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I wanted to make amends with Dylan. I’d just lost an important person in my life and craved to balance it out by returning a special someone to it. The way to Dylan’s heart passed through her brother’s approval. So maybe he and I occupying the same town wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Why’d you move back?” I piped out.
“Opened a restaurant here about a year ago.” He grabbed a piece of cherry pie, shoving it into his mouth without tasting it. “Descartes.”
His French accent was on point. So were my nipples, which apparently approved of his grasp of the French language. “Really? I hadn’t heard.”
“The Michelin people did. Gave it three stars. The first restaurant in the state of Maine to receive the honor. Just won the James Beard Award for it, actually. Guess that levels things out.”
Sarcasm was a good look on him. Hell, a trash bag probably would be too.
Also, why did he have to be good at everything he touched? It was completely exasperating to someone like me, whose life was a string of failures, interspersed by bodega runs and late-night trips to the laundromat.
“Why the name Descartes?” I munched on the corner of my mouth.
“Taco Bell was taken.” He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, and my nether region clenched in response.
“No, what I mean is, why him of all philosophers?” Descartes was known for the connection he had made between geometry and algebra. My father had been fascinated by him and had spoken of him often.
“Are you always so full of questions?” he seethed.
“Are you always so full of attitude?” I sassed back.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Made an entire career based on it. Asshole is my entire personality.”
“You weren’t always like that,” I pointed out, my gaze holding his. “Once upon a time, you were the best part of my day some days.”
My confession frightened me. It was too honest, too raw. Row’s face remained blank and unimpressed. Not one muscle twitched. “What a crappy adolescence you must’ve had to put so much stock in someone who didn’t give a shit. Go back to torturing Lyle with your VH1 trivia.”
“You know, I think I’d rather torture you. You’re closer, and unlike Lyle, I don’t like you. So I guess you’re stuck with me.” I didn’t care about his scary reputation or the fact that I was usually a ball of anxious sunshine just trying to get along with everyone—I couldn’t let him get away with this kind of behavior.
Row’s eyes flicked over my frame briefly. He pushed another piece of unidentified food into his mouth. “You changed your hair color.”
“Just the tips.” I felt myself blushing and was surprised that I did. Yes, I’d had a crush on him when I was a teenager, but I was over him. I’d only thought about him whenever he popped up on my TV screen or in glossy magazine covers. “Indigo. It represents sadness and mourning.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t care,” I fired back. “You won’t offend me with your offhanded attitude. I’m not one of your TV protégées.”
“If I stop answering you, will you go away?” He scrubbed his jaw with a frown.
I pressed a hand to my chest. “You wound me, Ambrose. I thought we could catch up.”
He said nothing, piling more food onto his already overflowing plate. Over the years, Row had opened and helmed upscale restaurants across Europe that were booked six months in advance, but that didn’t make him a food snob. He still liked mac-and-cheese casseroles and his momma’s famous lasagna.
Me? I chose my meals like I chose my paths in life—badly. Junk seemed to be the recurring theme in both of those fields, and I always ended up feeling like crap.
“I pick the color by my mood,” I heard myself drone on, even though Row certainly wasn’t keen for me to elaborate. “So, before Dad died, the tips were yellow. I was feeling kind of confident. Brave about the week ahead. I thought I had a few more days with him.”
He harrumphed to show me that he had heard me but offered no words of consolation. Wetting my lower lip, I said, “You know, I will be in town for a while…”
“Not interested,” he quipped, tone wry.
“Cocky much? I was going to say I’d really like to reconnect with Dylan.”
“You do? Huh, the feeling doesn’t seem to be mutual.” He brought a piece of Walmart pie to his lips, chewing slowly. If he found the flavor lacking, he didn’t show it. He stared at me indifferently. “She despises you.”
All thanks to you, slimeball.
