Ryan catches my arm before I step out of the bathroom and hauls me back to him. I turn my eyes away from him and pretend a smile. “C’mon, let’s go get some coffee.”
He shakes his head slowly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I force myself to meet his eyes and grin. Grinny-grin-grin.
“June, say it. We both know I’ll torture you under cold water until you do.”
“Abusive.”
“Tell me.”
“Ben used to tell me that same line all the time. Now I realize he was always giving me that vague work line before he’d go…ya know.” I shrug. “It’s nothing. I was just disappointed for a minute. No big deal, though.”
He dips his head so I’m forced to make eye contact again. “I’m not Ben. You can trust me.”
I nod and allow my stiff posture to soften. “Okay. I’ll try to remember that.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ryan
Later, as I’m walking toward my truck, I feel a tug somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach. You can trust me. The words I said to June repeat like a bad loop I can’t shake from my mind. Because although I’m not going to meet a woman, I didn’t exactly tell her the truth about where I’m going either.
So far, I’ve been able to rationalize my omission of the truth by thinking I’m doing what’s best for her. I’m probably not even going to take the executive chef position in Noah’s restaurant, so why tell her about it and make her worry? Plus, we need to focus on us right now and how we want to move forward in a relationship before I dump any more changes in her lap. Changes like working myself to the bone and never having weekends off or any time to visit her. SEE?! GOOD REASONS!
But my argument feels paper thin. I need to tell June. It’s stupid that I haven’t already.
I’ve seen those movies where the guy swears he’ll tell her later and then never gets the chance and ends up losing her because of it. I refuse to let that happen. That’s why the moment my truck comes to a stop in front of the address where Noah told me to meet him, I shoot June a text.
RYAN: I meant what I said about being able to trust me. So I should have just been upfront and told you that I’m on my way to check out a restaurant where I’ve been offered an executive chef position. I’m not sure I want the job but also not sure I should refuse it. We can talk about it later, but I just wanted you to know.
I wait five minutes for a response, and when it doesn't come through right away, I regret sending it. It was a bad idea. Now I look guilty. June is packing her bags, and she’ll be gone by the time I—
JUNE: *GIF of a woman slowly mouthing you’re dead to me.
JUNE: Just kidding. Thanks for telling me. I’ll help you make a pros and cons list when you get back.
My shoulders relax, and I let out a breath. Yes. There. That was the right choice. See? I knew it all along.
There’s a loud knock on my window, and I nearly jump across the console. Suddenly, I’m a fish in a bowl, and I know what it feels like to be harassed by idiot humans.
“What are you doing in there?” asks Noah loudly, like I’m on the other side of the world instead of a piece of glass. “C’mon, let’s go in so I can show you around.”
Once we’re inside the restaurant, the first thing I think is wow. Like, jaw-dropping wow. This place is all glitz and glamour and next-level decor. It’s designed with a 1920’s theme, something straight out of The Great Gatsby. Everything sparkles and winks. The floor is white marble, and a magnificent chandelier hangs in the center of the foyer where guests will wait to be seated. There’s a deep-red curtain that separates the wait area from the dining room, and I’m told that if a customer does not have a reservation booked at least a month out, the curtain will not open for them. They will never see inside.
Not all of the finishes are in place, but I get a pretty good idea of it. It’s all gold, diamond, and pearl. Nothing is gaudy, though. It’s extravagant in the most tasteful way, making me feel as if I’ve stepped into the wealthiest society of the 1920s. I imagine drinks will flow and checks will look more like a mortgage payment. This will be the restaurant of the decade.
“A live band will be playing over here at all times, and the wait staff will wear white suits and short flapper dresses.” Noah’s beady eyes shift across the room, and he looks downright gluttonous. “Customers will feel like they’ve jumped back to that glorious time when people knew how to spend money properly—letting the booze and parties take them to a happier place.”
I leave Noah standing at the front of the dining room and step deeper into the place, really just wishing he’d shut up. There’s something about him that grates on me.
“That’s what Bask will do,” he continues, raising his voice so I can hear him from across the room. “Once people step beyond those red curtains, they will enter euphoria. A place to live among the elite and dine like kings.”
I can easily imagine it. In atmospheres like this, each table will be competing with the next. Drinking more and ordering more dishes even if they are too concerned about their waist sizes to eat any of it. But wasted money doesn’t matter to people who come to restaurants like this. Spending a thousand or so on one meal is their spare change. Problem is, those people are never satisfied. They expect their meals to represent the money they’ve laid down for it, and I will break myself trying to make sure it measures up.
But I’m just cocky enough to know that it will.
Here’s the problem, though. I got into cooking so I could feel closer to my mom. So I could remember her. And now, as I’m standing here, looking at this restaurant, I feel like if she were still alive, she would grab me by the jaw and say something like, “Son, just ‘cause you’re good at something doesn’t mean it’s what you were made to do.”