“So are you,” Rory laughs. “And good lord, no one is worse than your best friend’s husband.”
A montage of Ronnie, my bestie Gracie’s husband, plays in my mind, proving her right as she continues talking.
“Not even my husband, or his brother. Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a puritan now?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. Of course I haven’t. Not even my pride can go that far to get rid of this guy.
I can’t explain why he irritated me so much.
The way Rory brushes off each of my points so casually is starting to make me think I’m the only one who has an issue with him like this. Does he not get under the skin of everyone else?
Being forced to share a workspace with this man day in and day out might be enough to break me for good. That crazy streak that I try to keep under control most of the time is going to just take the wheel and drive. Quite possibly over him, if given the chance.
My eyes make the mistake of darting up to the giant picture above Rory’s desk—the black and white shot of our mother being loaded into a deputy’s car like she was some famous gangster, not a dying woman trying to make the most of the time she had left—and I inhale sharply, nose stinging all the worse.
I hate coming to my sister’s office. I need to get out of here.
“Did you see the food he made?” she pushes me, refocusing my attention on her.
I roll my eyes, scoffing. “Obviously. I tried it too.”
The photos he attached to that email could be in a culinary magazine. Thank God he couldn’t attach any evidence of how that dish tasted, or I’d have no way to convince Rory that he isn’t worth hiring at the restaurant.
It was hard enough hiding my whole-body response to the depth of flavor, the entire scale of dimension that lit my tongue up in ways I’ve never been introduced to in my nearly forty years from Wilder when I tried it. It’s almost as hard to keep it from Rory now.
“Phenomenal, right?” she asks, a knowing lift to her lips.
I don’t bother replying. If I wasn’t being so petty, maybe I’d admit that the man did make one hell of a chicken dish.
Maybe I’d go so far as to say it was kind of him to care for me when I passed out.
The fact that I passed outbecauseof how much he worked me up—my blood pressure through the roof, overheated and flustered, knees locked for too long as I stood there watching him… That surely negates all the brownie points he would’ve earned for being a decent human after I fainted.
You don’t get a medal for putting out a fire you started.
“You don’t have to say it.” Rory scrunches up her nose at me, a knowing look in her eyes. “We both know it was the best thing you’ve had in your mouth in a long hot minute.”
Great. Another innuendo. And now I’m back to thinking of blowing Wilder.
But the way he picked me up, carried me to the counter and sat me down, made a drink for me to help me rehydrate… It’s hard to shake the ghost of his touch.
As the eldest daughter, the one who’s strong enough to look out for herself, being cared for is new for me.
I can still feel his strong arms banded beneath my shoulders and knees. No man has picked me up so easily, made me feel like I weigh little more than a doll.
A thrill zaps down through my core at the memory. It was hotter than it had any right to be, especially considering I still blame him for the fainting episode in the first place.
Finally, I come up with a response. “Rory, we’re just going to keep looking, that’s all there is to say on that.”
The man called me “gardener girl,” he didn’t even ask my name! He’s infuriating and I won’t deal with him, bottom line. I cross my arms over my chest and stare Rory down, plopping in the seat in front of her desk.
She takes her chair across from me, and her voice is gentle when she speaks. “Lexi, this is your business, but speaking as your sister who loves you, who’s also the commissioner of this entire project and has been consulting you on this journey for months now…” She lets the silence do the talking for a beat before continuing. “I have to say, I think you’re making a huge mistake. You’re understaffed. We don’t have another chef in this town, and no one here has his talent. I ate his food for years. The man has a cult following back in New York. I’m almost worried we’ll get some mobsters chasing us down for stealing him away, he’s that good.”
“If he’s that good and has such a great life there, why the hell is he here?”
Rory shrugs easily, somehow still looking elegant in her slim-fit dress and heels, brunette hair tumbling over her shoulders as she does. “Sometimes Smoky Heights is just the right place at the right time.”
She’s talking about more than Wilder, I know she’s referring to her own situation. Maybe even Weston, and Amelia, too, for that matter. The Heights has become home to a lot of people lately.
