“Douglas,” Mom says, turning to my father. “Can you believe this?”
In the past, whenever they’ve expressed pride for something I accomplished, it always held a tinge of regret, as if they wished they could be celebrating bigger, better things. Why celebrate one daughter finally passing geometry with a C+ when your other daughter just got into Harvard law? It used to sting, even when they were smiling.
This feels different, however.
This feels genuine.
“Wait until you taste dessert,” I can’t help but add. “I made it, start to finish.”
Dad unwraps the fish packet slowly. He tastes it on its own first, a delicate bite with his eyes closed. Then he puts together a forkful of all the components together. It’s the same thing Jack does, wanting the separate parts and then the whole.
“Wow,” he says eventually.
My heart might explode. I nearly break out into a dance, but remember myself at the last moment. The front of house manager doesn’t bounce on her feet—in front of her father, at least.
“You came up with this?” he says.
I nod. “Jack executed the details.”
“But it was your concept.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. I might not have become an accomplished chef overnight, but under Jack’s tutelage, I learned more in a handful of months than I’d have thought possible. I know what flavors go together. I know how to handle a set of kitchen knives. I can sear and braise and bake and broil. I don’t have the training to keep up with Jack during the dinner rush, but I don’t want to, anyway. I want to continue to invent. To explore. To run this dining room with all the grace and dignity it deserves.
“I’ll let you eat,” I add, retreating before they can draw me into more conversation. I’m about to burst out of my skin with relief and happiness. The look in Dad’s eyes—I can read them perfectly. The food has impressed him. The restaurant has impressed him. Jack has impressed him. AndIimpressed him, finally, after years and years of trying and failing.
I nearly burst into the kitchen, but I don’t want to throw Jack off again, so I escape to the restroom instead. I do a victory dance in my heels until I trip and nearly fall into the hand dryer. I feel like I could run a marathon right now, shoes and all, and win the whole thing.
Once Jack hears how much my dad loves Fable, there’s no way he’ll want to sell. Maybe Kiara’s right and we can get Dad onboard as an investor. He’s been expanding to the west coast, after all; why not back a restaurant in Florida, too? Jack and I can go in as partners and build it up even more. Together. Make it better than Green Street could ever be.
And I’ll have stubborn, headstrong, irresistible Jack Hartman in my life forever.
When I finally stop wiggling for half a second, I smooth the creases in my dress, reapply my lipstick, and fuss with my hair. A quick glance at the dining room shows me that my family is nearly finished with their dinners; my dad isn’t even at the table anymore. Maybe he’s in the other restroom, or getting a drink at the bar, or observing Jack as he works. I hope it’s not the latter, because I want to surprise him when I bring out my tropical trifle for dessert.
I nudge open the door to the kitchen.
My dadisthere—and he’s talking to Jack.
I nearly join them, but the way they’re positioned, heads bent together, gives me pause. I duck around the corner and behind a storage cabinet. It’s hard to make out what they’re saying amid the general kitchen chaos, but my ears perk up when I hear my name.
“—can’t thank you enough for indulging Poppy these past few months,” Dad is saying. “I know how much she can be to handle.”
His words sink in, first slowly and then all at once, with the force of a hammer. My stomach drops through a sudden trap door in my body. I try to press closer without letting myself be seen. Jack has his back to the walk-in, drumming his fingers against his arm like he’s itching to get back on the line. Dad, cutting a tall, imposing figure in the sterile white and silver of the kitchen, reaches out to clap him on the shoulder.
Indulging Poppyplays in my head on repeat, a hellish kind of scratched record. Dad makes it sound as if he saddled Jack with a babysitting gig he didn’t ask for.
“I told you, the deal’s off,” Jack says.
“Well, Green Street is still...” I can’t understand the rest of Dad’s sentence, thanks to the spray of water coming from the dishwashing station. I scoot a little closer, nearly losing my hiding spot. “...discuss details when you’re back in New York.”
I jerk with surprise, hitting my arm on the storage cabinet. I hiss, cradling my elbow, and turn to see my father and Jack standing in front of me.
The noise of the kitchen fades away. Dad grimaces, half-reachingfor me. Jack, however, stays rooted to the spot. He looks as if someone just sucker-punched him.
“Poppy,” Dad says, looking chagrined.
“‘Discuss the details when you’re back in New York,’ Dad? Seriously?”
“I was worried about you,” he says. There’s a pinched line between his brows, a frown on his severe face. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
