“I know.”
“I’m surprised you came back at all. I thought you were planning to let the restaurant fall into the ocean.” She clears her throat. “I’ve seen you all over social media. Your old coworkers are having fun telling everyone what an asshole you always were.”
I saw a little of it on the drive down. Every article and GIF about that night makes me cringe, more for Poppy’s sake than mine. She was right about what she said in that bar. The brunt of the ridicule has been directed at her.
I wonder how she is. If she managed to worm her way back into her father’s good graces yet. Maybe she made up with that coward who dumped her. I haven’t checked her Instagram, mostly out of sheer force of will.
“Let me sign the restaurant over to you.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll sell it. You can have the profits.”
“I don’t want them.”
I shake my head at her, frustrated. “Don’t be so stubborn.”
“Stubborn?” She laughs. “You’re the stubborn one. He wanted you to run the restaurant, not sell it.”
“I can’t just—”
“Sure you can. Unless you’re busy with all the job offers pouring in?” At my silence, she continues, “He asked me who he should leave his assets to, you know. If there’s one good thing about cancer, it’s that there’s plenty of time for painful conversations before the end.”
I wince. “Ki. I’m sorry.”
“I wanted him to leave the restaurant to you. I wanted—I hoped—you’d come back.”
I know that I could sell the Sailfish and get a job somewhere else. But any position I would get now would mean going backward. I’ve fought my way up too many kitchen ladders for that. I’d wither in another subordinate role, making other people’s visions a reality.
Green Street was supposed to be the first thing in my career that was wholly and truly mine.
Poppy’s challenge circles my thoughts. I tried my best to ignore it on the drive down, but now, it’s impossible to escape. Sure, I hurt her first, but she snapped right back, piercing me between the ribs.At least I’m not wallowing in a bar getting hammered after losing my dream job. If it was me, I’d be trying to do something about it.
“Where’s the key?” I grit out.
Kiara takes a chain from around her neck, studded with a set of keys. She hands it over. My fingers curl over the skin-warmed metal.
“I can’t stay for good.”
“Jack—”
“No, listen.” I reach across the island for one of her hands, covering it with my own. “Eventually, I need to go back. But you’re right. I’m out of options right now. The stuff that’s going around online—it was a long time coming.”
She looks at me warily.
“After all the shit that went down that night, I got a drink with Douglas Winfield’s daughter. Poppy.”
“Poppy from the video?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And she’s...” I stop, unsure how to explain the utterly unique tornado that is Poppy Winfield. I’d liken her to an unbroken horse, but that implies she can be tamed. “She’s a pain in the ass, really, but she told me the best way to get her dad’s attention would be to show him what he’s missing. I have to prove myself if anyone is going to let me into a serious kitchen again.”
Kiara catches on right away. “You can run the restaurant.”
“Just long enough to make things right. I can’t have it forever. And when it sells, I’m serious, the profits are going to you.”
