Page 7

ETHAN

Rowland has let himself into my apartment, and is messing around in my kitchen by the time I get out the shower and change into sweats and a t-shirt. I’m tired, and rather grumpy, but don’t mind the company since I’m holed up alone most of the time. He’s not happy with me right now, but he was adamant about making me dinner after my farce of a book signing the night before. He was (probably still is) pissed when I told him I sought Birdie out and showed up at her café, and even more pissed when I relayed her reaction to seeing me. I’m still smarting over that.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” I tell him, taking a seat at my kitchen island. He glances over at me from his spot in front of the stove, and frowns. “I’m not babysitting you, Ethan. I’m here making you dinner, you ungrateful fuck.”

“Please,” I scoff. “You’re going to butter me up with food and then launch into an inquisition about what exactly happened with Birdie last night. You want the precise play-by-play.”

“True,” he concedes, facing the stove again and shaking the pan in his hand. “I guess I want to know why you went to her café when you told me you didn’t want to see her.” I don’t recall saying that to him, but I have no reason to believe he’s making it up. Row is a lot of things, a liar isn’t one of them. While Rowland finishes up, I grab two whisky tumblrs, fill them with ice and pour us each a double shot of Glendronach. I finally got around to restoring the collection I demolished. He pushes a plate towards me, and I push a glass towards him as he taks a seat opposite me.

“Gnocchi al gorgonzola, pere e noci,” he explains, unnecessarily. I know the dish. “Handmade potato gnocchi, sweet pear, seared walnuts and gorgonzola sauce.”

It smells divine, and right on cue my stomach grumbles its approval. “You know, you could have just ordered something from your restaurant.” I take a bite, and savor the taste, the texture, the way everything works together. “I could have,” Row replies after taking a bite of his food. “But my sous chef will never cook the way I do. I’m still the fucking best.” I smile around another bite, and shake my head. “You’re so modest,” I tease. “But really, you have a restaurant to run. Surely being here is a waste of your time.” I know what it takes to run a restaurant, a successful one, and every minute in the kitchen matters. Especially for someone like Rowland, who lives and breathes for the pressure, the process of creating dishes his patrons love. He thrives on it. I did too, but that drive is still nowhere to be found, and part of me is worried I may not find it again. I’ve been defined by my career in a kitchen, a restaurant, and without it, I have no clue who I am anymore.

Rowland chews, his gaze on me, and after swallowing his food, he replies, “You might think it’s a waste of my time, but I have an ulterior motive.”

I quirk a brow. “Which is?”

“You told me what happened last night, the short version at least,” he sighs. “But I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’d seek her out. Unless you…”

“Unless I what?”

Row tilts his head. “You want to be in her life, don’t you.” It’s a statement, not a question. “I know you still care about her, you never stopped, but do you think going there again is a good idea? For either of you?”

There’s logic in his question, a brevity I can’t ignore. “I honestly don’t know, Row.” Small lie, but necessary. I’m not quite ready to admit that yes, I wanted to see her, and no, I didn’t think past that to what the consequences would be. And maybe I should have if Birdie’s reaction is anything to go by. I was clearly the last person on Earth she expected, or wanted, to see. “I just…” I sigh, pushing my plate away. “How do I not want to see her after all this time when we’re in the same city again?”

Row wipes his mouth, and sits up. “There’s a difference between wanting and doing, Ethan. And even if you did—” He stops talking when he takes stock of my expression. I know it’s there because I can feel it, and I know it’s not hiding much. I’ve always been easy to read that way, and it’s not always to my benefit. Take now, for instance. “Ah, hell, you’ve already made up your mind! You don’t plan on staying away, I can see it on your ugly face.”

I blow a breath through my lips, and wipe my hands down my face and back up to pull at my hair. “After I saw her last night, I just… I missed her, Row. And it took seeing her again for those feelings to resurface. The guilt of what I did to her was there, and part of me wants to make things right, you know? But she was so angry, and beautiful, and so…there. She’s changed, and fuck me if I didn’t like what I saw, or how she bit back at me. I know her, but I also don’t, and after last night I can’t help but want to know her more, know who she is now. It sounds crazy—”

“That’s because it is,” Row interrupts, a bit to his tone. “Firstly, you’d have to get past Harlan, even if all you want is to be friends with Birdie again, and second, you’d have to convince Birdie that having you in her life again is a good fucking idea. And let’s not forget why you’re back in the city to begin with, you just got a fucking divorce. Emotionally, you’re in no place to go there with Birdie. Or with any woman for that matter. You want to crash into her life and bring all your shit with you?” He downs his whisky in one go. “You’re out of your fucking mind, Ethan. Birdie doesn’t deserve that.”

God, I hate it when he’s right. However, “Do you think I stand a chance?” It’s an honest question, one I’ve been turning over in my mind since Birdie walked away from me. Since I touched her, smelled her, looked at her.

Row huffs, a derisive smirk tilting his mouth up. “No, I don’t think you have a fucking chance in hell, but I know that won’t stop you from trying, and I’m probably going to burn in hell for even encouraging it, but what were you thinking? She’s likely to kick you in the balls if you ever show up at her café again, and Harlan will probably send a hitman if you tried.”

I snort. He’s right. Birdie will absolutely kick me in the balls, and then have her brother send a hitman but I’m just brazen enough to risk it. “Well,” I grab my phone from the counter and open UberEats, “I do have an idea.” I scroll until I find what I’m looking for, and then slide my phone towards Rowland. “Her café is on the app, and she’s started offering a ‘mystery treat’ every day, a Wild FlourCafé UberTREAT as she’s called it.”

He scrolls, and then glances at me, confused. “And this is going to help you how exactly?”

“I’m going to order it,” I tell him, shrugging. “And figure out the rest after that.”

“You do realize this makes no sense right? Like you’ll order from her café, and then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far,” I admit. “But I thought I’d figure it out later…” Now that I’ve said it out aloud, I realize I have no idea what happens after that. Clearly my ability to plan a menu hasn’t filtered into any other part of my life. Or maybe I don’t want to plan ahead. I’ve been known to fly by the seat of my pants from time to time. My father calls it impulsivity.

“You, my friend, are an ass.” Row taps away on my phone. “There, I’ve ordered it. Let’s see what you do when it gets here.”

“You’re going to help me?”

Another snort. “You’ve dragged me into whatever malarky plan this is, if you go down I go down with you. Always. Well, except for the marriage thing, you went down on your own on that one.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” I grumble, tossing back the amber liquid in my glass.

“Speaking of, have you heard anything from your old man about Willah the Wench?”

“Yeah, he called me earlier today. The restaurants in Paris have sold, so has the one in Columbus Circle, and he said every tie to Willah is gone. She’s not even allowed to contact me. Ever.”

Row whistles. “That was fast. What about the boarded up space you have in Tribeca?”