Page 71 of The Best I Never Had

Addy’s brow furrows, and she glances between me and Owen like we’re a riddle she’s determined to solve. I fight against the flush in my cheeks.

“I like the changes they’ve made,” Harrison says, leaning forward to catch my eye. “How does this compare to the restaurants you’ve worked in?”

Owen turns to me, a smirk on his face. “Yeah, Thea. What do you think?”

That smirk paired with his warm fingers should be illegal. He slips his hand from between my legs, stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs instead, and I don’t know if I’m grateful for the space or desperate for him to finish what he started.

“It’s, um…” I clear my throat, trying to focus enough to form a coherent response.

I glance around the restaurant. It’s stunning when you stop thirsting over your sorta-but-not-quite boyfriend to look at the space. It must be a newer renovation, with light wood floors paired with crisp white tile along the main wall. Touches of greenery and light blues add to the soft, contemporary space. It looks like it popped right off a Pinterest inspiration board. But it’s nearly empty, making what should be an airy, open space feel desolate.

“It’s beautiful,” I say diplomatically, “but … a bit … quiet?”

Now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. I want to go back to Owen’s fingers overwhelming all my other senses, but Camila’s disappeared from behind the desk, and I see the expressions of horror on the patrons closer to the front of the restaurant from here, and I can’t stop myself from checking in.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be right back,” I say, pushing back from the table and mourning the way Owen’s hand slides off my thigh.

Camila slips out of the back as I walk up. “They scare you off already?”

“Just needed to stretch my legs,” I say. “A quiet night?”

She winces. “Unfortunately, not. The restaurant used to be popular with the town and the guests, but we got hit with a kitchen fire a couple years ago and took the opportunity to renovate. Another nice restaurant opened downtown while we were getting up and running, and it’s been hard to get people up the mountain ever since.”

Before I can speak, Camila’s face suddenly pinches like she’s smelled something horrible.

“Excuse me,” she says primly, walking a few feet to the door with WOMEN printed in bold across the frosted window.

A second passes before she starts retching. The same guests from before look dubiously at their food and then back at the door Camila disappeared through. I awkwardly wave, and they lift their hand in return.

Camila comes out with a bright smile. “Has Aunt Diana tried to turn this into a double wedding yet?

My brows pull together. “Are you okay?”

Her smile falters a bit. “Of course! Why would you ask?”

I look over at the patrons, who are all watching us closely, then position myself with my back to them. I point at the door, then mimic throwing up. And her eyes go wide.

“Y’all could hear that?” When I scrunch up my nose and nod, she mutters to herself in Spanish.

“Do you need to go home?” I ask.

She sighs, her hand landing on her bump. “Contrary to what Nana says, the condition is not, in fact, catching.”

I point at the cantaloupe on her stomach. “Aren’t you a little far along for that?”

“Yes, but this little parasite”—her smile is so indulgent that you just know her daughter is going to be spoiled beyond all reason—“is an overachiever. The doctor said it’ll continue all the way through, and with the wedding events, I forgot to grab the refill of my anti-nausea meds before work.”

“Can I get you anything? Ginger ale or crackers or something?”

“Oh, I tried all of that, trust me. The only thing that works is the medication and a flat surface until it can take effect.” Her face goes pinched again. “Excuse me one minute.”

She turns on her heel again, posture straight and a calm look on her face, but the chorus of gagging immediately picks back up. A minute or so later, she’s back like nothing ever happened.

“So your plan is to just keep throwing up every ten minutes all night?”

Her smile is brittle. “This has been my life for the past four months. If there’s a toilet in this building, I’ve puked in it. I can’t leave the restaurant.”

“What if I managed it?” I ask before I can think it through. I’ve never managed a restaurant, but I’ve been in them my entire working life. How hard could it be for a couple of hours? There are only three tables filled, for god’s sake, including the Hayes table.