While he sat behind his desk, I emptied my hand on the seat beside me and said, “Give me the details so I know what we’re working with.”
“I like how this is awething.”
“You don’t want my help?”
I watched him take a breath, tapping the back of his head on his high-back chair. “It’s not that I don’t want your help. It’s that I have a hard time asking for help. And I don’t like the idea that my problem has now become yours.”
“One”—I held up my hand to count on my fingers—“you didn’t ask for help. I offered. Two, it’s not my problem. What it is, is an honor. An honor that I even get to discuss this with you. I would literally die to have James Ryne-Young ask me to cook for her. Since that’s never going to happen, I’m living vicariously through you.”
He placed his arms on his desk, leaning into them, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you think that’s never going to happen?”
“Because there’s no way I could ever make a name for myself in this industry. Could I get a job as a chef somewhere?Sure. Could I have the kind of name that James would hear of? Definitely not.”
“I disagree.”
I smiled. “You’re allowed to. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. Tell me the details of the event so I can get a visual.” I danced a little. “I need to set the scene in my brain.”
He handed me a folder, and I opened it, taking my time to read through everything that had been printed on the sheet.
“This is going to be easy.” I waved the air.
“And why would you say that?”
“Because you serve seven or eight times this amount of people every night you’re here. A hundred people?” I shook my head, emphasizing my point. “That’s nothing for you.”
His teeth moved into an underbite, and I knew the wrath was on its way. “I want to make something extremely clear. If anyone else were in that chair and they were speaking to me so nonchalantly, like you are, acting like this is nothing—when it’s been fucking eating at me—I’d rip their face off.”
I winked. “I know.” I got up, grabbing what I’d placed on the chair, holding it behind my back while I walked around his desk. There was paper everywhere, nothing looked organized, and I sat on top of it all, swinging my legs so they extended beside his chair. “Hear me out, okay?” I waited for a tiny bit of recognition before I said, “I want you to think of the painting. The one you made me visualize when I cooked for you. The one with a cabin in the center of the canvas.”
“I’m so far from a fucking painting right now.” He ran his hands over his face, like he was scrubbing it.
“I can fix that.” I pulled my hand out from behind my back and showed him what I was holding. The canvas was small, about the size of my spread-out hand. The artwork on it was so realistic that I could even feel the cool mountain air and smellthe pine trees. There was a cabin in the middle, a lake behind it, the sun lifting from the edge of the water. The colors were moody, the cabin modern, the scenery positively perfect. “I was going to wrap it. Or at least put it in a bag with some tissue paper.” I laughed. “But I honestly thought you wouldn’t care and would probably prefer it this way.”
He surrounded the square canvas with his hands. “You painted this?”
“God, no. One of the residents at the assisted living facility is an artist. She’s amazing—as a person and as a painter, as you can see. I asked her if she would make it for me, so I could gift it to you.”
He slowly gazed up at me.
“Sometimes, you need a visual to remind you of how incredible you are.” I put both hands on his forearms. “I can’t give you awards. I can’t give you watches or cars or all the other wild things I saw at your house. But I can give you something that symbolizes your art and the colors you’re capable of painting on it.”
“I fucking love this.” He let out a burst of air and leaned back in his chair, holding the painting in front of him. “A sunrise …”
“As much as I love sunsets, I’m bringing you into the light, Walker.”
He held my gaze for what felt like minutes. “No one has ever given me anything. Especially not something as meaningful as this.”
I grinned. “You’re welcome.”
“Come here.”
I held up a finger. “No way, mister. This is as close as I’m getting to you, and this is probably too close.” I put my sneaker on the arm of his chair to make sure he didn’t try to roll towardme. “I want you to do something for me. I want you to close your eyes.”
He grimaced. “Why?”
“Just close them. You are the absolute worst at taking orders.” I sighed.
“You’re just learning this about me?”
