Page 13 of Tastes Like Summer

I have never met anyone with a stick as far up their ass as Diana. And I have worked with some of the world’s nastiest fucking chefs, many of whom had less than stellar personalities. And I’m sorry, but even though I’ve taken psychotic chefs screaming at me easily when I was in my early twenties and paying my dues, I have too much shit going on in my life to worry about some type-A personality yelling at me about every single thing I do or do not do.

“Um, Michael, are you okay?” Rachel asks from the backseat as we follow Diana’s car to her place (even though she’s taking the long way to her house and driving like a maniac).

“Yes. Why?” I try really hard to keep my voice neutral, but even I can tell I sound a bit pissed.

But really, though. She just assumed that I would let her take my kid willy-nilly? Was she really that surprised that I would demand to at least spend the first play date together? Does she really think I don’t care about my daughter? Sure, this whole parenting thing is new to me. Maybe a year ago, anyone could’ve made that argument. But she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know my life. She doesn’t know that among all that tragedy, the one shining light was this new relationship with Rachel that I always thought I’d never want. She doesn’t know that I’ve never worked so hard for something—to be good enough for my daughter after failing her so miserably.

“It’s just, well. It kinda looks like you’re strangling the wheel and…” Rachel says hesitantly.

I look down at my hands, the way I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel. Exhaling, I release my tight grip, trying to relax my whole body.

“I’m okay,” I lie. “Just thinking about work. I was gonna go back to the farm and work on some recipes with Lexi after camp.” And while that isn’t exactly a lie, the current state of pure chaos that is my restaurant opening is far from my mind. For some reason, I can only focus on dissecting every single interaction Diana and I have had—from the loud argument at Barbara’s wedding to the smallest of glances exchanged in the camp parking lot over the past week, pretending the other doesn’t exist.

I watch from the corner of my eye as Rachel’s face falls. “If you need to work, then…” she trails off, eyes on her fidgeting hands.

“No, hey. No, I want you to have fun with your new friends. I can work on the recipes tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Rachel murmurs.

When we park in Barbara’s luxurious stone driveway, Diana and her girls are already by their car.

“Pool house’s through here. It’s where me and the girls are staying,” she says, opening the gate to the yard.

She leads us through a sea of lilac hydrangeas and perfect green bushes before the girls squeal and quickly run off toward the pool area. They toe off their shoes, and excitedly murmur about the fun inflatables Barbara bought for them as they run off into the pool house to change into their swimsuits. It seems like only a few seconds later, they come back out and cannonball into the pool.

My heart warms as I watch peals of laughter burst from Rachel when she comes back to the surface.

At least she’s having fun, I tell myself, practically dragging my feet, following Diana closely behind into the house and the kitchen.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, opening the fridge door. “I’ve got flavored sparkling water. Grapefruit.”

“Uh, sure. Sounds good.”

She gives me a tightlipped smile as she hands me a cold can. “Last two.”

“Lucky.” I attempt a smile, but it’s kinda bullshit.

“Yeah, it’s my only vice. I know it’s super silly to spend money on flavored sparkling water but… They’re my favorite.” She says it in a hushed tone, almost like it’s shameful.

Sparkling water as a vice? The horror!

“Mami, can we—” Camila comes into the kitchen, but stops cold when she sees the sparkling water almost at her mother’s lips. Her daughter gasps. “Oh my gosh, can I have one? I thought we were out.”

Diana doesn’t skip a beat. “Of course. Have this one. I haven’t even touched it.” Her smile is genuine, as if she didn’t just miss out on the one thing she spoils herself with. A small sacrifice, and her daughters will never know.

She watches her daughters play through the glass doors for a moment before turning back to me. When she speaks, her eyes narrow. “You can just take a seat at the counter while I make us some food.”

Jesus Christ, this is awkward. And painful. And did I mention awkward?

I have nothing in common with this woman, and now we’re meant to spend the afternoon alone while the girls play out there? What the hell do we talk about? What do I even say?

Not to sound like an obnoxious ass, but I’ve never been in this situation with someone. This immediate rejection, this strong repellant. Talking to her feels more and more like pulling teeth with each word we attempt to exchange.

Sure, there’s no denying that Diana is gorgeous—even beneath the tell-tale signs of a mother who looks overwhelmed. Her dark hair is wrapped into a loose bun atop her head, stray curly tendrils framing her face. Her white and blue striped tee has a small coffee stain down the front that makes me think she hasn’t even seen it yet—she’s been too busy to pause and take a breath, probably. The deep circles under her eyes tell me that she’s sleep deprived and likely too exhausted to notice it. But even still, even seeing her frazzled, annoyed, and a bit rundown, she’s beautiful. She wears the same denim cutoffs from the other day, showing a delicious amount of tan leg and curvy ass. There’s a bruise on her left thigh, and I want to ask her what happened, wonder whether if I run my hands over it, her skin will be just as soft as I imagine it.

But then I catch her throwing me a look, and I’m reminded of how cold she is and the sudden and unexpected ache building somewhere deep in my stomach quickly disappears.

I need to get a grip here.