“It’s not so bad. A small Italian restaurant in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. A neighborhood place.”
“Oh, great.” If my tone sounded sarcastic, it was meant to. “I can listen to all the old men talk about bocce and their vegetable gardens.”
“Who knows?” Edward answered. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.”
* * *
“Maybe I’ll be surprised, he tells me. I fucking hate surprises.” I tossed back my Negroni and caught the server’s eye. I lifted my glass and shook it. “Thanks for coming to meet me. I hope I didn’t screw up any plans for you and Nate.”
Presley’s glass of Malbec sat untouched. “No, Nate’s out of town at a conference. Besides, if you need me, you know I’m here for you. Like you are for me.”
Down the block from his new digs—Nate’s multimillion-dollar brownstone on the Upper West Side—Press and I sat at a corner table in a little restaurant desperate to look like a French bistro. Various framed pictures of theChamps-Élysées, the Eiffel Tower, and other famous French landmarks covered the wall, and the menu featured the standardsteak frites,bouillabaisse, andcoq au vin. I’d never eaten here but hoped for the best and expected the worst.
I stabbed at the piece of beef on my plate and cut off a piece. “I ordered this rare, and it’s barely pink. Does anyone in this city know how to cook a damn piece of meat anymore?” I chewed it and set my utensils on the table. “I guess not. This tastes like a piece of shoe. And not a Bruno Magli, either. I’m talking one of those hideous, rubbery things.”
“Okay, what’s wrong? Really. This is about more than a tough piece of meat or the fact that you’re being sent to review some no-name restaurant.”
Deliberately forking a quantity of string beans into my mouth that would prevent me from answering right away, I took my time while my mind raced. What could I tell him? That the night before, I’d seen Luca, my first lover, and everything I thought I’d forgotten came crashing on top of me? It had taken extreme willpower to refrain from tossing my drink into Luca’s still-handsome face. Instead, using my glass as cover, I’d surreptitiously observed him as he flirted and left the event with a model. A male model.
Guess the marriage to my dear mother hadn’t lasted.
“I’m fine. Really.” I smiled and raised my glass. “How’s the wedding planning coming along?”
But Presley, now that he’d fallen in love with Nate and was properly loved in return, had discovered a steely spine and wasn’t afraid to use it, especially with me. He’d blossomed into a confident man.
I’d created a damn Frankenstein.
“Liar. Don’t change the subject.” As if fighting an internal war to hold back, Presley hesitated, then plunged ahead. “If you think I can’t see you’re a hundred miles away from this conversation, you’re wrong. You’re my best friend, like my brother, but you don’t let me see who you are inside.” Dark-eyed and somber, he pressed his lips together and shook his head.
And if I have my way, you never will. It’s not a pretty sight in here. You’re the light to my dark.
With a smile on my lips, I swept my hand out in a grand gesture. “I’m me. A little bit sarcastic, always well dressed, with a palate second to none.” I brushed at the lapel of my suit. “And now, apparently, relegated to eating lasagna at a place called Mangia.” A shudder rolled through me. “I’d better stop at CVS and buy up their stock of Pepto and Imodium. I don’t foretell a pleasant ending to my night.”
“Suck it up, princess. You never know. It could be the start of a whole new facet of your job.”
“I like my job fine, thanks.” Morose, I propped my chin on my hand. “You know I’m not really a snob. I just have high standards. I’m not a person who simply gorges on a meal and vomits out words.”
“A lovely picture you’ve painted,” Presley said dryly and pushed away hisNicoisesalad.
“I’m an anomaly: a classically trained chef who reviews other chefs. It’s more than my liking how something tastes. I’m excellent at spotting fresh trends, unique ingredients, and deconstructing menus to see how the dish was created.”
“You never really talk about your work. All I know is you running off to openings or meals at all the hot spots.”
“It goes way beyond the meals. Being a food critic isn’t all fun and games; I need to be careful who I get close to. You know I never tell anyone what I do for a living because I’d constantly wonder if someone was trying to use me and my position to further their career. If I were ever exposed, I’d be out of a job. No one wants a food critic who’s recognizable. It devalues the credibility of the review process.”
While it might sound glamorous to eat most meals in restaurants all the time, the job of a food critic was incredibly isolating. The average critic possessed over twenty email addresses and numbers for booking reservations, and credit cards matching each name. A few trusted restaurant owners knew me but for the most part I spent most of my days and nights pretending to be someone else. Many times I’d go out to dinner in disguise, and I’d become good friends with several makeup artists.
“It sounds like you’re lonely. Nuh-uh-uh.” Press held up a hand when I opened my mouth. “I know what you’re going to say.I’m not lonely. I meet people every night and have a different guy in my bed whenever I want.”
“Well, yeah.” Why did I squirm under Presley’s scrutiny? “I have no complaints. I’m not lonely. And not only men, you know. I’m an equal-opportunity giver.”
“You know who you sound like?”
“A man who gets laid every night? Or, in other words, a happy man.” I smirked and sipped my Negroni, enjoying the slightly bitter taste.
“No, idiot. You sound like Nate before we met. He didn’t care who he went to bed with. It didn’t matter. The names and faces weren’t important; they only served the purpose of keeping him from being alone at night. You know that group I go to, Lost in New York?”
“The oneImade you go to? Yeah, where you met Nate. I didn’t know you still went.”
