Elena pushed open the side door of Bellamy's Table just in time to hear hushed voices—low, sharp, too close.
She froze in the hallway, half-shadowed by the pantry door.
Just beyond it, Marco stood with Talia.
His hand rested on the counter beside her hip, bodies too near, tension practically thick enough to slice.
"You're playing with fire," Talia murmured.
"You like fire," Marco said, voice rough.
"You're not the only one who can handle heat."
Elena could've left.
Slipped out quietly, let the scene dissolve.
But she didn't.
Instead, she cleared her throat and stepped inside like she hadn't heard a thing.
Talia straightened.
Marco stepped back, just enough to be appropriate.
"Elena," he said, smoothing his tone into something velvety.
"Didn't expect you so early."
"Clearly," she replied, walking in slowly, deliberately, her hips swinging like she owned the room.
"Hope I'm not interrupting… anything hot."
Talia gave a razor-sharp smile.
"Just business."
Elena turned to Marco.
"Because it sounded like dessert."
Talia chuckled low in her throat.
"You've got a sharp tongue."
"You should taste it sometime," Elena said sweetly.
The air practically snapped.
Marco cleared his throat.
"Elena, did you want to help with prep again?"
"Only if I can pick today's special."
Marco raised a brow.
"You have something in mind?"
Elena's smile deepened.
"Something… unconventional."
She moved past them, hips brushing Marco's side, and grabbed a piece of parchment.
Scribbled in that same teasing cursive:
Today's Special: Shared Plate—Meant for More Than Two.
Talia read it, blinked, then smirked.
"Is that a challenge or an invitation?"
"Why not both?" Elena said, already tying on her apron.
The rest of the afternoon, they cooked in a blur of glances, brushes, and simmering questions.
Heat built slowly—more than culinary.
By closing, they'd crafted a dish meant to be savored by many hands.
And just before Elena left, she turned to both of them and whispered, "Tomorrow night… let's see how well the kitchen handles three."