phone call. Camille remained at the table, sipping water while watching the rain begin to fall beyond the windows.

Marcus had just finished supervising a complicated dessert order when he noticed her standing near the service station.

Daniel was speaking to her.

Camille held a folded piece of paper in her hand.

Marcus immediately crossed the kitchen.

“What is it now?””

The words came out sharper than he intended.

Camille turned.

Her expression changed, surprise giving way to a quiet smile.

“Hello to you, too.””

Daniel stepped aside.

“I was just helping her find the coat check.””

Marcus glanced at the paper.

“What's that?””

“My receipt.””

“You need help with your receipt?””

“No. I wrote something on the back.””

Marcus folded his arms.

“Another complaint?””

Her smile faded.

“No.””

He studied her face, searching for the familiar signs of manipulation. The calculated tilt of her chin. The knowing smile. The suggestion that he was supposed to play along with whatever game she had invented.

He found none.

“Then what do you want, Camille?””

She looked down at the paper before meeting his eyes.

“To ask whether you'd be willing to have coffee with me sometime.””

The kitchen noise seemed suddenly louder.

Daniel became intensely interested in a stack of napkins.

Marcus stared at her.

“Why?””

Camille blinked.

“Why what?””

“Why do you want coffee with me?””

She drew a slow breath.

“Because I find you interesting.””

“You don't know me.””

“That's why I'm asking.””

“You could have introduced yourself like a normal person the first time.””

“I know.””

“You could have treated my staff with respect.””

“I know that, too.””

“Then why should I believe this is any different?””

The question struck harder than she expected.

Camille tightened her fingers around the paper.

“Because I'm not asking you to forgive me for last week. I'm not asking you to pretend I behaved well. I'm asking whether you'd be willing to meet me, knowing exactly how badly I handled our first conversation.””

Marcus studied her.

“And if I say no?””

“Then I'll accept it.””

“Without sending the coffee back?””

A small laugh escaped her despite the tension.

“Without sending the coffee back.””

For the first time, Marcus smiled.

It wasn't much, but Camille saw it.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

Marcus looked toward the dining room, where her companion was still speaking on the phone.

“I'm working most mornings.””

“I'm usually free before ten.””

“I start at six.””

“Then perhaps you're not interested in coffee.””

He looked back at her.

“That isn't what I said.””

She waited.

Marcus exhaled.

“Sunday. Eight-thirty. There's a place on Peachtree Street called Ellis Coffee. I can spare thirty minutes before I come in.””

Camille's eyes widened.

“Really?””

“Thirty minutes.””

“I understand.””

“And this isn't a promise that anything comes of it.””

“I understand that, too.””

“Good.””

He took the folded paper from her hand, turned it over, and wrote the address on the back.

Then he returned it.

“Sunday. Eight-thirty.””

Camille looked at the address as though he had handed her something far more valuable than directions to a coffee shop.

“Thank you, Marcus.””

He nodded and turned toward the kitchen.

This time, she didn't call after him.

As he walked away, Marcus told himself he had simply agreed to a conversation. Nothing more.

But when he reached the pass, Andre was waiting with a grin.

“Sunday morning?””

Marcus stopped.

“How long have you been standing there?””

“Long enough to learn that your schedule has suddenly become very flexible.””

“Go plate the desserts.””

Andre laughed.

Marcus returned to work, but something had shifted.

For the first time, Camille hadn't tried to force her way into his attention.

She had asked.

And, against his better judgment, he had said yes.

Sunday morning arrived beneath a clear Georgia sky.

At eight-twenty-five, Camille sat in her car outside Ellis Coffee, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. She had changed outfits three times before settling on dark jeans, a cream sweater, and small gold hoops.

She had also written down six questions she wanted to ask Marcus.

Then she had thrown the paper away because it made her feel like she was preparing for a job interview.

At eight-twenty-nine, she saw him approach.

Marcus wore dark jeans, a charcoal jacket, and a plain black T-shirt. Without his chef's coat, he looked less formal but no less commanding.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Camille stood.

“Hi.””

“Morning.””

They ordered coffee.

For several minutes, the conversation remained painfully ordinary. They discussed the weather, the restaurant, and the traffic along Peachtree Street. Marcus told her that Sunday mornings were usually his only opportunity to sit still without someone asking him to fix something.

Camille laughed.

“I imagine that must be exhausting.””

“It is.””

“Then I promise not to ask you to fix anything.””

He raised an eyebrow.

“That's a promising start.””

She smiled, and this time there was no performance in it.

At eight-fifty-five, Marcus checked his watch.

“I need to go.””

Camille nodded.

“Thank you for coming.””

He stood, then hesitated.