Opposites Attract: The complete box set

by Higginson, Rachel

  “Let me take your things,” I offered, leading them deeper into my apartment. My parents had always been good-looking people and old age had done nothing to change that. Sure, they were softer now than in their youth. Their attractive faces still got wrinkles, no matter how many skincare products my mother forced on them. And they weren’t toned-and-svelte-could-pass-as-fitness-model-body-doubles anymore. But their beauty had evolved into a dignified kind of handsomeness. They were like a living, breathing ad for AARP. So perfectly small-town America, you wanted to crown them both and slap a “Mr. and Mrs. Successful American Citizen” on them.

  I was the opposite—wild. With pink hair to their perfectly cropped, perfectly muted gray. I was lip rings and cartilage piercings to my Mother’s habitual pearls. I was boho hipster to their upper middle-class cardigan sets. It was hard to believe I was their offspring. But not so hard to believe why I’d eventually fled Hamilton like my tail was on fire. They had Claire and Cameron to show off at home. They didn’t need the black sheep tainting their golf outings and church potlucks.

  Setting their small suitcases down in the second bedroom I had spent the morning cleaning and organizing, I was surprised to see my parents had followed me into the room.

  Dad checked his TAG Heuer watch. “We don’t have much time, do we? We got here later than I had hoped. Cameron’s car broke down outside of town—I had to help her before we could take off.”

  Concern for my baby sister flickered to life. We were six years apart, so we’d never been super close, but I had always felt protective of her. “Oh no. Is Cam okay?”

  Mom scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic, Eric. She ran out of gas.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and huffed. “She still needed my help.”

  “I swear that child would forget her hair if it weren’t attached to her body.”

  I smiled because it was true. “Glad it was only a minor mishap.”

  Mom turned to me, assessing my yoga pants and white tank top. “What time do we need to leave? How long will it take you to get ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  She mimicked my exact expression. There weren’t many times where outsiders would say I looked like my mother, but this was one of those moments where I knew we were spitting images of each other. Nobody was better at looking completely dumbfounded than the two of us—usually because of other people’s idiocy. “For supper.”

  I looked down at my clothes, realizing they wouldn’t pass my mother’s standards for leaving the house. “Oh, did you want to go out?”

  Dad laughed as though I’d made a joke. “Did we want to go out,” he stated, not as a question. “You’re always so funny.”

  I gave my mother a helpless look. “What am I missing?”

  “The reservation.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and shook it in front of me like that would jog my memory. “They called earlier today,” she explained. “They wanted to confirm a table for three at seven?”

  “They?” I asked, suspicion leaking through me, like my heart was a faulty balloon.

  “The restaurant,” my mother said slowly. I was currently the complete idiot receiving her befuddled glare.

  “What restaurant?” I snapped, full-blown panic taking control of my tongue.

  “The one you work at, bug,” my dad explained in that patient tone I remembered him always having. He was never rushed, never sharp, never frazzled—emotions left for my mother and me. “The one that’s so hard to walk right in.” He smirked. “Believe me, we’ve tried. It was thoughtful of you to book us a table. And how fun that we get to eat there with you. You’ll know what to order.” He smiled at my mom. “And what to avoid.”

  This whole damn debacle waiting to happen, that’s what I wanted to avoid.

  I glanced at the ceiling and grappled for my patience. Clearly, this was Wyatt’s doing. Right? I mean, this was his idea to begin with. And I’d called in sick… He thought he could force me to face him? While simultaneously doing the sweetest thing for my parents? He’d underestimated my expert ability to run and hide.

  Except that this was Lilou… and truly a fantastic opportunity for them. Not only would they finally have that meal of a lifetime I’d been dangling in front of their faces since I started working there, but they’d also finally understand why I loved my job so completely.

  But what was Wyatt after? What would he say in front of my parents? Nothing. He wouldn’t bring up last night. That would be insane. He wasn’t a totally evil person. Dear God, at least I hoped he wasn’t. I frowned at the bedpost, because after a quick thought, I wouldn’t put it past him.

  Shaking my head, I tried to talk myself off the ledge. He wouldn’t bother us. Not tonight. I didn’t take Wyatt for the kind of guy that wanted to meet any parents. Besides, the kitchen would keep him super busy while we ate. I already knew Lilou was completely booked tonight.

  And that begged an interesting question: how had Wyatt squeezed a table for three into the already crowded reservation list?

  Refocusing on my parents, I realized Wyatt had already won. I wasn’t going to take this opportunity away from them. They’d wanted to eat at Lilou for a long time—ever since I started working there. I had even tried to put their name on this list once or twice, but that never worked out. Either they couldn’t make it to town when there was an opening or there hadn’t been an open spot when they’d been in town.

  “We’ll finally know what the big deal is.” My mom smiled, her words sounded sugary despite the backhanded compliment.

  “You’re going to love it,” I told her through gritted teeth. “The food will change your life.” I leaned over to read my dad’s wristwatch. “Did you say seven? We should leave in about forty-five minutes then.”

  My mom glanced over me again, her eyebrows furrowing over her straight nose. “Does that give you enough time to get ready?”

  Weirdly enough, I felt more at home than I had in a long time. My mother’s passive aggressive barbs pertaining to my appearance so familiar to me, I felt nostalgic for my childhood. Tucking a pink curl behind my ear, I said, “I’m quick.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the reminder of my hair choices but moved out of the way so I could hurry to my room.

  As soon as the door shut behind me, I started stripping, yanking off the comfy clothes I’d worn all day while I’d cleaned my entire apartment. Throwing myself in the shower with a toothbrush in my hand, I got to work arming myself for Lilou.

  It wasn’t a random dinner and extended weekend with my parents. It wasn’t just eating a meal at one of the most prestigious restaurants in the city. It wasn’t one of our usual visits either; I’d settle myself in, excited to eat takeout pizza while I was forced to listen to gossip from back home until my parents passed out from too much wine.

  My curiosity was sparked by Wyatt making the next move in our long game. He’d laid down another challenge and I had to do something that would match him. He thought he could outmaneuver me? Also, it was concerning how he got my mother’s cell phone number—I would ask him about that later.

  But this was so much more than supper and showing off my place of employment to my parents. This was about putting Wyatt in his place, reminding him who he was messing with. I didn’t play to tie. I played to win. And Wyatt was going to realize just how much I savored victory.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I emerged from my bedroom with springy pink curls pinned artfully to my head and a little black dress that clung to my curves and showed off my ample chest in a tasteful way—since he seemed so obsessed with it.

  My heels were sky high and reserved for revenge. Honestly, they were reserved for nights I knew I wouldn’t do much standing. I finished my look for the evening with vibrant lipstick the same shade as my hair, and smoky eyes that felt way over the top compared to my usual waterproof mascara and colored Chapstick.

  I nibbled my lip ring as I led my parents downstairs to their Range Rover. Compared to my mother’s demure silk blouse
and high-waisted black trousers, I could have been mistaken for a hired escort, but my confidence refused to dampen.

  I looked pretty tonight. Maybe even hot.

  If Wyatt wanted to play with fire, I hoped he was prepared to get burned.

  It was only a fifteen-minute drive to Lilou, even with the Friday night traffic. We pulled into the parking lot before I’d fully mentally prepared.

  Thankfully, my parents paused for a few minutes inside the Rover to take in the outside of Lilou. She was spectacular beneath the dark night sky, all white brick and twining ivy. The landscape lights highlighted the best parts of her, warming the building in their soft glow. She was surrounded by iron and towering red brick on every side, making her standout as a beacon of culture and class.

  My mom turned around in her seat and smiled at me. She genuinely meant it when she said, “It’s charming, Kaya.”

  Smiling with pride, I said, “One of the prettiest in the city, I think.”

  This plaza was one of three main thoroughfares for nightlife, but in my opinion the best of the three. Lilou was obviously the crowning jewel of the square, but we also had two of the best nightclubs in town—Greenlight and Verve. There was Vera’s brother’s bike shop, Cycle Life. Plus a few designer boutiques that brought in a lot of business.

  Yes, our plaza was the best, but we were better when Vera’s old food truck had taken up residence in the middle. Foodie had offered a low key, urban vibe that was missing in her absence. And it had been super nice to grab a late-night meal after work. Especially now that I was second in command and left work so late. There was nowhere good open at that hour except Taco Bell, and a girl could only take so much fast food, even if it was tacos.

  This was why Dillon and I were such breakfast connoisseurs. We were constantly surrounded by five-star food, but rarely had access to it or the stomach to eat it after we’d been cooking every night.

  My parents got out of the car and I followed them. I probably should have led the way, but I rarely used the front door at Lilou and I couldn’t help but savor the opportunity.

  Unlike the kitchen door that dumped you into stainless steel and abrasive busyness, the front French doors had a kind of magic that was rare and precious. Small square panes of mottled glass outlined in black paint were like the amuse-bouche, teasing and endearing all at once.

  Once inside, you were immediately transported to a different world where waiters silently bustled back and forth in all black, contrasting vividly with the stark white linens and the softer white interior brick. Accents of green wrapped around the windows and dotted the tables in the small centerpieces. The lighting was rich and warm, continuing to appeal to the diner’s softer sense.

  The hostess greeted us from behind a large podium she could barely see over. “Hey, Kaya.” She smiled.

  “Hey, Erin.” She was a nice college-aged girl, studying to be a sports broadcaster. I only barely knew her, but she was a hard worker and didn’t start drama—hard to come by in the restaurant industry. I stepped up to her stand and wrapped my fingers around the edge of it. I dropped my voice some so my parents couldn’t hear me ask, “Someone called my mom to confirm reservations earlier?”

  She scanned her reservations list. “What name would it be under?”

  “Swift, I think? Or Dana.”

  “Oh, here you are. Yep, it looks like Chef Shaw added you at the last minute.” She met my gaze. “Lucky. I’ve been trying to get my parents a res here for months.”

  I smiled at her, but it wobbled. “This is the first time they’ve been in and I’ve been working here for years. Keep trying. You’ll get a reservation eventually.”

  Like when you sleep with Wyatt. Or almost sleep with him—he’s super accommodating after some third base action.

  She sighed, and I could already tell this was only a temporary gig for her. She wasn’t going to wait around years to squeeze in a reservation. We’d be lucky if she lasted the summer. “How many are in your party? All the reservation says is give you the best table. But I don’t know how many to set it for.”

  If she didn’t know the particulars of our reservation then who had confirmed it earlier with my mom? Wyatt? Leaning forward, I scanned her paper from an upside-down angle, which meant I couldn’t read it at all. “It says that?”

  She turned the list around for me and sure enough, in Wyatt’s slender, scratchy handwriting, it said, “Swift— best table.”

  My stomach did a teeny somersault. I read it three more times to be sure I wasn’t somehow hallucinating, or my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, forcing me to see what I wanted to see.

  Wait. Did I want to see that?

  I closed my eyes and I was back on the cold steel counter in the kitchen, Wyatt’s head between my legs, my sense of reality and common sense exploding into a million particles of light and fire.

  God, what the hell, Wyatt? What were you doing to me?

  “I can seat you when you’re ready,” Erin said softly, her eyes narrowed with concern.

  Shifting my shoulders, I forced my brain to focus and stepped toward her. My parents followed as we made our way past blissed-out diners on the verge of food comas. I soaked in every second of this rare vantage point.

  I didn’t hear from customers or reviewers or critics. As the mere sous chef, my name wasn’t attached to anything in the restaurant. Blogs didn’t rave about my talents with protein or sauce expertise. Yelp reviews didn’t recommend this restaurant because of what I could do with risotto or the genius way I served Brussel sprouts. All the accolades went to Wyatt. And Killian before him.

  Still, I knew the plates on these tables were a team effort. And not thanks to me. There was an entire staff hanging out back of house, working, sweating, slaving away to create the most perfect dining experience possible.

  These separate elements came together to create a full menu that was nothing short of a work of art. Each recipe was carefully crafted and endlessly finessed. And everything was a living, breathing organism that was constantly changed and tweaked and studied to make sure it was always the best version of itself. That the diners were always getting our most perfect end-result.

  Those rabbit legs? They had to be braised for two hours prior to service to make the meat fall-off-the-bone tender and then pan-seared in duck fat at exactly four hundred degrees to lock in the juices. They had to be flipped exactly halfway through the sear to ensure a nice crispy texture on the entire outside.

  That filet could only be flipped once, right near the end to make sure the grill marks were uniform on both sides. Flipping it too early would overcook it. Flipping it too late wouldn’t give both sides a chance to finish. And I made sure all my beef rested before I ever plated it.

  We had only recently decided to add soft-boiled quail eggs to the asparagus. And the microgreens to add a fresh, springy taste to a tried and true favorite. Wyatt had perfected those two elements when he took over for Killian. The additions had blown the previous dish out of the water. The yolky eggs added richness to something familiar, and the microgreens added brightness and a burst of flavor to a dish that had been done and redone for years. The asparagus felt completely new now and so much better than before. Our diners flipped out over it.

  Erin led us to a table in the center of the dining room, with a perfect view of the kitchen and the rest of the restaurant. It was the best table and I wondered how many other reservations she had to fight off to save it for us.

  She handed out our menus and assured us that Kim would be over shortly to take our orders.

  My dad leaned across the table and mouthed, “Wow!” It was all I needed to relax in my seat and finally let go of my fear. I didn’t even know what I was afraid of. Only that I was afraid. Wyatt and I had once been friends. And we’d once been enemies. I didn’t know what we were now.

  Us.

  Our.

  We.

  Him and I.

  Together.

  These words bounced around in my head,
waiting for a solid definition. My brain wanted to give them boundaries and boxes and take away the fluttering in my chest that felt like so much more than a crush, lust, or anything I was ready for.

  Our waitress, Kim, appeared. She was one of the pillars of Lilou. She’d worked here as long as any of us and could handle whatever the restaurant threw at her. She smiled at me, and I introduced her to my parents before ordering drinks for the table.

  Darius, the bartender, and I were good enough friends that I knew his specialties and the favorites that Ezra had made him remove recently to fit in with the prohibition-era trend sweeping the country. Ezra wanted a list filled with new takes on gin fizzes and Old Fashioneds, Moscow Mules and French 75s. Darius was working on infusing jalapeno into tequila. He’d dip the glass in a cinnamon-cayenne-salt blend to make a spicy, sweet, delicious paloma that would blow minds and start beverage revolutions.

  I ordered one for my dad, and a lemon, rhubarb gin thing for my mom.

  For myself? Dirty martini. Also gin—preferably Irish Gunpowder if he had it. Extra dirty. Extra blue cheese stuffed green olives—like the good Lord intended.

  What can I say? I liked a cold beer as much as the next girl, but in heels like these? I needed a drink James Bond would be proud of.

  As soon as the drinks were dropped off at the table, I ordered appetizers from memory. I wanted my parents to get the most well-rounded experience possible. I also wanted them to have the meal of their life. I wanted them to see what I did and be impressed by it.

  Knowing their taste, I ordered the smoked trout toast with avocado cream, the asparagus I’d just finished mentally raving about and the hand-rolled pistachio and saffron crème gnocchi.

  I felt like standing up and mic dropping, but we hadn’t even gotten to second plates yet. I decided to hold back until they asked me to roll them out of the restaurant.

  Kim smiled at the order and disappeared to put it into the computer.

  “That’s so much food,” my mom complained. “Was that all just appetizers?”