Lifting my eyebrows, I say, “Am I getting charged for this?”
“Sorry. I was busy limping to the bed because chivalry is dead,” she says, shouting the last part, presumably for her new husband to hear.
I smile faintly as I take a seat at the counter. “I take it the honeymoon is going well?”
“Fabulous,” she says. “Well, one part fabulous, one part horrific trauma.” She sighs dramatically. “I have been maimed.”
Concern flickers across my face. “Are you okay?”
“We were down at the resort bar drinking and having a good time. You know how Tyler can make friends literally anywhere? Well, he did that.”
She hardly struggles to make friends herself, but I don’t bother remarking since she’s still talking.
“So we’re drinking and talking and having a good time, and me and these other girls decide to play beach volleyball.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah. Me drinking plus trying to be athletic?”
“You were asking for trouble,” I say solemnly.
“I twisted my ankle like a fucking spaz. Of course.”
“Of course,” I agree. “No other way that could have gone.”
“And now I’m laid up in bed, the room is spinning, and Tyler laughed at me and kept drinking at the bar instead of bothering to come over and see if I was okay. So now I have to get a divorce.”
“Naturally.” I tap the touchpad on my laptop to wake it up so I can look up what time it is in Bermuda. “Good thing you know a bunch of lawyers.”
“It really fucking is.”
Frowning at my laptop screen, I ask, “Are you only an hour ahead of me?”
“Yes.”
“When did this maiming happen? It’s morning. Are you already drinking?”
“Yes, Mom. I’m on my honeymoon.”
“Or pre-divorce moon, depending on how you look at it.”
Sighing again, she says, “I’m dying.” In the background I hear Tyler asking if she needs ice. “Oh, now you want to help. Aren’t you Prince Charming.”
I crack a smile and go to Google so I can search how to care for a sprained ankle. Skimming the immediate search results, I advise her, “Make sure you elevate it, too.”
“We were supposed to go hiking and see these gorgeous crystal caves today, too. I’m so bummed.”
My lips turn down in sympathy. “Aw, that sucks. I’m sorry.”
She sighs heavily. “Yeah. So, how are things going there?”
Since I can’t tell her the truth, I say, “Well, I haven’t twisted any ankles.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Of course, I also don’t have an ocean view, so you’re definitely winning on that front.”
“Now that I’m maimed, I may have to live here forever,” she says dramatically.
“You can’t live there forever. How will you set me up with some awful guy if you never come back to New York?”
It doesn’t occur to me how that might sound to Chef Ryan until he glances at me, surprise written all across his features.
I finish up my call with Charity, but I’m distracted after that, the majority of my focus on getting off the phone before he finishes cleaning up and leaves.
When I do and I set the phone aside, I wait until he meets my gaze, then I tell him, “Calvin isn’t my boyfriend.”
Ryan shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.”
“I know, but you obviously heard me on the phone and you looked… surprised.”
“Not my business,” he says, but he doesn’t seem to believe it.
“I can see why you would think Calvin is my boyfriend.” My brain tells me to stop, that it doesn’t matter, that I don’t owe this man I’ll never see again any explanations about why I would be going on dates with men other than Calvin, but I can’t seem to let it go. “But honestly, he isn’t. He never was. He never will be. It’s not like that.”
Offering a flaccid smile, he nods his head. “All right.”
His refusal to let me off the hook keeps me feeling… well, on the hook. “I feel like you don’t believe me.”
He shrugs. “I don’t get many jobs like this where someone is paying me to cook for a romantic interest who isn’t their girlfriend or boyfriend, but again, it isn’t my business. Your relationship, however you like to define it, is your business and yours alone. I’m not here to spy for Calvin, I’m here to cook you breakfast and make you lunch so you can focus on your work today.” He shoulders the canvas bag he brought with him. It looks a lot lighter than it must have when he brought it in stuffed with groceries and the cooking accessories he needed.
I’m still a bit uncomfortable with his opinion of things, but I know I can’t fully express why I’m not in the wrong without telling him things I don’t want to share. Forcing myself to let it go, but oddly desperate to extend his stay another moment, as if that will change his mind, I ask, “Is there an address I can bring back the rest of your things after I’m finished with them and they’ve been cleaned?”