Page 88 of Surviving in Clua


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This time she doesn’t stop when I reach for her. She lets me cup her cheeks and rub the fresh tear tracks from beneath her eyes with my thumbs. She lets me lower my face to hers, and even kisses me back when I press my lips to hers, her hands pressed to where my heartbeat thunders against my rib cage, her clean, floral scent wrapping my senses and searing itself into my psyche.

This time when she pulls back I know there won’t be another unless I do what I need to do.

THIRTY-THREE

Kenzi

And just like that, we’re open.

I place a chilled glass of chardonnay on the tray with the rest of the order, then press my hands against the pale wood of the bar top either side of it and scan the restaurant.Myrestaurant. The terrace is full, the tables inside the bar are too. Same with the roof terrace.

Happy chatter and the clink of cutlery on plates sounds over the soft jazz playing over the speakers Pete helped me set up in the corners of the bar and out on the porch. The candles glow and lanterns hang from the tree branches over the terrace, swaying in the warm salty breeze.

It’s perfect.

Almost.

I run the pads of my fingers over the smooth wood. This should be the happiest night of my life. And it is in the fleeting moments he’s not on my mind. The rest of the time it’s like there’s a tightness to me, my movements, my nerves, my pride over making it. Over finally seeing something through to fruition and it being a success.

It’s been a week. A week of working my ass off to get this place back into shape after Mylo’s friend’s paint job. I had to re-sand the door and varnish it again. Repaint the walls and source new candles for the tables to replace the ones that he smashed as well as the million other things that were already on my never-ending to-do list.

When I’d walked in the next morning, my eyes puffy and my head still pounding from the lack of sleep and bone-shattering disappointment, I was fully prepared to be confronted with chaos.

All I could do was focus on taking it one step at a time. One problem at a time. One heart break at a time. The key turned easily, and the memory of Mylo fixing my apartment door was almost enough to have me turning right around and going home to crawl back under my duvet. But when I pushed the heavy iron gate, my heart stuttered in my chest.

The tables had been set back up. The chairs were back in their places and the broken glass was gone. The red paint had been partially washed off the white wall, the numbers scrawled there now nothing more than smudges of watered-down red.

Mylo.

My face had crumpled then along with the assumption that I’d already used up even my reserve tears.

It was over. Finished. Done. But he’d still done this for me and that sits like a heavy weight in my stomach. He’s a good guy. One of the best. He’s just not mine anymore.

“Rylie says they’re out of house red up top, boss.”

I blink to clear the memories and paste a smile on when Jo slides the order slip across the bar.

“You okay?”

My smile turns genuine. “I’m fine. Better than fine. Look at this place.”

She narrows her eyes at me but slides the tray of drinks onto her hand, then lifts it easily. “Have you spoken to Mylo since he got back?” She lifts her free hand to help balance the tray above her shoulder. “I kind of thought he’d have shown up tonight.”

I gnaw on my lip but shake my head. He got back last night. I heard him in his apartment.

Part of me expected him to show up too. The other part gets it. We broke up. I broke up with him and, as miserable as I’ve been this last week because of it, I know it was the right thing to do. His past will just keep on coming between us until he deals with it. Something he clearly either refuses or is incapable of doing. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Honestly. I’ll get that wine.” I grin wide, then turn back to the rack, my smile instantly fading.

“The last plate has officially left the kitchen.” Simon appears behind the bar beside me, straightening his black chef’s uniform, his hair slicked back, a smug smile on his face as he takes in the packed restaurant. “We killed it tonight.” He holds out his fist.

“I think you might be right.” I bump mine against his, then turn back to the restaurant with the bottle of red, my gaze flicking from table to table like it’s been doing all night. I blink it back to Simon, try to disguise the heaviness of my stupid disappointment. He’s not coming.

It’s passed one by the time the restaurant has finally emptied out, and Jo, Rylie, Simon, and his sous chef have headed home after our celebratory glass of champagne. We’ve cleaned and tidied and set up for the same again tomorrow.

I take in the restaurant one more time before heading up to the roof terrace to turn the lights off up there.

The second my foot hits the top step I see him. My breath catches, my lips part.

Sitting across the roof terrace from me, staring out over the darkened beach. Mylo. Back ramrod straight beneath a white button-down, sleeves rolled, hands fisted so tightly on the table the muscles in his forearms are corded.

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