Chapter 5 - The Private Table
By the fifth month of their arrangement, the nature of June’s work had subtly shifted.
She was no longer just catering large, chaotic gatherings of sixty men in drafty warehouses. More and more frequently, Cormac requested her services for small, intimate gatherings at his private residence—a magnificent, secluded stone estate tucked behind high iron gates in the historic neighborhood of Kenwood.
The estate’s kitchen was a chef’s dream: custom French gas ranges, copper cookware imported from Normandy, walk-in refrigeration units lined with cedar shelves, and high arched windows that looked out over a private courtyard garden filled with dark ivy and stone fountains.
On a cold October evening, June stood over a heavy copper saucepan, whisking a silky sauce made from reduced port wine, shallow-fried shallots, and dark cocoa beans to accompany a roasted loin of venison.
She was alone in the vast house. Cormac had dismissed his domestic staff for the evening, leaving only two security guards stationed near the outer gatehouse.
The kitchen door creaked open.
Cormac walked in, wearing a dark blue silk dressing gown over his trousers and a white linen shirt, his silver hair still damp from a shower. He looked tired—not the sharp, dangerous tiredness of a man fighting for corporate control, but the bone-deep, quiet exhaustion of a man who had carried the weight of an empire on his shoulders for thirty years without ever taking a breath.
He didn't sit at the formal dining room table. He walked over to the marble island in the center of the kitchen, pulled out a high wooden stool, and sat down directly across from where June was working.
“It smells remarkable in here,” Cormac murmured, resting his chin on his hand as he watched her work.
“Venison with a dark cocoa and port reduction,” June said, pouring the dark, glossy sauce over two perfectly rested cuts of meat on warm porcelain plates. “It’s a recipe my grandmother brought over from Bavaria. My father used to hunt in the North Woods every autumn.”
She placed one plate in front of him, set a silver fork and knife beside it, and then picked up her dish towel to clean her work surface.
“Where is your plate, June?” Cormac asked softly.
June paused, looking at him in surprise. “I’m the cook, Mr. Riley. I eat standing up at the prep counter when the work is finished.”
Cormac reached out, his long fingers gently grasping her wrist. His grip was warm, soft, and entirely lacking in force, yet it stopped her instantly.
“Tonight, you are not just the cook, June,” Cormac said quietly, looking up into her eyes. “Sit down with me. Please.”
June looked at his face—at the faint lines around his eyes, the subtle curve of his mouth, and the quiet, vulnerable hope in his expression.
Slowly, she unpinned her white apron, hung it over the back of a chair, fetched her own plate from the stove, and sat down on the wooden stool directly across from him.
They ate in silence for the first five minutes. The venison was extraordinary—rich, tender, and perfectly balanced by the bitter warmth of the cocoa sauce.
“Ray never sat with me while I cooked,” June said suddenly, her voice dropping into the quiet space between them.
Cormac looked up from his plate. “Never?”
“Ray thought a kitchen was a place where service was performed, not where lives were shared,” June whispered, looking down at her glass of red wine. “For twenty-three years, I was the woman in the back who made sure his life ran smoothly. When he walked through the diner front door, he was the king of the neighborhood. When I stepped out into the dining room, I was just the staff.”
She looked up at Cormac, her dark eyes clear and steady.
“When he died, I thought my life was over. I thought I was forty-eight, invisible, unwanted by the world, and destined to die behind that flat-top grill trying to pay off his ghost.”
Cormac set his fork down. He reached across the small marble counter, placing his palm flat over her calloused hand.
“Ray Holloway was a fool, June,” Cormac said, his voice deep, gravelly, and vibrating with an intense, raw sincerity that made her heart skip a beat. “He had a diamond in his house, and he treated it like a piece of coal because he didn't have the eyes to see what true value looked like.”
June felt a hot flush of color rise into her cheeks. “I’m forty-eight, Cormac. I have gray hair at my temples, callouses on my fingers, and scars on my arms.”
“And you are the most magnificent woman who has ever walked into my life,” Cormac whispered, his thumb slowly tracing the back of her hand, brushing over her split knuckles with a reverence that made tears spring to her eyes. “You don't need to be young to be wanted, June. You just need to be real.”
May you like
June sat frozen, the quiet warmth of his hand seeping into her skin, melting away months of cold grief, fear, and lonely exhaustion.
For the first time in five years, June Holloway smiled—a real, radiant, beautiful smile that lit up her entire face, erasing twenty years of tiredness in a single, breathtaking second.
