“Mom,I told you I have Sunday off.” She didn’t say anything, but I could feel herjudgment through the phone. “And I’ll see what I can do about Saturday.”
“That’sall we ask, darlin’.”
Iglanced at the door and knew Wyatt would have something to say about it. Hestruggled to give me Sundays off on a regular basis and that was my actual dayoff.
“Whencan I expect you?”
“We’llcome up Friday night and entertain ourselves. That way we have all day Saturdaytogether.”
Itwouldn’t be the worst thing to entertain my parents for the weekend, right? Idid love them. And I enjoyed spending time with them when they weren’t harpingon me to move back home.
Evenif I wasn’t their favorite, they were as devoted as possible to me. My familyhad always been close, maybe too close. We were always in each other’sbusiness. Always overstepping boundaries and butting in when we shouldn’t. Thatwas why they could never let me go completely. They were used to being in themiddle of my life. They were used to knowing and caring about every singlelittle thing that went on with me. And they wanted to keep it that way.
Itwas sweet. But also suffocating. And the reason I’d fled Hamilton to beginwith. At least one of the reasons.
Momand I said goodbye and I clicked off my phone. Stepping back into the building,I braced myself against the humid air that enveloped me immediately. It was adifferent kind of stifling. It somehow wrapped around my body, clenched mylungs with two fists, pulled sweat from my pores and infused every inch of mewith its heaviness. And still, it felt like freedom.
Thiswas the familiar feel of the kitchen.
Thiswas the siren call that would not let me go.
Myparents’ brand of smothering was not like this at all. Their hold on me waslike a wet pillow over my face sometimes. Cooking was the opposite—it gave mebreath.
Myparents were codependent. Lilou and I were happily independent side by side.
Itucked my phone away in my purse and prepared myself for dinner service.
“Hey,are you going to work or stand outside all afternoon?”
Iwhirled around to find Wyatt standing behind me, hands planted on his hips,growly expression on his stupidly handsome face. I thought back to Will and hadto smile. He was cute, but he wasn’t my type. If I had a type, one that I waswilling to seek out and try to date, it was Wyatt. From edgy haircut to tattoosrunning the length of his body to his scuffed black motorcycle boots, he wasthe man I would design for myself.
“Stalkmuch?” I asked him, raising an eyebrow so he knew I wasn’t impressed with hisbullish behavior. “I swear every time I step outside you get in my business.”
Heswayed into me, his hand landing on the wall beside my head. “You were in themiddle of prep,” he reminded me. “It’s my job to make sure we’re serviceready.”
Idesperately tried to suppress a smile. “You don’t have to worry about a thing,chef. I’m definitely service ready.”
Hiseyes flared with heat and his expression softened. Even still he leaned closer.“Seriously, everything okay?”
I should have pushed him away. He was crowdingme, covering my body with his heat and scent, forcing a frustrating desire totouch him. But I didn’t. I was used to fire. I worked with it. I used it tocreate, to cook, to show off my skills. I knew how to handle it.
Insteadof backing away from him, I let my finger run down his sternum, enjoying theway his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “It was my mom. My parents are comingto visit next weekend.” Lifting my gaze, I met his and pretended to have morecourage than I felt. “I need next Saturday off.”
Halfhis mouth kicked into a smile. “Is that why you’re playing nice? You wantsomething from me?”
“Needsomething,” I whispered. “I need it from you.”
Hedidn’t say anything for a few moments. His eyes searched mine, looking forsomething I didn’t know how to give him. Or hide from him. He struggled toswallow again, and my breathing picked up in response.
Whowas playing with who now?
“Saturday’sa big night. I don’t think I can spare you.”
“Myparents don’t visit that often,” I returned, settling my hand against hisbreastbone so I could feel the hammering of his heart. I was mesmerized by thewhole thing. My eyes were glued to my hand as it rested against his blackt-shirt.
Itlooked tiny against his broad chest—delicate, dainty. He wasn’t a bulky man,but his entire body seemed corded with long, slender muscles. He was a force ofnature. A priceless marble statue. And yet the racing of his heart told me thathe was also, somehow, breakable.
“Please,”I whispered, hoping that was all he was waiting on.
