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If they even were my decisions. Maybe I had no choice. Fate had chosen this path for me.
Free will. It was a lie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Elara
Cole held out a hand, and I took it. He looked incredible—tanned skin, kind eyes, warm smile.
"The girls wanted to play with us," he said, his voice resonating through me. "They're up in the tree house."
"Sounds fun," I said, my heart swelling with love for him, for them, for this life we were sharing.
"Let's not rush though, eh?" His smile widened as he looped his arms around my waist, his warmth drawing me in. He smelled clean and inviting, all musk and spice—the scent of an honest, hard-working man.
"You think they can wait a couple of minutes?"
"I think so."
He pressed his lips against mine, circling his arms around me. Then his lips moved to my ear, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine as he whispered, "Elara, I don't have feelings for you."
My heart dropped like a stone. I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. The sky darkened and the sun's warmth vanished. Panic clawed at my chest, and I—
"Ugh!" I groaned, jolting awake, my heart racing as I tried to make sense of my surroundings.
It's all right. You're safe. You're safe.
It took me a minute to realize that I was lying on Helen's couch in New York, tangled in sweat-drenched sheets. Rain drummed against the windows, accompanied by the cacophony of traffic—engines revving, horns blaring. It was only 5 a.m.
I sighed, rubbing my eyes and looking for Anthony. He was curled up under the table, still asleep. I hoped I hadn't woken Helen.
I got up and made myself a coffee, then sat by the window looking out over the city. Helen had been so generous to let me stay this long. I thought I'd be out in a couple of weeks, but nothing had gone my way.
Finding work seemed impossible. I'd applied to every fine dining establishment in the city without receiving a single interview. Chef Luigi’s final words to me after I quit The Tortoise haunted me.
You'll never work in this city again!
I wouldn't have put it past him to spread rumors about me to other restaurateurs. So, after exhausting fine dining options, I decided to be less picky and apply to any restaurant in the city. Rejection after rejection followed. Some places said I was overqualified, and others claimed I lacked relevant experience with their cuisine. One place even suggested I apply to the Pierre Trouffant Pastry School before contacting them for work.
Today, though, I finally had my first interview. It was at a by-the-slice pizza place in Brooklyn called Cut and Dry. Being me, I'd researched the place extensively and even sampled a slice a couple of days ago. It was good, but there was definitely room for improvement.
Was I excited about the interview? No. Was I going to do everything I could to ace it and get the job? Definitely. It was the only solid plan I had right now.
As I finished my coffee, I opened my laptop and scanned my emails. There was another flurry of rejections from the job agency I'd signed up with. I didn't bother opening anything until my eyes caught an email from Jenna.
Had I finally sold the bar? I opened up the email, my heart in my throat. The email stated that we'd still had no luck in selling the “retail unit”—I'd tried to stop thinking of it as Dad's bar in an effort to feel less attached to the place. Jenna was suggesting reducing the price of the retail unit to $250,000. It was probably good advice, and not the first time she’d given it to me.
Problem was, I didn't want to lower the price. The bar was precious. If a buyer couldn’t see that, then they didn’t deserve to have it.
If I had a place like that, I thought, I’d know its true value. I’d pay a good price for it and then treat it with love and respect.
So, I replied: "Thanks, Jenna, but I still want to hold off on lowering the price for now."
I felt slightly better after doing that. Like I’d dodged a bullet somehow. Then I went to shower and try to rouse myself before the interview.
By the time I got out of the shower, Helen had already got up and gone. She always left early to prepare the mise en place before the lunchtime service at The Tortoise. I wondered if she’d started leaving earlier than usual, though. Maybe she needed a little time to herself, and I didn’t blame her for that. She was used to having her own space. So was I, honestly. I was desperate to afford a place of my own.
Funny, really. I was trying to find somewhere to live in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Meanwhile, I already owned a rundown trailer in Bluehaven Beach. Not the swankiest place, nor the most sophisticated—but maybe the most beautiful.
