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Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.
That lump sounds again, and I hear a giggle followed by a growl.
I am a twenty-six-year-old man living at home with his parents, and I’ve just stumbled upon them having sex. Gross, gross, so fucking gross.
I mean, good for my parents for still being that in love at their age. But also, fucking gross. Not only do I not want to hear this, I don’t even want to imagine it. Don’t want to think it’s in a realm of any possibility, anywhere.
I guess this is my punishment for being lazy and not finding my own place for the last couple of years. Most, if not all, of my awake hours are spent at the restaurant. The only reason I go home is to sleep and shower, and sometimes, I just pass out on the couch in Warren’s office. There has been no need for me to pay rent on my own place or buy property when I won’t upkeep it or even occupy it more than a couple hours a week.
Now? Yeah, I’m fucking out of here in a week, tops.
My gut sours as I try not to picture what they’re doing, and I practically fly down the stairs and out to the driveway.
The roads are dark but familiar as I wind my way toward the center of town. Hope Pizza is quiet as I park in front and use the main entrance to walk inside. Coming through the front does something to my soul and reminds me of what I’m trying to do here and what I’m trying to create, while also focusing on the legacy my family has created.
Red checkered tablecloths have been traded for crisp white. My mother’s collection of artistic plates has been taken down and swapped for black-and-white photos of our family throughout the years. Instead of plates with vineyard vines and olives on them, I’ve designed our tableware in modern maroons and gleaming gold silverware. Plastic cups were upgraded to glass, and everything has become a little more polished. The restaurant still has its rustic atmosphere, small-town charm, and family aesthetic, but this is going to be my place for the foreseeable future, so I want it to reflect the kind of meals I want to put on the table.
Those meals are Italian with a twist: local, fresh ingredients from our farms and other surrounding ones, the best fish and meat I can find, innovative cooking techniques while also keeping the food down-to-earth and delicious, and my nonna’s traditional desserts to top it all off.
Silver countertops and cooking ranges greet me as I push through the swinging door to the kitchen. Pulling the strap of the small leather satchel I always carry over the top of my head, I set it down on a stack of milk crates in the corner. No way would I put this thing on the spotless counters I scrubbed down just hours ago.
My suede-covered notebook is in my hands in no time, and I’m about to start clanging pots and pans around when I hear it.
Another thump, similar to the one that sent me fleeing from my childhood home.
Freezing on the spot, my heart jumps into my throat. Hope Pizza, and our family, haven’t gone without incident these past few years. In fact, the alley next to our building was witness to two dangerous attacks on relatives of mine. Because of that, I’m always on guard when I show up here in the early hours of the morning.
The back hallway is dark as I creep down it, hands out in a defensive stance in case someone pops out of the shadows. A sigh comes from one of the offices, and as I turn into the doorway of Warren’s—my brother-in-law who married my sister after decades of them denying the attraction—office, I spot the source of the noise.
Curled up on his couch in a deep sleep, so deep she doesn’t seem to realize she kicked the wall with the force of a bucking bronco, is a woman.
Long legs in tight blue jeans curl up into her lean, trim stomach, which is exposed due to the way her dark long-sleeve has ridden up in her sleep. The hem of the shirt accentuates the swell of her breasts, and I can almost make out the curve of her pert ass where the moonlight shines through the window down onto her form. Her hands are clasped together in a praying gesture, red nail polish making them stand out from the creamy milkiness of her skin. I almost can’t make out the way thick black eyelashes kiss her smooth cheeks because of all the blond hair spread out around her head, but she seems to be breathing peacefully.
Moving a step closer, I wonder what the hell this woman is doing here. A small duffel rests on the floor next to her, and she hasn’t touched anything from what I can tell. Nothing in the restaurant looks out of place, and I would have smelled it if she’d taken anything out of the kitchen.
Is she in danger? Looking to steal from us? How did she get in?
A flash of silver from the desk catches my eye, and I turn, spying a key ring, as if the universe were answering my last question in quick succession.
Okay, so she might have a key to get in here. Which means someone gave it to her?
Taking a few quiet steps closer to the sleeping woman, I realize she’s younger than I initially thought when I first glimpsed her. And there is something kind of familiar about her face.
When she abruptly turns, flopping onto her back in a dreamlike state, I realize why.
August.
The sleeping woman is August.
Wow, she sure as hell doesn’t resemble the shy, awkward teen waitress who worked at Hope Pizza every weekend for years. This willowy, supple woman with high cheekbones and golden hair, so beautiful even in sleep, didn’t jog my memory because she looks so damn different.
I mean, I guess not that different; it’s not like she did anything to drastically change her appearance. But it’s been four years since I saw her, and before that, it was rare we’d ever cross paths. I was already in culinary school when she started working for my family’s restaurant, and she left just months after I returned.
Without being awake and looking me in the eye, I can almost feel a different air about her. This is August Percy, the daughter of a mother who beat her down emotionally enough that she was so meek and timid around strangers you’d hardly notice her. Of course, she’d been beautiful back then, not that it was appropriate for me to say so. But now? I can tell this is a woman who had left town and found out who she truly is.
As quietly as I can, I back out of the office and leave her to her dreams. If she’s sleeping on Warren’s couch, there must be a reason. Over the years, I’ve heard the whisperings about her from my sister and brother-in-law about what she went through at home. If she feels safe here, she deserves to stay undisturbed.
I guess my banging around in the kitchen will have to wait.
