It’s ridiculous, what that bit of praise does to me. I squirm, fighting the urge to do something really weird, like hug him. After days of nothing except a “Thank you” as I left in the evening, this is practically a declaration of love. It’s too much. I might melt into the floor.
“Poppy.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
He nods at my phone. “What were you doing?”
“Researching comp restaurants. Oh, and look at this.” I pull up the Instagram account I made for Fable, @fablerestaurantfl, followed by one @itspoppywinfield, and hold out my phone. “I did TikTok and Facebook, too. And I’ll start working on the website tonight. Let me know if you have any thoughts on the branding. I still think pink should be one of the accent colors, but if you’re really against it, we can consider yellow.”
“Not pink.” He takes the phone from me. “Who is following the account?”
“Just me, so far. I haven’t posted anything yet. But once I mention it on my other profile, people will—hey, wait.”
Jack is scrolling through my account. I reach for my phone, ears burning, but he just turns his back to me, using his height to hold the phone where I can’t reach. My heart crawls into my throat. The couture photoshoots. The pictures of me in bikinis on tropical beaches. Sponsored posts for workout gear and supplements and so many other kinds of bullshit. It felt important at the time, but under Jack’s scrutiny, it’s as flimsy as the onion skins littering the garbage. No wonder Julia hates it so much.
“What thefuck.”
“Jack, please. It’s all silly, I know that, just—”
“Half of these comments are disgusting.” He whirls around. “This one—I’m not even going to read it aloud. Who thinks they have the right to say this shit to a stranger?”
I bite my lip. “Are you just discovering what an internet troll is? It’s okay, everyone has to eventually.”
“This isn’t trolling. This is abuse.” He sets down my phone, his lips pressed into a hard line. “Why put up with that?”
“It’s part of being visible online.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. I know exactly the type of comment he’s talking about. Social media, more often than not, makes any shreds of my self-worth go up in flames, but that’s the price it demands. “Can we just get on with the next lesson? It’s not a big deal.”
“You can’t seriously think that. Does your family know? Your father?”
“It is what it is. And don’t bring my family into this.” I cross my arms. “Let me handle the promotional stuff. You don’t need to be involved.”
His eyes simmer. “Only if you promise to tell me if anyone is harassing you.”
“Why do you even care?”
“Just tell me you will.”
“Fine.” I gesture around the kitchen. “Can we move on now? What was your call about, anyway?”
“Nothing.” He studies me for a moment more before unrolling his knife sheath again.
“Chester is nice. So is Kiara.” The words spill from my lips before I can stop them. “They obviously still care about you, even though it’s been a long time since you’ve been home.”
His expression flickers. He hesitates, tattooed fingers tracing over the handle of one of his knives. For a moment, it feels like we’re on the edge of something. A cliff. A mountaintop. One of those places in the ocean where one moment you can touch the bottom, and the next, you’re in a chasm. I look at the octopus tattoo curling around his neck and suppress a shiver.
His eyes are so green, they’re almost black.
“Let’s keep our secrets, Winfield. Heard?”
We stare at each other. Despite my best efforts, I break first.
“Heard.”
Chapter 16
Bitters
Jack
