One guy asked if he could eat the leftovers for free, and another girl showed up ten minutes late with a smoothie in hand.
I’m beat.
Knox took off an hour ago, heading to the gym to bench press his frustrations away. He does that whenever he feels like he’s losing control of the logistics.
Usually, I’d go with him, spot him, maybe hit the heavy bag myself, but tonight my energy is hovering somewhere near zero.
I’m sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, when Eli’s voice drifts in from the kitchen.
“Fallon! Get in here!”
I groan, dragging myself upright. “What? Did you make one of your tomato smoothies again?”
“Nope. Something better.”
That’s not promising.
I shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over my face. The space smells incredible—rich, savory, and buttery. Eli is standing by the island, two plates in hand.
On them sit individual meat pies, the crust golden brown and flaky, the filling bubbling up through the vents in the pastry.
“Meat pies?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Eli says, sliding a plate toward me. “I had some leftover braised short ribs from the stew Knox made the other day, and I picked up these heirloom tomatoes at the market this morning. I wanted to try something different.”
I pick up a fork and break the crust. It shatters beautifully, releasing a cloud of steam scented with thyme and beef. I take a bite.
The flavors hit my tongue—the rich, gelatinous beef, the acidity of the tomatoes that have been roasted down to sweetness, and the flaky, buttery crust. It’s incredible.
“Fuck, Eli,” I mumble around a mouthful. “This is good. Like, actually good. We should add this to the lunch menu. The lunch crowd would go crazy for this.”
Eli leans against the counter, crossing his arms, looking pleased but cautious. “You think? I don’t know. The tomatoes were fresh from the market, the best batch I’ve seen in a while. I’m not sure we can get this quality consistently for a daily menu item. It might be a special-only kind of dish.”
“Then we make it a special every week,” I argue, taking another bite. “People love comfort food. Don’t overthink it.”
He shrugs, taking a bite of his own pie. “Maybe. I’ll run it by Knox.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The kitchen is warm, the only sound the clinking of forks against the ceramic plates.
“I’m beat,” I say, finally setting my fork down. “These interviews are draining my soul. I think I scared that last kid away just by staring at him.”
“Same,” Eli admits, finishing his food. “My feet are killing me. And I think I burned my arm on the oven door earlier.”
I glance down at my own arms. My left arm is a tapestry of blue and gray—the lighthouse standing guard on my shoulder, the waves crashing around my bicep, the vintage compass on my inner forearm guiding me forward.
My right arm tells the story of the land and my family—the cluster of herbs, the five interlocking rings for my siblings, the sturdy oak branch. And over my heart, beneath my shirt, the driftwood tree grows.
I was supposed to add to it today. Or this week, at least.
“Are you still heading down to the shop for that tattoo?” Eli asks, following my gaze.
“No. Dax called me an hour ago. Double booking. Again.”
“Again?” Eli frowns. “Isn’t that the second time it’s been postponed?”
“Third time, actually.” I push my plate away. “He has this new receptionist, some girl who can’t read a calendar to save her life. She booked a four-hour session for some guy getting a full back piece right in the middle of my slot. Dax apologized, offered me a discount on the next one, but it’s just… frustrating.”
“Maybe the universe is intervening,” Eli suggests, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re not meant to get this tattoo.”
