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“Did you see?” he asked.
“I fucking saw.”
He came in, shut the door calmly, and sat in the chair opposite mine. After blowing out a sigh, he said, “It’s not necessarily a no for us.”
“Bullshit. They don’t do two places from the same side of a state, let alone the same small town.”
“Yeah. I think you’re probably right,” Seth acknowledged. He shut up for a few seconds, then said, “It’s all subjective. You know that.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Their opinions don’t mean a fucking thing. We’ve been here for years running our family’s restaurant. That show doesn’t get a say in what we’re doing or how we’re doing it.”
I didn’t respond. Just waited for him to get it all out and then get out of my office.
“You’re a damn good chef, Cash, and you know it.”
My brother sat there and stared at me, even though I wasn’t looking directly at him. I waited him out.
“This on top of Ava leaving sucks, huh?”
Rain smacked against the window, as if it was coming at me too.
“How ’bout you leave me alone?” I lashed out, meeting his gaze finally, my eyes hopefully flashing with my toxic anger so he’d get the message.
His eyes flashed right back at me with a satisfying dose of pissed-off. Good. Bring it on. A fight would feel fan-fucking-tastic.
“Get over yourself,” he said, his voice low, controlled, but undeniably angry.
“You don’t know anything about it,” I growled.
“I know more than you think.”
The fuck he did.
“You run this place from the safety of your precious office,” I rumbled. “You have no idea how it is when it’syourcreations being judged,yourwork being deemed not good enough. I put my heart into every dish on that menu, so don’t tell me you know what it’s like to have some upstart fuckers across town come in and get chosen over me.”
His jaw ticked as he stared me down for several seconds, no doubt calming his unflusterable self the way I obviously didn’t care to do. “I might not create the food, but I put my heart into everything else. I oversee the marketing and the atmosphere and every other thing about this restaurant. We’re a partnership, in this together. So hell yes I take that shit personally. Whether it’s exactly the same or not isn’t the issue.”
“What’s the fucking issue?”
“The issue,” he bit out at me, “is that you have some screwed-up idea that you’re not good enough. You have for years. Not just about the food, but let’s talk about the food. You know you’re an excellent chef. I know you know that. And yet you’ve been targeting this show as if you can’t exist without their seal of approval.”
“Their seal of approval would have a tangible result in sales,” I explained to him as if he wasn’t more intelligent than the rest of us Henrys put together.
“Fuck the tangible result. This isn’t about that.”
“Then what’s it about?” I snarled.
Seth leaned back, crossed his arms, and looked me straight in the eyes. “It’s about you, Cash. That show might bring in business but it wouldn’t changeyou. You’d still walk around discontented all the time, with something to prove.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I growled, acting like he was insane even as his words hit a raw spot inside of me that I refused to acknowledge.
“I don’t know what your dysfunction is,” he said, leaning forward, “but for some reason, nothing’s ever good enough for you.”
“Because I want Henry’s to be featured on the show instead of some shiny new start-up?”
“You’re unhappy, and a show isn’t going to fix it, Cash. You’re searching for some kind of career gold medal, but you’ve already gotten accolades out the ass for your food, for Henry’s. Everyone buys into it, everyone knows how good you are—except you.”
