Chapter 13
Toby
"I can cancel," Robin says for the fifth time, hovering by the door in his catering blacks. His chef's coat is pristine, his hair actually styled for once, and he's got that focused energy he gets before big events. But his eyes keep drifting back to me, worried. "The Mitchells' anniversary party can survive without me."
"You're the head pastry chef. They specifically requested you." I pull the blanket tighter around myself, burrowing deeper into my corner of the couch. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine." He gestures at my setup—the nest of blankets I've constructed, the half-eaten pint of ice cream on the coffee table, the TV playing Moana for what might be the third time today. "You're watching Disney movies on repeat and you've eaten nothing but rocky road since breakfast."
"Ice cream is food. It has dairy. Calcium."
"Toby—"
"Robin, go. Seriously." I gesture at the couch nest like it's evidence of my stability. "I'm just going to nap anyway. See? All settled in. Very cozy. Absolutely not having a breakdown."
He doesn't look convinced. His keys jingle in his hand as he shifts his weight, clearly torn between his job and his best friend duties. I know he's already rearranged his schedule twice today to stay with me—pushed back prep time, had someone else handle the morning deliveries. He can't miss the actual event.
"I'll have my phone on," he says finally.
"You'll be in the middle of service. You can't check your phone while you're plating desserts for a hundred people."
"I'll have it on anyway. In my pocket. On vibrate. If you need me—"
"I'll be fine."
He comes over, crouching down next to the couch so we're eye level. His hand finds mine under the blanket and squeezes. "There's soup in the fridge if you feel like real food. That tomato basil you like. And those lemon cookies I made yesterday. And leftover pasta from lunch that you didn't eat."
"Robin."
"And I set up the Keurig with your favorite pods, and there's wine in the cabinet if you want it, but maybe not wine and ice cream together because that's a recipe for feeling worse—"
"Robin." I squeeze his hand back. "Go. You're going to be late, and then you'll be stressed, and then your panna cotta will be subpar, and you'll never forgive yourself."
"My panna cotta is never subpar." But he stands, finally, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "I'm coming straight back after. No going to the bar with the team for post-service drinks."
"Deal."
"And if anyone shows up that you don't want to see, you don't have to answer the door."
I know who he means. "He's not going to show up. You told him to stay away."
"I know." Robin's jaw tightens. "But I don't trust him to listen. So if he shows up, you call me. I don't care if I'm in the middle of torching a crème brûlée. I will leave."
"I'll be fine," I say again, and this time I almost believe it.
He leaves, finally, the door clicking shut behind him. I hear his footsteps on the stairs, then the distant sound of his brother's Audi starting up and pulling away.
Silence.
I sink back into my blankets and stare at the TV. Moana is on the ocean now, meeting it for the first time, the water reaching up to touch her like she's something special. Chosen.
I thought I was chosen too.
The ice cream is melting, going soft at the edges. I should put it back in the freezer. I should eat the soup Robin made. I should do something productive, like shower, or put on real clothes, or stop replaying every moment of last night in my head trying to figure out where I went wrong.
Instead I pull the blanket over my head and try not to think about Knox sayingmineover and over. Try not to think about his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was—
Like I was something worth keeping.
