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“One last screw, huh?” I ask, my shaky voice exposing my aching heart.
Randy looks at me, earnest and sincere. “That’s not what this is,” he insists. “I never planned for it to end like this.”
“End? Are you leaving for good?” I ask, already feeling brokenhearted.
“No,” he profoundly proclaims. “That’s not what I meant. “I didn’t plan for us to be like this before I headed to the competition. Although I wanted it. I always wanted it.”
Staring into eyes I’ve looked into a million times, I realize the truth: I never believed this would happen between us either, not like this. Things between us have always had a way of unfolding spontaneously. But it’s clear Randy isn’t in a place to consider something as serious as a full-time relationship. With this cooking competition, his future has just become a canvas of possibilities—Paris, London, LA, or maybe a return to New York. The world is his oyster.
As for me, I’m still trying to figure out what I truly want from life, where my own path should lead.
“What are you thinking?” His question pulls me from my introspection.
I lock eyes with him, my heart heavy. Yet I’m determined not to let that show. “I’m wondering who’s going to clock my arrival time now that you’ll be gone?” I manage to joke, trying to lighten the mood with a chuckle.
Randy’s smile flickers, bittersweet, before he draws me closer, and we find ourselves lost in a series of kisses. Between the tender moments, he murmurs, “Oh no, Chef Emerson, I will never stop being a pain in your ass.” His words muffle as our kisses deepen, our connection unspoken yet solid as we continue to explore the comfort and chaos of our emotions.
Chapter 9
Journey Men
Randy
Since returning to my hometown, I’ve been living in the house I grew up in. My Uncle Todd, my father’s brother, couldn’t bring himself to sell it after my parents died. Todd was a man of contradictions—there were times when a little softness from him could have made a world of difference. Yet in his own way, and when it truly counted, he showed his love—like keeping this house just for me and the family he hoped I would one day make.
Jeremy, having blown into town last week, has been lodging at Steve’s place. He would have preferred to stay here with me, but he’s here to look after Steve, which makes it all the more disappointing that Steve didn’t show up with Jeremy to see me off like he promised.
My flight to New Orleans is in four hours. That’s where the Head Chef World Domination competition is being filmed. It’s supposed to be a grueling production schedule, lasting somewhere between eight and twelve weeks. I don’t want to go that long without seeing Gina, but what am I to do? I can’t back out now. But there’s something worse that could happen with me being gone for so long, and it has to do with Steve, who isn’t here like he should be.
For my last meal with Jeremy, I made something special—our favorite, Oysters Rockefeller, accompanied by spinach and parmesan risotto.
“Damn,” Jeremy murmurs, his eyes closed as he savors each bite. “This is like music to my mouth.”
His lighthearted approach to the moment irks me, especially considering the circumstances. I’m on the verge of expressing my frustration about Steve’s absence yet again, when my phone dings with an incoming message.
I glance at the screen. “It’s Steve,” I announce, my frown deepening so much that it adds to my headache. “He’s in Atlantic City.”
“Ah, hell.” Jeremy blows out a breath, leaning back in his chair, his demeanor dimming as he fully grasps the situation. The realization of what can happen when Steve is left unsupervised seems to finally hit him.
Rubbing my temples, I try to ease the tension headache building from the stress. Yet despite the unfolding chaos with Steve, I find my usual readiness to lash out dampened by the lingering bliss of my night with Gina. Her taste, her touch, the intimacy we shared—it’s all still vivid, casting a glow over everything else. Steve’s reckless escapades in Atlantic City can’t completely erase this serene afterglow.
“He’s a grown man,” Jeremy mutters after a while, perhaps more for his own reassurance than mine.
“Yeah, but he’s our cousin,” I counter, feeling the full gravity of those words.
A heavy silence follows my statement, underscoring the magnitude of the situation. The weight of our shared history, of our responsibility toward one another, feels heavy. Jeremy, Steve, and I—we’ve looked out for each other since childhood. Steve often bridged the gap between his father and me, stepping in to look after me when needed. The thought solidifies my resolve; I owe it to him to return that care, no matter the cost.
“Shit,” I mutter, the importance of the situation pressing down on me. “Maybe I should call the show and back out.”
“The hell you will,” Jeremy counters, his determination clear. “You’re going. I’ll handle Steve. Unless…” His expression shifts to one of speculation. “This hesitation isn’t really about Steve, is it?”
Jeremy raises his hands in a gesture of peace. “Hey, I get it. She’s the kind of person who could make you reconsider everything. I just wish she wasn’t into you.”
I give him a pointed look, half-joking, half-serious. “Keep your thoughts—and hands—to yourself while I’m gone.”
“So, are you and Gina officially an item now?” Jeremy asks.
Jeremy’s probing question sends a wave of anxiety crashing over me. The truth is, I’m navigating uncharted waters here. My passion for cooking has always been my primary focus, relegating any form of human intimacy to nothing more than fleeting encounters. Genuine companionship, the kind that goes beyond the physical, has never been part of my repertoire. Until Gina, I hadn’t been with the same woman more than twice, or maybe three times, let alone experienced anything like the intense, all-consuming connection I felt with her last night. The depth, the slow burn, the reluctance to part ways—it was unfamiliar territory. Was that love? I’m not even sure.
