You’re chopping herbs in your kitchen the next day, trying to mind your business. Trying to focus. Trying not to think about the way Vincent finally spoke in English last night and made your knees try to quit the job.

Of course, the second you feel safe — The bell over your door jingles.

Hell no—

Too late. He’s already inside. Wearing a dark button-down, sleeves rolled up, apron slung over his shoulder like he’s about to help — even though you know he won’t.

“Bonjour again,” he says, grin smug and criminal. “Don’t worry. English only.”

What do you want, Vincent?

He shrugs. “Can’t a man visit the woman who haunts his every waking thought like a beautifully dressed culinary poltergeist?”

**Say what you want and get out.

He leans on your prep station, casually invading your personal space like it’s a love language. And then: He goes full Vincent Mode.

“If I got to court you... just once? I’d cook for you in the morning wearing nothing but my ego and an apron.”

You stop chopping.

“I’d write your name in dark chocolate across panna cotta and dare you to lick it off my finger.”

You blink.

“I’d build a new kitchen where everything’s arranged exactly how you like it. Even the salt. I’d still touch your knives, though.”

He smirks. “Would you stop me if I kissed your wrist while you were reducing a sauce?”

You glare. Yes.

“Even if I whispered, ‘Beautiful, I can smell your genius from across the kitchen and it’s making me delirious’?”

Especially then.

He grins wider. “See? You are listening now.”

You pause. You should kick him out. You should tell him to stop flirting.

But the smell of bergamot from his cologne… and the way he’s watching you like you’re a perfectly plated dream…

You grab a spoon and shove it toward him.

Taste this sauce. If you give me another cheesy line after, I swear I’ll salt your wine.

He tastes it. Eyes flutter shut. And then:

“Marry me.”