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Space.
I needed it. All of it.
Three oceans between me and Calla Litvin would be ideal. Though I didn’t rule out helping Elon Musk populate Mars and relocating altogether. Why the fuck not? People would have to eat there too. And I was no stranger to shitholes. I had grown up in Staindrop, for Christ’s sake.
What had I been thinking, showing up outside her window like a lovesick puppy in a goddamn nineties outfit? I hadn’t been, of course. It was my dick that had come up with the plan. All puns intended.
I remembered vaguely feeding myself some bullshit excuse about doing this in honor of Artem—the man had helped me turn my love for physics and numbers into becoming a Michelin-starred chef by dragging me into the communal teacher’s kitchen and cooking with me—and something about Dylan being happy.
Point of the matter was, I had done something selfless for someone who wasn’t an immediate family member.
And that was…unsettling.
I’d done good deeds before, but I had never gone out of my way to make them happen. Giving a shit was dangerous. It led to all kinds of issues. And I had a history of giving Cal whatever she wanted without asking for anything in return.
Then there was my retroactive love declaration. What the fuck was that all about? I wasn’t in love with her anymore, but it was still embarrassing to admit.
Maybe because the attraction was still there, despite everything.
I mentally wrote it down on a blackboard a thousand fucking times, à la Bart Simpson.
You don’t like her.
You don’t like her.
You don’t like her.
But I did. Both Cal and Bitchy. A lot.
It was the middle of service, and Descartes was so packed, you couldn’t squeeze a needle inside. Ninety-nine percent of the patrons were out-of-towners, and the one person who wasn’t had a birthday, and her family—from Massachusetts—didn’t know this place was Satan’s favorite section in hell, so they’d booked a table here.
I didn’t mind being the most loathed man in Staindrop. What I did mind was not having a goddamn truck. I had gone to get a rental from the next town over yesterday, and all they’d had left was a pink Jeep Wrangler. I had opted to stay carless until my Silverado returned from the shop and now had to walk everywhere. Descartes was down the street from the Half Mile Inn, so that wasn’t an issue. But I had to get a taxi to visit Mom and Dylan, and fuck knew who had given Cal a ride here today.
Even if it’s Kieran, you can’t say shit about it. You’re not her boyfriend. Not even her friend.
“Chef, can I ask you a question?” Taylor caught up to my steps, smoothing a hand over his jacket nervously. I was doing the rounds between stations, making sure everything was operating smoothly.
“Is it food related?” I grumbled.
“No.”
“Same answer, then.”
The entire kitchen looked up. One of my sous-chefs accidentally dropped a bowl. The dishwasher burst into tears.
Taylor grimaced but soldiered on. “You’re extra prickly today. What happened?”
I’d made a conscious decision not to sneak a peek at the enchanting two-left-footed professional over-sharer during her shift tonight. That was what had happened. And of course, I was pissed off about it. Not because I couldn’t see her, obviously. But because I needed to check on my patrons and staff.
Really, what a dumb decision to make. I should head over to the partition window right now and take a look.
“Nothing happened. What do you want?” I made a pit stop at our chef pâtissier’s station to let her know the raspberries looked older than an IHOP early-bird customer. Taylor was glued to my side.
“What’s gonna happen to all of us when this place closes down?” he demanded.
Everyone stopped working and stared. My mother had once told me I was like a newborn. I only seemed to acknowledge a person’s existence when they were right in front of me. I had never stopped to think of the lives I’d be leaving behind when I moved to London.
