EMILY
I NEARLY JUMP as Noah gets close enough to me to place a bowl of soup in front of me.
Garrett growls. He's got a death grip on the steak knife in his hand. His glare says it all: back up.
Noah's eyes get as wide as saucers. He hurriedly moves away from me.
"Roasted chestnut and winter squash bisque," he says, voice a little squeaky, "finished with crème fraîche, a drizzle of sage brown butter, and toasted pumpkin seeds."
"Thank you," I force out.
"My pleasure. Served with warm sourdough rolls and whipped huckleberry-honey butter."
It's then that I notice Noah, now almost comically twisting himself to stay as far away from me is possible, is still sneaking glances at me with more than casual interest.
There's some combination of fascination, confusion, and astonishment there that seems entirely unwarranted by my unremarkable presence.
Unless… Unless he recognizes me from the pictures. It wouldn't be the first time.
