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I freeze, then spin back around. “Come again?”
“You will stay.”
“I will?”
Pauly sips delicately on his liquor, rising from the booth with a heavy sigh. “Yes. You will.” He sweeps past me, leaving me considerably slack-jawed in the cloud of his bergamot cologne, only to pause before he reaches the kitchen doors. He looks over his shoulder, his charcoal eyes scoping me from head to toe. “In my entire career, I have yet to see so many consistently flawless plates of beef Wellington served to a busy dinner crowd. You carry the skill and finesse of a seasoned executive chef, yet you hardly look old enough to have earned the title of head chef.”
I swallow, staring at him in stunned silence.
A tight smile crosses his lips as he finishes. “I look forward to seeing if this was simply a lucky night for you, Mr. Elliott, or if I have stumbled upon someone with the talent and tenacity to become a culinary legend.”
My hands feel like they’re shaking, so I wring them together in front of me, palms sweaty. I’m tongue-tied, my mouth dryer than the rack of lamb Lawson tried to serve to table number eight. “Um, thank you, Chef. I appreciate—”
“Good night. You will return on Monday at 3:00 p.m. sharp.”
He disappears into the kitchen, the doors swinging closed behind him.
And I just stand there.
I stand there until my heartbeats return to normal and his words fully register.
I stand there until a smile stretches across my face.
I stand there, confounded and giddy, gazing up at the ceiling and whispering softly, “I’ll do you proud, Mom.”
When I pull into the driveway the following day, after spending two grueling hours at the gym, an all-too-familiar red Ford Focus is parked in front of the house.
Great. This is exactly what I wanted to do on the first day off I’ve had in over a week—deal with my ex.
Wendy jumps out of her vehicle at the same time I do. It’s been three weeks since I broke up with her, and needless to say she hasn’t taken the news very well.
“Not today, Wendy,” I mutter, refusing to spare her a glance as I stuff my keys into my back pocket. “I’m tired.”
“Can we just talk about this?”
I hear her sandals stomping through the grass, the scent of her blackberry body mist floating into my personal space as she comes up behind me. Slowing my steps, I feel my shoulders sag with submission. My chin dips to my chest as I say, “It’s over. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“We’re just in a rut. You know what they say about the “seven-year itch.” It makes sense, Brant. This is just a blip. We’ll get through it.” Wendy moves into my view, her cinnamon swirl irises shimmering with desperation. She has dark circles under her eyes, and her hair hardly looks washed, let alone combed. “I love you.”
The forsaken look on her face softens me just a little. I can’t pretend I’m a stone-cold monster or anything. It doesn’t bring me any sort of joy to see Wendy so dejected and worn down, begging me for another chance in my front yard, looking like she hasn’t slept a wink since I spontaneously showed up at her apartment and said we were done. We were together for almost eight years. I cared about her deeply. I still do.
But we’re not right for each other, and even in the beginning I never felt that raw, passionate flame that burns and flickers when two people come together who are right for each other.
And, well…I also won’t pretend I know what that feels like. The truth is, I’ve only ever been with Wendy; she was my first and only kiss, my first and only sexual partner. She was my first and only experience with romance and relationships entirely.
So, no, I don’t exactly know what “right” feels like, but I’m pretty damn sure I know what “wrong” feels like.
I drag my hand down my face, forehead to chin. “Wendy, I’m sorry. I hate to see you like this, but I can’t keep doing this with you.”
She chews on her nail. “It’s because of Wyatt, isn’t it?”
“No. I don’t like the guy, but he has nothing to do with us.”
“So…” She licks her lips, a hopeful gesture, and reaches for my hand. “There’s an…us?”
Pulling back, I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling out of my element. It doesn’t feel good to break someone’s heart once, and doing it over and over again is damn near torture. “That’s not what I meant at all. Listen—”
The screen door claps shut behind me, but before I can spin around, two hands wrap around my face, stealing my vision. “Guess who,” says a sweet feminine voice.
