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My lower lip wobbled as tears threatened to fall. I’d finally gotten married and I couldn’t remember itandit was to a guy who didn’t even want me. “Don’t you think it’s worth a try? Besides, it’s not that easy to get a divorce, is it? Back home, there are residency requirements and waiting periods. Is Nevada like that, too?”
He scrubbed his hands over his face and growled, deep and sexy, in what seemed like frustration. “I don’t know. An annulment then. I’ll figure it out.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t you think we deserve a chance?”
He looked into my gaze and sighed. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
I forced a smile. “Okay.”
“But for now, I have to get to the restaurant. It’s getting late and I’m sure Jeremiah is wondering where the hell I am. And probably our supply delivery person, if Jer didn’t already accept the delivery. I really need to get going.” He headed for the door.
“Wait,” I called to him.
He turned and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
I scrawled my phone number on a piece of paper and passed it to him. “Here’s my number.” I swallowed hard. “When will I see you again?”
“I’ll call you as soon as I know something. Bye.” He lingered for a second, looking me up and down. “Bye,” he said again.
“Bye, Chef Oliver.” I grinned. “Talk to you soon.”
The second the door was closed behind him, I collapsed against it and let out a deep breath. In a daze, I looked down at my left hand and stared at the ring that had been placed on my finger.
“Married,” I murmured. “What the hell have I done?” I’d always been the hopeless romantic dreaming of the day I got married, but I never expected it to happen like that. Who was this guy, anyway? What if I’d married a serial killer? What did I even know about him?
“Okay,” I said out loud to myself. “What do I know about this guy?” I ticked off what I knew on my fingers. “He’s smoking hot. A good—no, agreatkisser. He’s a good dancer, at least after a few drinks. And he’s an excellent chef.”
To make me feel even worse, he’d been super kind to me in the time we’d worked together. He’d been tolerant of my whims and patient with my requests and needs. And somehow, though I doubt we’d ever remember quite how, he’d agreed to marry me.
My gaze traveled around the room and landed on my shiny silver laptop, waiting on the hotel room desk where I’d left it with every intention of getting some work done. I knew exactly what I needed. I needed to do some research.
I rushed to the desk and opened my laptop before throwing myself into the chair. I opened up a new browser window and in the bar I typed “Chef Oliver Ridley Hidden Cove Las Vegas.” Nerves racing through me, I hit Enter and waited for it to pull up page after page of search results.
The first article that came up was titled “Chef Ridley Marries Mystery Man,” and it included photos of our wedding from the night before. Frustrated that none of it jogged my memory, I closed the article and went back to the search page. As I scrolled through the results, I chewed my bottom lip, anxiety over what I’d find coiling in my stomach. I scrolled past the page for the restaurant itself, and past several links to articles about the restaurant, and several links about the accolades the restaurant had won, before I found an article that looked like it was about Oliver specifically.
“Vegas Chef: What’s Hotter, Food or Temper?” I clicked on it. Skimming it quickly, I learned that Oliver was well known in the food world for being the kind of guy who yelled, threw imperfect dishes away, tossed plates to the floor, and sent his employees home crying. Furrowing my brow, I looked for the publication date and saw that the article was several years old. That didn’t sound like the Oliver I’d gotten to know. I backed out quickly and looked for something else, though I wasn’t sure what. I found quite a few articles on the second page that talked about some important award Oliver had won, where he had been named one of the best young chefs in America a few years ago.
I dug for more about Oliver’s career. I skimmed page after page of results, reading headlines like, “Hidden Cove Restaurant Can’t Hide Ocean of Troubles” and “Chef Oliver Ridley Too Busy for Romance.” My stomach lurched when I read it, and I clicked immediately, my gut churning like I’d drunk sour milk. Oliver had been involved in a relationship with another chef, someone he’d opened Hidden Cove with. That chef had been worse than Oliver, and according to the article his ex, Chef Shane Messenger, had eventually been arrested for assaulting one of the line cooks over a poorly done steak. Oliver had parted ways with Shane soon after, and Hidden Cove had exploded in popularity.
I sighed and scratched the back of my neck. What I wanted to know was deeper than what kind of chef he was. I tried my search terms again. “Oliver Ridley Las Vegas.” Chewing on my bottom lip for a second, I added a negative keyword for “chef.”
That changed my results significantly. No more articles about what a talented rising star Chef Oliver was, or his terrible temper, or his awful ex. I was delighted when I found his high school graduation photos. The deeper I dug, the more amused I was. I found pictures from his graduation from culinary school, too. My favorite part, though, was when I found pictures of him participating at a yoga retreat in the desert. The caption read, “Oliver Ridley gets his ohm on.” I couldn’t imagine Oliver at a yoga retreat, not after the pieces I’d read about his terrible temper. I tried to picture him with his dark hair mussed as he bent his muscular body into downward dog or happy baby. I wondered what kind of positions—no. I shook my head to refocus myself.
My phone vibrated on the desk next to me, the display showing my sister’s name—Gianna Newton. I answered it on speaker. “Hey, Gen.”
“Hey, loser,” she greeted me cheerfully.
I snorted. “Did you call just to insult me?”
“No, of course not. I called to check in.”
“I’m in Vegas this weekend, remember?”
“Duh. That’s why I’m calling. I figured you’d have found a man by now and gotten hitched. That’s what every unattached person wants when they go to Vegas, right?”
My stomach clenched. She wasn’t wrong. We’d both joked for years about flying to Vegas and marrying the first willing candidate, but neither of us had ever been serious about the idea. “Funny you should say that.”
“Nice,” she said with a laugh. “What’s my new brother-in-law’s name?”
