by S. A. Wolfe
“Calm down,” Carson says. “You’re ruining my lunch. Coop, tell him about Adam.”
“Yeah, tell me about Adam.” I sit down and slam my fists against my thighs. “Tell me he has SEC violations or any kind of infractions on his record—something to show he’s committed fraud or done unsavory things to get to the top.”
“Can’t,” Cooper says. “I called in favors with a few people I know, and there’s nothing on Adam. He’s clean. The guy is legit. He runs a clean house.”
“I can’t believe it. No one gets to where he is without stepping on people. I was hoping there would be reports of sexual misconduct. You checked all his firms, starting with his first job out of college?”
“My information is so complete that I know his income down to the penny from all his investments. Hell, I can give you itemized lists of his lunch expenses and when he buys new socks and underwear. Your nemesis is an upstanding citizen.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“However, I did acquire some interesting information I think you’ll find delightful.”
“Delightful? About Adam?”
“No. Like I said, Adam is clean. But Talia has an interesting juvie record. A good friend has access.”
“Talia?” I try to wrap my head around the sweet woman I know committing a crime. “Let me guess, she was caught with pot in her backpack at fifteen like half the kids in our school.”
“No. Grand theft auto. She was thirteen when she stole her neighbor’s Cadillac and took it for a spin. This was when her family lived in Queens.”
“What? The woman can barely ride a bicycle, and you’re telling me she stole a car?” I look at them both in disbelief.
“I know the story.” Carson smiles, finishing his last bite of a handroll.
“You didn’t think to tell us?” Cooper asks.
Carson laughs. “You were FBI. How did you not know?”
“This wasn’t my area, and it never occurred to me to dig deeper into Talia’s records when I met her. She’s a personal chef with glowing testimonials,” Cooper explains. “How do you know?”
“She told me,” Carson says. “When I interviewed her years ago. I needed a housekeeper. She was nervous during the interview. Said she wanted me to know that she had once borrowed a neighbor’s car when she was thirteen, but he didn’t press charges, and she has never stolen anything. She said I could trust her in my home. I thought it was funny. Brave of her to volunteer the information.”
“I can’t believe she could steal a car. And actually drive a Cadillac. I can totally see her explaining it’s not the same as stealing.” I picture a slight, thirteen-year-old girl with a long ponytail swinging back and forth as she drives down her neighborhood street, trying to see over the dashboard. “How did she steal the car? Did she know how to hotwire the transmission?”
“According to the official police report,” Cooper reads from his phone, “Subject says: Mr. Richardson always leaves his car keys tucked in the visor, and I know how to get into the garage through the back door. The door has a doggy panel big enough for me to squeeze through. When asked why she stole the car, Subject says: It’s so pretty. It’s my favorite color. Baby blue. I couldn’t resist. Subject is very apologetic. Mr. Richardson is not pressing charges.”
Cooper and Carson are laughing. That’s Talia. All those sweet, silly things she says, they make my heart shudder with affection.
“She did tell me that, even though her neighbor was very proud of her careful driving, she did accidentally knock down two of his garbage cans when she backed out of the driveway. The judge required her to show up to a hearing, and the charges were dropped,” Carson says. “I love the part about her careful driving.”
“That’s my funny girl.”
Cooper and Carson both pause and look at me.
“Oh. I said that out loud.”
“Yep,” Cooper says.
Carson begins clearing the food containers. “Instead of talking to us, you should be talking to her.”
“I will. I have to be careful with her. There’s a lot at stake.”
“That’s bullshit. If you’re too careful, she’s going to think you’re still playing games. Be direct. Get in her face and tell her the truth,” Cooper says.
“How about we hit the gym?” Carson stands and stretches. “I could use a workout.”
“Join us.” Cooper puts his arm around me as we head down the hall toward the front of the shop.
Blackard Designs faces the main street of Hera, and I can see part of Swill across the street. As Carson asks Daisy about new messages, I stare out the front window, pleasantly surprised to see Talia coming from the direction of Swill. She’s pedaling her bike at a leisurely pace—the baby blue bicycle I gave her—heading in the direction that will take her out of town toward Woodstock.
“You’re looking at her like a lovesick little boy,” Cooper says. “She is a pretty woman.”
“She’s luminous,” I say, watching her figure disappear from sight.
“You’re whipped.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Talia
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, it’s not my kitchen anymore?” I ask angrily.
We’re standing in the beautifully renovated kitchen that shows no signs of fire damage. The counters, flooring, and several of the appliances are brand-new. And there’s another chef in my space, baking cakes!
Mr. Ricci, my landlord, looks at me in confusion. “Talia, you canceled your lease over a month ago. I have people on a waitlist who want these kitchens. This man here paid his deposit and a full year’s rent in advance and signed a two-year lease.”
The baker looks up nervously from the cake he’s painting flowers on with a pastry bag, as if I may suddenly destroy his sugary masterpiece with my fist.
“I never canceled my lease,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Your boss … the boyfriend, he came by and told me you didn’t need the kitchen anymore.”
“Who are you talking about!”
“The tall man. Let’s see …” Mr. Ricci thinks slowly.
“Was it a Mr. Peyton MacKenzie? Tall, good hair, sadistic eyes, and a really big chip on his shoulder?”
“Yes, that’s him! He said he could speak for you and that you were happy in your new kitchen.”
“You let him break my lease? I didn’t agree to that, and you didn’t get my signature!” I shout angrily.
“I thought he was your boyfriend and some kind of business partner. He was very convincing!” Mr. Ricci’s brows knit into a single, fuzzy, gray caterpillar. “Oh, no.”
I look back at the baker, and then at Mr. Ricci. “This is my kitchen.”
“I’m sorry, Talia. Things haven’t been the same since my wife got sick. She handled the books and all the leases. The paperwork.” He throws his hands up in anguish. “I’m taking care of her, but the paperwork has gotten a little messy.”
His sad, round face pierces my forgiving side. I could call Archie Bixby and get this legally untangled in my favor, but I don’t want to put Mr. Ricci under more duress.
“Are you going to sue me?” he asks shakily.
“No. Mistakes like this happen. They happen all the time to me.”
“I can put you at the front of the waitlist. Would that help?”
“Thank you.”
“And maybe things with Mr. MacKenzie will sort themselves out and you’ll stay in his kitchen,” he says brightly.
• • •
He’s not at Swill. I search his office and the brewery, the two places he’s been hiding in since he returned from LA.
Bash turns from the grill when I march through the kitchen. “He’s at the gym,” he says, reading my murderous mind.
“Thank you. Did you know that bastard canceled my lease at my kitchen?”
“No, I didn’t. Listen, I know it’s easy to be pissed off at Peyton, but he always finds a way to make it up to people.”
“Arghhh!” I storm out of the kitch
en and grab my bike, riding it across the street to the side entrance of Blackard Designs.
When I throw open the door to the gym, there are no men. However, Jess is running on the treadmill, and Imogene is talking while Lauren does bench presses.
“Wow, you look mad,” Imogene says.
“Where is he?” I demand.
“Locker room,” she says. There’s no doubt who I’m searching for.
I walk toward the men’s locker room. A perverse giddiness takes over as I zero in on my target.
“They’re all in there!” Imogene yells to my back.
“I don’t care!” I swing open the door to the men’s locker room and am assaulted by a wall of steam with a pungent, funky odor of male sweat—body stench mixed with Parmesan cheese and the beer that must be oozing from their pores.
There are more than a dozen men in all different states of undress. Leo is closest to the door, and he wraps his towel around his skinny, naked torso when he sees me.
“You can’t be in here!” His voice goes up three octaves, practically a squeal. His glasses steam up, and he wipes the lenses with his fingers.
“Oh, please. Who’s going to stop me? Not like I haven’t seen any of this before!” I walk on the rubber mat that runs down the middle of the locker room.
“Hey!” Carson says when he notices me. He’s completely naked. He grabs his towel off the bench and holds it in front of his crotch.
“Like I haven’t seen that before. I walked in on you and Jess going at it like rabbits. Besides, I have no interest in your pecker.”
“Hey,” is all Carson can manage again.
Cooper laughs. “She looks mighty pissed off.” He has his towel fully secured around his waist while he swipes on some deodorant.
“Fuck!” Hoyt shouts when he struts out of the shower room and runs right into me. His waist is already covered with a towel, but he pulls it tightly to him as if he thinks I’m going to wrestle it off him.
“Relax,” I say. “I’m not here for you. Your precious cock and balls are safe.”
“We could have you arrested!” He looks like a big, wet, furry bear hugging his tiny towel to his waist.
“So call the cops.”
Dylan and Cooper both laugh. They have no inhibitions. Dylan is buck naked. His ass is literally on display as he casually rifles through his gym bag.
“Don’t we have any privacy rules around here?” Hoyt shouts to the room. “If I walked into the women’s locker room, Imogene would slit my throat.”
“No, first she’d cut your dick off, and then she’d slit your throat,” I say as I keep walking through the steamy room, heading for my prey.
“When did you become mean?” Hoyt looks indignant as he covers himself head to toe with more towels.
“When I was deceived by this giant prick over here,” I say as I approach Peyton who’s completely naked with a big Cheshire cat grin on his face.
I don’t fall for his sexy smile, and I sure as hell don’t look down past his abs.
With one foot propped up on a bench, he finishes wrapping a towel around his waist then leans his other elbow down on his bent knee so we are face to face.
“Are you here to see me, sunflower?” He chuckles. “You sure know how to make an entrance. Got all the guys taking cover.” His grin grows wider. He’s challenging me to look him up and down, especially down.
I resist the challenge and the urge. It’s not hard to sense what’s between us, under his towel. His erection. I cannot fathom how men are always turned on. A room full of his naked friends doesn’t diminish his basic urges.
“Don’t get cute with me. I am so fucking angry with you! You fucked over my business, Peyton! I could sue you for this! False identity, assuming my identity, identity theft … I don’t know what it’s called, but I know what you did has to be illegal!”
“I did it to help you.” He raises his voice. “I’m saving you thousands of dollars in rent and insurance. You get my kitchen for free.” He’s still smiling like he’s Prince Charming saving the ungrateful woman.
“I didn’t ask you to do that! You know how much I love my kitchen! I planned on moving back in there this week, but today I found out that you went behind my back and canceled my lease a month ago! My landlord already rented it out to another chef. I’m screwed, you asshole!”
“Guys, come on; settle down,” Carson says, walking over, fully clothed now. “Let’s take this outside and talk about it. We can get it all sorted out. Let’s just leave all the naked guys to some privacy.”
“Never mind,” I spit out. “I’m leaving.” I turn around and stomp my work boots on my walk out, but they don’t have the desired dramatic effect I was hoping for, just a squishy, slurpy sound as my boots strike the wet rubber mat.
“Talia! Wait!” Peyton shouts.
I don’t look back. Outside, I stride to my fancy new bike that always makes me think of Peyton.
“Talia!” Peyton says, running up to me, holding the towel tightly around his waist. A miniskirt would cover more. They really need bigger towels at the gym.
He holds the towel closed with one hand and grabs my handlebars with the other.
“Let go,” I say.
“Not until you listen to me.” He’s no longer grinning, and he doesn’t look smug. He looks scared. “I would never sabotage your business or hurt you.”
“You already did.”
Imogene and a few others come out to watch the spectacle. Carson is trying to usher them back inside. Greer is taking her gym bag from her car and stops to watch us.
“Look at me,” he says gently.
“Kind of hard to do when you don’t take me seriously.” I look off in the distance of Hera’s little main street. “This is all so humorous to you. It’s all so easy for you—playing games with people.” I fight back the tears. He has committed the unthinkable.
“Please, look at me.”
I give him a dead stare.
“I’m sorry I canceled your lease without telling you. It happened in a moment of jealousy. There was Adam. And I really wanted to do something for you, give you a gift that meant something. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea, a gift.”
“Fuck you and your gift!” I shout, and Greer flinches.
Peyton is stunned. Speechless for once. Good.
“You don’t get it!” I continue. “You’ve always had this come easy to you, but I’ve never had control over my life as much as I did when I signed that lease and opened my own kitchen. I started my catering business without the help of my dad, without the help of Marko, without the help of any man. It is the only power I have had over my career, and I just found out that you took it all away.”
“But you have free rein in my kitchen,” he stammers.
“Exactly. Your kitchen. I get to be the recipient of your generosity, which makes me dependent on you. You don’t understand why this is a big deal to me because you don’t really understand me and what I’ve been through. It took me months in my own kitchen before I felt like my own boss. That kitchen was the only place that was mine. I don’t have my own home like you do. I don’t have my own building like you do. I don’t even have my own car! That kitchen was the only place I could escape to and actually be alone. It was mine, and I felt safe there. You took it away! Do you not understand that?”
Peyton looks too panicked to speak.
My anger rises when I start crying. “You hurt me in probably the worst way possible. You took away something I love, and you brush it off like it’s no big deal. The fact that you don’t understand the damage you’ve done is just as hurtful. I thought I knew you. I thought of you as a good person, too good to do something like this, especially to me.”
“You make it sound like I committed a crime. I was only trying to help you.” He sounds and looks unsure.
“You were helping you. Making yourself feel good by supporting someone like me. I don’t know if I can forgive you. I don’t know if I can ever trust you again, and I
don’t need more untrustworthy people in my life. It’s good you’re leaving—”
“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Honestly, Talia, I really was trying to do something good for you. I’ll make this up to you. If I have to buy the baker out of his lease, I will pay double, triple. I’ll make an offer he can’t refuse. Whatever it takes to get your kitchen back. Had I known all this—the significance of that kitchen—I wouldn’t have broken that lease. My intention was to take some financial pressure off you.”
“I don’t want you paying an obscene sum to buy the baker off. That would make me feel horrible, too.” I wipe my face free of all stray tears. “If I stay at Swill, what about long-term? I’m not an employee, so what if you sell it someday and the new owners want me out? Or what if—”
“I’m the owner. I’m not going anywhere. I said I’m not leaving, and I’m not.”
Images of him flying across the country with Harmony and of him in flashy Bourdain-Torrance restaurants swim around my mind.
“I’m staying here. In Hera. Because of Finn, my family, and because …” He trails off, and I wait for him to finish.
I straddle the bike because he still has a tight grip on the handlebars.
“I’m staying in Hera. I turned down Danny Bourdain’s offer. I’m going to stay on at Swill.”
I imagine this is a lot for him to give up. Peyton doesn’t give up opportunities like this.
“For how long?” I ask.
He thinks I would be relieved? The anger is bubbling up inside of me. He’s acting, saying all the things he thinks I want to hear, except this isn’t who he is. He’s a risk-taker. He dreams big. He never intended to stay here. He’s always put himself first, like my father, like Marko.
He lets go of my bike and crosses his arms, more of a defense against the women who have stepped outside of shops to get a view of him and a chance to add to the gossip about us that will follow later over burgers and cherry pie at Bonnie’s Diner or over German drafts at Swill. “I’m staying for good.”
“In the immortal words of Nancy Sinatra, you’re lying when you should be truthing.” I can’t remember the actual verse—from one of Norma’s vintage albums—but this will do.
