The doorbell rings. Rupert’s face lights up.
“That’ll be my darling.”
He goes to open the door and returns a moment later with Glen in tow. His jacket is dusted with the day’s work, his smile easy and familiar. Rupert kisses him without hesitation, the kind of greeting that says this is solid and settled and uncomplicated.
“All right, Tom,” Glen says.
“All right.”
Glen sets a carrier bag on the counter and peers into the pan. “Mushroom stew.”
“Your favourite,” Rupert winks.
They move around each other with practised ease, passing plates, bumping shoulders, comfortable in a way that’s impossible to fake. I watch it longer than I mean to, a faint, unexpected tightness settling in my chest.
Once we all sit around the small dining table, Rupert gestures expansively with his fork. “Tom has met someone.”
Glen looks up. “Oh?”
I exhale sharply. “What Rupert means is that I got a bad review in the Gazette and went to speak to the critic.”
Glen nods slowly. “That can be rough. People round here take that column as gospel.”
“Exactly,” I say, turning to Rupert. “Which is why this whole thing matters.”
Rupert chews thoughtfully, then swallows. “And yet.”
“And yet what?”
“She rattled you… in a very non work way,” he says mildly.
“No,” I snap.
I push my chair back. “I’m going to my room. I don’t need this interrogation.”
Rupert lifts his glass. “Classic avoidance tactic.”
Glen laughs, the sound easy and unbothered. “Textbook.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I head for the stairs, irritation fizzing under my skin, their giggling following me like an accusation.
In my room, I shut the door and lean against it, breathing out slowly.
Infuriating.
That’s all.
I’m forty-five years old and I still house share like a broke student, not because it’s charming but because it’s necessary. Because one bad year and one bad lawyer wiped out everything I’d built before. Because starting again doesn’t come with a safety net, just long hours and thinner margins.
This isn’t attraction or pride. It’s survival.
La Cucina di Rosa isn’t a hobby or a vanity project. It’s my second chance. Every booking matters. Everyreview matters. One careless sentence in a popular column doesn’t just bruise my ego, it threatens rent, wages, electricity bills, the quiet hope that this time I might actually keep what I’ve built.
So yes, of course she got under my skin.
But purely in a professional way.
Chapter 4
