Truths and Lies Duet

“Do I need to remind you that this restaurant is owned by the Demetrious, and therefore obligates me to make sure it meets the standards our name represents?”

I should’ve known when I emailed Aris to let him know the restaurant is done, and that I would be confirming the menu today for opening night, he would show up.

“My brother may be pussy-whipped and not care what you do,” he continues, “but I’m not waiting until opening night to make sure everything is in order.”

My stomach heaves at the mention of the word pussy out of Aris’s mouth, but I choke it down. I need to get this meeting over with and then I can go home to my husband and get lost in him, erasing every part of Aris once again from my mind.

Just as I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself, the door opens again, and in walks Rosie, dressed in a professional royal blue pantsuit. Her heels click-clack against the wood floor. She smiles wide at me and waves as she approaches Aris and me.

“I hope I’m not late,” she says, glancing at Aris, who is now standing by the table where my tablet and cell phone are at. I was working on a couple final details while I was waiting for Rosie to arrive and the chef to finish.

“Nope, you’re right on time.” I want nothing more than to pretend Aris isn’t here, but when he clears his throat, silently indicating to make introductions, my manners win out. “Aris,” I say, gesturing toward the man I despise, “this is Rosie, the restaurant manager. Rosie, this is Aris, the bookkeeper.”

Aris’s nostrils flare at my little dig. Everyone knows how jealous and resentful he is toward Kostas, especially since Kostas has formally taken over the entire organization in his father’s indefinite absence.

“Aris, is there anything else you need?” I ask, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave.

“Nah.” He tilts his head to the side slightly and swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, hitting me with a hard stare. My stomach knots, worried I’ve crossed the line and angered the beast.

He smiles, his signature boyish smile I once upon a time fell for, walks around the table, and pulls my chair out for me. “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll stay to try the food. I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Fine,” I choke out as I begrudgingly accept his gesture and sit in my seat, allowing him to push it in. He does the same thing for Rosie before he has a seat as well.

While we wait for the food to be ready, Rosie and Aris make small talk. He’s sweet and polite and professional, and it makes me want to stab him in the eye with my salad fork.

The chef finally brings the sample of food out, and after going through each item—I’ve gone with an Italian menu—he places the tray in the middle of the table.

“Thank you, Angelo, this all looks delectable,” I tell the chef. With a smile donning his face, he nods once and waits for us to each take an item from the tray. The veal parmesan looks delicious, so I decide to go with that. Bringing it up to my nose to smell it, the delicious aroma wafts in the air, and my stomach gurgles in hunger. Aris takes a piece of the chicken marsala and Rosie forks a piece of the crab stuffed parmesan shrimp.

Bringing the veal to my lips, I take a small bite, wanting to make sure I leave room to try everything else. It’s scrumptious. The sauce is flavorful, the veal is tender, and the cheese is gooey.

“Angelo,” I say, needing to praise him. “This is perfect.”

“Agreed,” Aris says.

“This shrimp is to die for,” Rosie adds. “Here, try it.” She forks another piece of the shrimp onto my plate. Without hesitation, I pop the shrimp into my mouth, but unlike the veal that appealed to all of my senses, the shrimp does the opposite. The moment it lands on my tongue, my stomach rolls, and then, when I force myself to swallow it down, my stomach revolts, refusing to accept the food.

Quickly excusing myself, I bolt straight to the bathroom and throw up. Just when I think I’m okay, I throw up again, losing whatever is left in my belly.

My head is halfway into the toilet when a masculine hand lands on my shoulder. Thinking it’s Aris, I jump back, smacking the back of my head on the marble wall.

“Zoí mou, it’s just me,” Kostas says, his brows drawn together in worry. “Are you okay?” He kneels next to me, and lifting me in his arms, carries me over to the sink, setting me on the countertop. “I wanted to surprise you, but I got held up at a meeting. When I arrived, Aris said you ran to the bathroom.” He takes a paper towel from the dispenser and wets it, then dabs it along my forehead.