Page 109 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

My sous-chef rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m sure.” Tomasso has had a crush on Luke since the first day he started working here.

My throat feels dry. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Just that he wanted the usual.”

It’s an order I know by heart. A medium-rare ribeye, mashed potatoes, and roasted brussels sprouts. He orders it almost every time he comes to Terrace.

“Victor, I’ll make this one,” I tell him. “Will you be okay to run the kitchen without me after that?”

He nods. “Yes, Chef.”

I use the time it takes to prepare Luke’s order to try and settle my nerves. I take a few deep breaths, counting as I inhale and exhale. It feels momentous, him coming back here. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and blow it.

When his steak looks perfect, I bring the plate out myself. I spot Luke immediately, sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey and checking his phone. He’s conspicuously alone, surrounded by couples or groups of friends. It confirms that he came here to see me.

Silently, I walk over to him and slide the plate across the counter. He doesn’t meet my eyes when he says, “Thanks.”

I just nod. From Luke, I know that’s not the start of a conversation. He’s so obsessed with manners that even the silent treatment couldn’t stop him from acknowledging a server, even if it’s me.

Fortunately, a server brings over a tray of dirty glasses that give me a reason to stay at the bar. I wash them while he eats. I’m desperate to talk to him, but I know better than to push before he’s ready. He has to be the one to speak first.

Silence stretches between us, not comfortable, but not hostile, either. All around us, the restaurant hums with activity. Patrons laugh and chat and clink glasses. I can hear the sound of plates being moved around the kitchen. Normal life goes on while Luke decides whether or not he wants to save our brotherhood.

When Luke’s finished with his dinner, he sets his utensils on his plate, which I quickly clear for him. Without being asked, I open a bottle and refill his whiskey. He takes a long sip, but he still doesn’t talk to me. My hands feel itchy and prickly, and I rub them against my pants. Waiting like this is torture.

“I talked to Brin,” he says eventually.

It’s not forgiveness—it’s just a small line of conversation. Still, it’s a crack in the wall between us, a chance for us to have a normal conversation.

“She mentioned,” I say in response. I won’t pretend that Brinley and I aren’t together. I’m done hiding that she’s my girlfriend. If Luke can’t handle that, it’ll be hard to move forward.

Luke takes his time, swirling his whiskey in the glass. “What did she say?”

“That you both apologized. That yours came a little late, but it meant a lot.”

He nods and goes back to eating his steak. That might be the end of the conversation, I realize. A few quick sentences, and that’s it. None of the warmth or excitement Luke usually exudes—just more silence. Before I can decide if it’s smart, I blurt out, “She also said that you’ve been crashing her book club for months.”

Humor flashes in Luke’s eyes. “She made me read Little Women.”

“It’s a good book.”

“Did she make you read it?”

I shake my head. “No. I read it in junior high, after I saw my crush reading it.”

“Wow. Total Meg move.”

I scoff. “I’m not a Meg. I’m a Jo.”

“Please. Everyone thinks they’re a Jo. You’re a Meg—she’s the one who does all the cooking.”

“Then if I’m a Meg, you’re a Meg. Distilling whiskey is cooking-adjacent.”

“Come on. I’m obviously an Amy.”

We both smile tentatively. Then, Luke quickly looks away, like he just remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be talking to me. He pulls out his phone and types something.

“Put it on my tab,” he says, draining his glass of whiskey. Then he walks out of my restaurant without another word, leaving me to puzzle out where a Little Women conversation leaves our friendship.