She tipped her head from side to side. “Neutral.” I stuck my tongue out and she laughed. “If you’re wanting to get your skirt blown up, you need to look elsewhere.”
“Heard,” I said. “My skirt could do for some activity of any kind, really.”
“Almost empty nest,” Cindy said with a tap to her nose. “But I say why wait? His dad’s got him some of the time. And he’s almost an adult. How often is he really home?”
I chewed my lip. It sounded ridiculous to blame not having guys over on mom guilt. It was a mistake to bring up my sex life. “Well, anyway. Thanks for turning your culinary school classes over to me because now I’ve got a private student.”
“Ooh, are they actually willing to pay?”
I turned so my back was to Cindy, pulling a shot for my own drink. “He’s got the dough. It’s actually a guy from work.”
Cindy closed her laptop and narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait, you’re teaching a hockey player?”
I scooped some ice from the well behind the bar. I’d test Royce’s stupid “shocks the espresso” theory. “It does seem that way.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why doesn’t he just make you a private chef?”
“He wants to play chef, I guess. It’s uh,” I toyed with the handle on my tiny espresso cup, “the guy who I saved. From the bus.”
“Wait, Harlan Royce? The one who makes your life hell?” She scrunched her face.
“The very same,” I sighed, pouring my espresso shots over the ice and turning to add water from the soda gun.
“And you said yes, why?” she pressed.
I put my hands out. “It’s good money. He’s paying me an absurd amount to teach him, and Liam needs money for college.”
Cindy guffawed. “Don’t subject yourself to Harlan Royce if you don’t have to. Make Liam earn his own way. Then you can have a night off. He can work here. I always need a dishwasher. And god, front of house is a revolving door.”
Cindy had an interesting mix of employees. Some people thrived under her scrutiny, and others crumbled. She’d had a crumbly streak for a while. A few employees had been there since the beginning and would likely stick around as long as Cindy kept her doors open.
“I believe it.” I took a pensive sip of my iced Americano. And son of a bitch, Royce was right. The espresso tasted metallic. I could see his smug face in my head and wanted to slap it. “I guess I don’t want Liam to worry about all the real world stuff yet, you know? Maybe when hockey season is over. I’d rather enjoy these potential final months without adding more to the schedule.”
She barked out a laugh that startled me. “Won’t be the final months if you don’t kick him out the nest!” She slammed her macchiato and shoved the cup and saucer my way. “Come on. Let’s go for our walk. Daylight’s wasting.”
I celebratedwhen I found a parking spot right in front of Harlan Royce’s German Village home. I don’t know where I expected him to live. When I visited the Leroys, I had to go out to the rich suburb, Upper Arlington. German Village was better suited to a young bachelor, which he seemed to be based on howhe gazed into my eyes and maybe almost kissed me in the street that day.
German Village had very expensive homes, but this wasn’t one of the million-plus ones. A well-kept two bed, two-and-a-half bath situated longways to the street. A rebuilt garage that could hold more cars than two beds worth of people would need. Not that I checked the last real estate listing or anything. That would be so intrusive!
I just checked the street view so I could plot where to park and the listing just happened to pop up.
Okay, fine, I looked it up. But who wouldn’t? How the other half lived was fascinating. Did Harlan have enough cars to fill all that garage space?
I slipped my water bottle into my tote bag and grabbed my knife roll from my passenger seat. Hints of spring warmed the air, but it was still cold enough to merit wearing my fleece. Twilight was setting in and I had to squint to make sure I didn’t trip on the brick-paved streets. I didn’t specify for him to get ingredients for two people, but I hoped he had. I was hungry. Given his track record of antagonizing me, I wouldn’t have put it past him to make some luscious meal and then say, “Oh, wait, were you hungry?”
I walked up the short stoop and knocked on the double doors, painted a shiny black with gold handles. I peeked into my bag to see if I still had a granola bar I could wolf down when the door opened.
There stood Harlan Royce, looking like a crime in a plain white T-shirt, a gold chain, a kitchen towel tossed over one shoulder, and, wait for it, gray sweatpants.
Like a slut.
He had the temerity to curl his stupid, pretty mouth into a lopsided smile. It was no different than how he smiled at anyone else. I’d seen that smile before. Everyone in his orbit receivedthese: slightly more closed on one side, less broad and somehow more endearing. It was his smile all the time, but when we were alone like this, it felt like it was just for me.
If I hated him, then how did a singular smile make me feel special?
Two words from him sealed my fate.
“Hey, Chef.”
