Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 32

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.

My real answer—how the fuck should I know? I’m no fortune-teller—was on the tip of my tongue. But Taylor didn’t deserve my real answer, and neither did anyone else here. Some of the people working for me had to drive an hour each way to get here. They chose to work at this restaurant because it was important for them to get the experience, to nail this thing called upscale, gourmet dining.

I leaned a hip on Taylor’s counter. “GS Properties is planning to build a mall. Last I checked the blueprint, the food court alone is going to contain twenty restaurants. Most will be high street, but chain companies offer insurance, 401(k), all the frills of a steady job. I tied it into the deal that all of my staff would be employed in the establishment of their choice once they start operating.” They were also going to get a contract comparable to the one they currently had with Descartes.

“I don’t want a steady job; I want to make art.” Taylor’s eyes zinged with determination.

I moved through to the seafood station, snatching a head of garlic from the chef’s hand. “Garlic goes in the pan last. Pay attention or hang your apron.” I crushed the garlic over a butcher block with the base of my palm, glancing at Taylor. “Employers will be clamoring for you, considering your experience. Then there’s the hotel’s restaurant. The investors said they want it to be fine dining to the highest degree. Seasonally updated menu, nine courses, European executive chef. I’m talking a half-Michelin-starred eatery, at the very least.”

“Yours has three.” Taylor folded his arms, curving a brow.

I shrugged. “Genius is hard to come by and impossible to keep.”

“Will you write us letters of recommendation?” Melanie peeped up, one of my chef de parties. “In case, you know, some of us decide to move away and try our luck in a big city?”

I stopped to lift the lid of the saucepan she was working on, sniffing. “I’ll sign whatever you print out.”

She nodded briskly, drawing a breath. “Thank you.”

“What about the existing small businesses? Do you think they’ll survive the change?” Dustin, the busboy, rubbed the back of his neck fidgetily. His dad had a mom-and-pop shop down the street.

“Most of them,” I replied honestly. “I dug into GS Properties’ proposal, and they seem to focus on the swanky shopping experience. They’re not gonna open a Walmart here.”

Dustin’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Sweet. Thanks for letting me know.”

“What about your new restaurant?” Taylor ran his tongue over his inner cheek, contemplative. “The one in London. Are you bringing in any…local enforcement?”

“Rhy’s done with my ass.” I shook my head. “He’s moving to Manhattan.”

“I meant anyone you think is a good fit.”

The penny dropped. Poor kid wanted to come with me. Problem was, I didn’t do baggage. I’d only ever had Rhyland tag along because I knew he wasn’t deadweight. Even during our heydays working together in France, Italy, and Monaco, Rhyland and I had always done our own thing. Different apartments, different social circles, schedules, hobbies, women. He was allergic to routine, and I was allergic to…humans, I guess.

Speak of the devil, my best friend rushed into the kitchen, his face whiter than the Brady Bunch cast. He grabbed my shoulder. “Row.”

I turned around, sending him a leveled look. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got an injured staffer.” Rhy pushed his sleeves up his massive arms. “Cut forehead.”

What was he telling me this for? I only knew one way to treat people—like crap.

“Do they need medical attention?” I spooned a handful of sauce from a pan, bringing it to my lips. “Too much rosemary,” I chided my chef de partie.

“Unsure.” Rhy scratched his neck. “Wanna come see?”

“Do I look like a doctor? Ask them,” I said slowly. “Or better yet, call an ambulance. We don’t need another Usher lawsuit.”

“First of all—OSHA. Second, I wanted you to know because—”

“Unless they bled into someone’s plate and a health inspector just walked in to witness it, I really don’t see—”

“It’s Cal,” he cut into my words, face thunderous. “Cal is injured.”

All the blood drained from my face. It rushed straight to my feet, which started moving. Running. I pushed Rhyland out of the way. He collapsed against metal shelves laden with bowls and whisks. The contents spilled over the floor with noisy clanks. I stormed the dining area, whipping my head, looking for her through the white-hot panic clouding my eyesight.

How had she cut her forehead? What the hell had she done now? Bang her head against a steak knife as a party trick? Had someone hurt her? A man?

Where the hell is she?

“I took her to the upstairs office to avoid a commotion.” Rhy appeared by my side, rubbing the back of his head with an accusatory glare. “Zeta is taking care of her. She dropped by with some lasagna for your dinner.”

Only my mother could pop into a three-Michelin-starred restaurant to deliver her chef son a meal he probably had to microwave.

I took the stairs three at a time, Rhy at my heels.

“How is she doing?” I was foaming at the mouth. Now was a good time to admit to myself that I did give a shit. Lots of shits, if I was being honest. An entire fucking sewer.

“Your mom or Calla?”

I shot him a glare behind my shoulder. He grinned. “Pretty good.” He redid his man-bun as he took the steps. “The cut looks kinda nasty, though.”

“Your face looks nasty.”

“Supremely mature. Also a bit rich, coming from you right now. I could fill up an entire Olympic pool with your sweat. Chill the fuck out.”

“It’s hot in the kitchen.” Had we always had five thousand stairs?

“You’re used to the kitchen heat. It’s the Cal heat that throws you off-balance. Shit,” he snorted out. “You’re worried, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you this way before.”

I slapped the door open so hard the handle made a dent as it slammed into the wall. I didn’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t Cal, resting on the upholstered brown leather couch next to my desk with her head propped against the armrest, my mother sitting on a chair next to her, pressing napkins to her forehead. The napkins were red as fine wine. Naturally, it didn’t stop Cal from making a long, pointless speech.

“…all I’m saying is that objections at weddings exist solely to make the lives of overworked scriptwriters easier. Like, when did anyone ever oppose a wedding in real life? Also, the legalities of a marriage are established when you apply for a wedding license. Look, don’t get me wrong, the While You Were Sleeping objection scene was epic, no complaints here, but when you think about it—”

“You’re bleeding.” I rushed to her side and fell onto my knees by the couch, fingering the batch of sticky napkins on her forehead. She looked sleepy and beautiful and fuck, that was another reason I didn’t do relationships. Imagine caring for someone, then letting them wander the world, exposed to all kinds of shit? This girl was prone to dying from her klutziness. That she had lived this long was a miracle.

Cal’s enormous, cloudless-sky eyes peered back at me, soot-lashed and innocent.

“Duh. I was there when it happened.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or berate her. “Wow. You’re really pretty.” She touched my cheek dazedly. “I mean, you’re always pretty, but today you are extra pretty. Extraprettinery.”

Shit. I hoped she didn’t have a concussion.

“Does it hurt?” I croaked. Since when was I croaking? I was a grunter, a groaner, a bellower, sometimes. Not a croaker.

“Not really. But I think I’m getting a little woozy.”

“You’re anemic.” Oops. Was not supposed to know that.

“I am!” she said brightly. “Oh, that reminds me, I need to refill my iron prescription. I haven’t done that”—she scrunched her forehead, and the bleeding started again—“in three years or so. How’d you know anyway?”

She had mentioned it once during a sleepover at Dylan’s when she was fifteen. That was why I’d kept all those Oh Henry! bars everywhere. She was bound to faint if she didn’t take care of herself.

“Row…” Mom put a hand on my shoulder, and that was when I realized I was cradling Cal’s head in my hands like she was dying in my arms. Her forehead probably needed stitches. There was a shit ton of blood. “She got hurt, she isn’t dying.”

“Are you a doctor?” I bit out.

Mom blinked, surprised by my harsh tone. “Well, no…”

“Then spare me your medical assessments.” I twisted my head toward Rhyland. “Take Mom downstairs and call a doctor.”

“I can just drive her to urgent care.” Rhy ran his knuckles over his stubble. Right. Like I’d put her in the same car with a man who wasn’t me.

“No. Call a doctor. I don’t want her sitting around in a clinic the entire night.” After realizing how it sounded, I added, “She still needs to finish her shift.”

“Ambrose Rhett Casablancas,” Mom gasped. “You force this poor girl to work tonight, and you’ll be needing stitches too after I’m done with you.”

Cal cackled. “I could marry you right now, Mrs. Casablancas!”

“Thank you, sweetie. The constitution of marriage disappointed me once. Not interested in trying again.” That was the most she’d said about her marriage to my father in thirty years.

“Come on, Zeta, follow me. Row stocked up on the rosé you like.” Rhyland approached Mom, resting a casual hand on her arm. She flinched at his touch, scooting away. I had to work my jaw back and forth to avoid cursing.

Rhy faltered, his face pinking. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mom mustered a weak giggle, rising up and sliding her purse over her shoulder. “Got an electric shock, that is all. Calla, you feel all better soon, okay, cucciolotta?” She tapped Cal’s arm.

“Doubtful, with your son around.” Cal grinned.

Mom let out a laugh, reaching to tuck a lock of hair behind Cal’s ear. “I see you are handling him just fine.”

I swatted Mom’s hand away. “She’s injured. You could hurt her.”

Mamma ruffled my hair. “You’re my favorite son.”

“I’m your only son.”

“Same difference.”

Cal blinked at me as the door clicked shut behind them. “What’s cucciolotta? She’s been calling me that for years.”

“Little puppy.”

“She picked up on my Golden Retriever energy.” A smile teased her mouth.

“Don’t smile. Any movement you make might reopen the wound,” I chided her.

She sighed. “Can you please stop treating me like I’ve been run over by a semitrailer?”

“Now that’s an image for my spank bank.” I tucked her flyaways behind her ear softly. “Can I take a look?”

She flinched. “Will you be gentle?”

“When have I not been?” I growled.

Her eyebrows shot to her hairline in response. “That time you threw me and Dylan into the pool when we were in fourth grade and I accidentally bumped my head. And in grade nine when you stepped on my toe and broke it when I asked you to teach me how to slow dance before prom. Oh! And there was also that ti—”

“It was a rhetorical question. Yes, I’ll be gentle.” I scowled. At least now I knew it wasn’t a concussion. I slowly peeled the damp napkins from her forehead, holding my breath. “How did you manage to hurt yourself?”

“You know, easily, as per usual.” She focused on a point on the ceiling to brave the burn that came from the dry blood gluing her skin and the cloth together. “I was running to get one of the patrons the wine menu—”

“You were running?” I snarled.

She gave me a pointed look. “I thought you encouraged me to run.”

“In open spaces. Away from sharp objects. With a fucking helmet, preferably.”

Way to charm her pants off, Casablancas, Rhyland’s voice chortled in my head. I’m sure she’s seconds away from printing out your wedding invitations.

“It’s not even how I fell, okay?” She tapered her eyes. “I was trying to show Katie I can do a straddle split.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or bash my own head against the wall. Fuck. Why was she so unapologetically, wonderfully herself?

“What made you think you could do a straddle split?”

“The fact that I was an athlete in high school and that I’m awesome?” She blinked at me seriously. “I’m extremely flexible.”

“Would love to test that theory.”

I shed the napkins from her forehead, dumping them on the floor. The cut stared right back at me. It didn’t seem too deep, but there was a small chunk of skin missing, and I knew it would leave a scar.

“How do I look?” She gulped. Her head was still nestled in my arm.

“Beautiful,” I admitted dispassionately. I was an asshole, not a liar.

“I meant the wound.” She chewed on the edge of her thumb. “Is it hideous? Ghastly? Frightening?”

“It’s small. Crescent shaped.” I licked the pad of my thumb and rubbed away some dry blood around it to take a better look. Don’t say it. Don’t. “And it’s perfect because it’s on you.”

Her lips quirked into a tired smile, and she pressed her cheek into my palm. “Hello, McMonster. Nice to have you back.”

“You never lost me.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re hopelessly in love with me.”

“Don’t make me kill you.”

“Why not?” The corner of her lip moved along my rough palm. “It would make for a perfect excuse to procrastinate. ‘Sorry, can’t come tomorrow. I’ll be dead.’”

“Nice try, but you are showing up to the shift tomorrow, even if it’s in a coffin.”

“I actually want to be cremated.”

“Not gonna work. You’re already too hot.”

“Is that a pickup line?” Her eyes flared.

“That depends on whether it’s working or not.”

“Well, it’s cheesier than a deep-dish pizza.” She tried hard not to laugh. “I think I finally found something you’re bad at. You’re terrible at flirting.”

“That’s because I’ve never had to work very hard to get women to fall into my bed,” I said, not an ounce of cockiness in my voice. “You’re ruining my stats.”

“Don’t be so touchy. I like cheese. I would do heinous things for fried halloumi. This is a no-judgment zone.” She laced her fingers through mine on her cheek.

For the first time in years, I experienced a moment of true happiness. It revolted and alarmed me. I pulled away, resting her head over the armrest. “You’re bleeding again.”

“Oh shit.” She raised her hand to touch her wound before thinking the better of it. Her eyes widened in horror. “That couple never got the wine menu. I need to…” She tried standing up, but I shoved her back down to the couch.

“Who cares about their wine?”

“Hmm, you, Mr. Stickler.” She poked my chest. “Ugh, I’m getting lightheaded again.”

I stood up and walked over to my desk, opening the left-hand drawer. I ambled back toward her, unwrapping an Oh Henry! and thrusting it into her hand. “Sit up,” I ordered.

She did, leaning against the headrest and snatching the candy, staring at me intently as she tore a bite off the chewy bar. The corners of her mouth lifted. “Hmm. Tastes like heaven. Wonder why you kept one in your drawer.”

“You’re not the only one who likes Oh Henry!” I seethed.

“We both know I am,” she said around a huge chunk of chocolate, her smile widening. “Which is why I can’t find these puppies anywhere. Where are you getting them? The black market? A time machine that’s taking you to the nineties? Come on, share the wealth.”

A thin river of blood snaked from her forehead down her cheek. Where was that damn doctor?

There was a knock on the door. Rhyland walked in. “Kitchen needs you.”

“Kitchen can go fu—” I stopped, realizing Rhy’s lips were a breath away from forming a shit-eating grin. “I’m busy right now,” I corrected myself.

“Busy doing what?” He propped an elbow against the doorframe.

“Are you blind?”

“Are you? Cal’s forehead seems under control.” Rhy took one look at her, and even that was enough to jack up my blood temperature. “And Taylor’s having a moment. Someone sent their steak tartare back. They want it cooked.”

“Tartare means raw. Fixing stupid is above my pay grade.”

“Respectfully, your pay grade is too generous for anything short of curing cancer.” Rhy sauntered in, grabbing a stress ball from my desk and giving it a squeeze. “Anyway, he wants to know what to do.”

“If Taylor wants a shot at wiping tables at La Vie en Rogue, not to mention joining me in the kitchen, he needs to pull himself together and rise to the occasion. We don’t serve well-done steak. They can go to Applebee’s for that.”

“You need to go to the kitchen,” Rhy reiterated, setting the ball back down.

“Row…” Cal said tentatively.

“No,” I barked, still staring at Rhyland. “Final answer. Now leave.”

Cal glanced between us sheepishly, slowly rising to her feet.

“Not you.” I whipped my head in her direction. “Him.”

“I don’t wanna cause any trouble.” Cal shook her head. “I can wait here by myself. I mean, I’m stuck on this Best Fiends level, anyway.”

A knock sounded from the door.

“What now?” I stood up, ready to murder someone. Kieran, ideally.

“I’m sorry he is a sociopath,” Rhy told Cal.

“It’s okay.” She gave him two thumbs up. “Totally not your fault.”

A man in an old-school leather jacket and a checked accountant button-down shirt walked in, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Hello, I’m Dr. O’Hara.”

“Thank goodness you’re here!” Cal slapped a hand to her chest dramatically. “Chef over here needs you to remove the stick from his ass. Oh, and while you’re here, mind stitching my forehead?”