“Oh, of course!” Sergio says congenially. “So good to have you back. Roberta, she tries, but her alfredo is just not the same as yours.” He looks at the plate in my hands eagerly, his fingers twitching as he holds himself back from grabbing it out of my hands.
“Here.” I shove the plate his way. “Excuse me.”
My escape is short-lived because as Sergio sits down to chow on his special plate of fettuccine, Valentina is coming down the hall in quick strides. Click-click-click, her heels sound out on the floor.
“Lorenzo!” she calls out.
I’m almost free and clear, just two more steps and I’ll be through the door into the kitchen, but she catches me. Her nails dig into my arm to stop me in place. Gritting my teeth, I hiss, “What?”
She actually looks wounded. “I . . . I missed you.”
I blink. “You don’t even know me.”
Ignoring my assertion, she pouts, “Didn’t you miss me too, baby?” She reaches up to cup my face and I jerk out of her range.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl. “And I’m not your ‘baby’. As I’ve told you before, Valentina . . . not just no, but hell no. Go to your husband.”
Her lips purse haughtily, a gleam in her eye. “Did you like seeing me like that? Bent over, getting fucked from behind?” She takes a step closer, and though I want to run from her, I refuse to give up ground to a woman like her. Lowering her voice, she confides, “I only let him fuck me from behind so I can pretend it’s you, Lorenzo. Always you in my mind, but I know the real thing would be so much better. We could be so good together.”
“Never gonna happen,” I snarl, shaking my head with my eyes fixed on hers, imploring her to hear me for once.
She purrs, “Come on, baby. Just once . . . for me? Or I could tell my husband that you’ve been pursuing me.” Her hand reaches for my cock, and I gently grab her wrist to stop her, not wanting her touch. “Ouch, you’re hurting me,” she exclaims softly, all fearful drama with tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m not hurting you. Don’t touch me.”
Her face morphs again as she muses, “But who will they believe? The dutiful wife of a loving dimwit of a husband, or the tattooed bad boy who blows in and out of town on his motorcycle, leaving women in his wake after taking what he wants from them?”
“I don’t . . .”
I freeze. Is that what I do? Not with Valentina, never with a barracuda like her, but I have had relationships in the various towns I’ve lived in. Some casual, some more serious, but never enough to warrant my staying beyond the short time I found something interesting there. Once my cravings for food adventures were satisfied, I was happy to move on . . . from the food and the women.
Until now.
I might have moved on from the food in Aruba, though I admit I wasn’t ready to come home and am still considering Esmar’s offer because there is much to learn there. But I haven’t moved on from Abigail. She keeps me guessing and surprises me with her passion for life, and I find that thrilling. But is it only a matter of time before that too becomes boring and I’ll want to move on?
Something in my gut says no.
But Abigail’s moved on from me, wanting only an island ‘honeymoon’ to satisfy some schoolyard competitiveness. Even if what we had went beyond that, she is not a woman to leave her mind unspoken, and yet, she said nothing about continuing once we came home. The only logical conclusion is that . . . she doesn’t want to.
While I have an existential crisis, something even worse has happened.
“Valentina! Lorenzo!”
Sergio’s voice is hot with barely restrained fury and loud enough that I know everyone on the other side of the kitchen door heard him because the din of the hustle and bustle of work stops abruptly.
I clench my jaw, not willing to apologize when I have done nothing wrong.
Valentina is of no such ethical dilemma. “Oh, Sergio, thank God! He was all over me, talking about how much he missed me. He . . .” She breaks down into gushing, sobbing tears, and I watch incredulously as she burrows against her husband’s round belly, laying her head on his shoulder.
What the fuck is she talking about?
From her vantage point, she sniffles and throws me a look that Sergio can’t see. ‘Gotcha’ that look says.
“Lorenzo! Go to my office. Valentina, go home. We’ll discuss this later.” Sergio’s orders are barked and authoritative, something I rarely hear from him.
I stomp down the hall, past Sergio and Valentina, to return to the office. I see the plate of half-eaten fettuccine sitting on the desk amid the mess of papers with Valentina and Sergio’s sex juices and sweat on them.
I can’t do this.
I don’t have to do this.
I can go anywhere—like Aruba. Cook anything—like island fare. I wonder if the papayas are ripe today and what stories Gilberto is telling the crew to make them laugh.
Sergio comes in, shoulders back and chin lifted. He plops down into his chair, which makes a creaking noise.
“Sergio—” I start, my mind made up.
He jerks his chin toward the chair, silently telling me to sit down. I lower myself into the chair, thighs spread wide and my hands clasped between my knees.
“That was not what it looked like,” I try again.
“How long?” he demands. “How long has my wife been coming on to you like that?” His voice has gone softer, the hurt woven through the roughness.
For all of Sergio’s faults, I do believe he truly loves his wife. Unfortunately, she’s demon spawn in stilettos.
“You know?” I hedge.
He sighs heavily. “I was in the hallway and overheard some of what she said.”
I guess her teary blame game wasn’t so successful after all. I can’t find any joy in that, though, when Sergio looks like someone just stole his happiness.
It wasn’t me, though. That was all Valentina.
“Look, man to man . . . she started flirting with me when I first started. At first, it seemed friendly, welcoming. But she’s been more and more aggressive. I’ve told her no dozens of times, told her to go to you more than that. I’m an asshole, but I’ve got no interest in your wife. In anyone’s wife. I’m not that guy.”
It’s a harsh way of putting it, but sometimes, the deepest cut is needed to get all the truth out.
Sergio laughs, though it’s hollow sounding. “I actually believe that. When I mentioned you were coming back for dinner service today, she was excited . . .” His voice drifts off, and I catch his meaning about what prompted their office activities earlier. He’s quiet for a long moment, so I fill the dead space.
“I’ll get my knives and go,” I offer, knowing where this is headed. Sergio might believe me, might believe that his wife is the aggressor in all of this, but he can’t have me in his kitchen.
That’s okay. My mind’s already made up.
At least about working here. I’m not sure about Aruba, but there are a world’s worth of kitchens to explore, and I don’t have to stay somewhere where the shine has worn off.
“I cannot allow you to quit, Chef. I need to fire you, with severance, of course,” Sergio negotiates. He pulls a checkbook from his desk and writes me a check.
I can understand his need to fire me as a show of dominance. He’ll need to continue as the alpha in his restaurant, and he’s well aware that everyone in the kitchen and probably the front of the house too heard our hallway encounter and are gossiping like old women out there as we speak.
“Understood.” I dip my chin in agreement and we both stand. He hands me the check, and I fold it, placing it in my chest pocket without looking at it. The amount doesn’t matter, though I’ll need it to get by for the next few weeks while I figure out what the hell I’m going to do now. The point is that Sergio and I are good, two men in a bad situation because of one woman.
He holds out a hand and I look at it carefully. “Still no, man. I know you haven’t washed your hands.”<
br />
He shrugs with a small hint of a sad smile. “I will miss your fettuccine, Lorenzo. If you need a recommendation anywhere, feel free to use my name. I will gladly tell anyone about your culinary skills.”
An exceedingly kind gesture, all things considered, but I don’t think I’ll be risking that recommendation. What if a potential employer got Valentina on the line? She’d paint a most unflattering picture of me, I’m sure.
“There are several more servings of fettuccine in the kitchen, already prepped for service. Grab one of those before they’re gone.”
With that, I walk through the kitchen of Avanti for the last time. I shake hands with Roberta and wave at the rest of the guys on the line. They offer a small applause and call out, “Bye, Chef!” like they have so many nights before.
Tonight, when I climb on my motorcycle and fly down the road, I have no destination in mind. I simply feel free, the wind rushing against my body as I drive too fast, my knives in my pack and armed with the knowledge that I could go anywhere right now.
Anywhere I want—to start fresh, to learn something new, to meet new people.
So why do I end up driving by SweetPea Boutique and feeling let down at the dark interior?
Chapter 23
Abi
“I’d like to raise a toast to my daughter, the magnificently talented Abi Andrews,” my dad, Morgan, says as he lifts a glass of scotch.
“We really are so proud of you, dear,” my mom, Kimberly, echoes as she lifts her wine.
Ross and Courtney lift their drinks, and I do the same, feeling a flush of pride at Dad’s praise.
We sip our drinks and set them back on the white tablecloth-covered table at the country club.
Dad called this family meeting tonight to celebrate as soon as his press alert popped up with my name.
“Abi, line one’s for you. It’s your Dad,” Samantha yells across the shop. She did a great job while Janey and I were gone, really showing her stuff by managing the shop and the arrangements. Janey might have some competition as my right-hand girl, except that Janey’s a brutal bitch who’ll cut a girl if Samantha gets a big head.
With a grin, I answer, “Thanks! I’ve got it.”
“Hello.”
“Abi, got an alert on you. Thankfully, good news . . . this time,” Dad says. I can hear the creak of his chair as he leans back, relaxing at the office for a moment before he starts the next thing on his never-ending to-do list.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say with a smile, sitting on a stool at my work table. The parallel strikes me—Dad at his office and me at mine, his desk likely neat and organized while mine is strewn with blooms that I’m arranging into a lovely custom piece for a customer.
I keep messing with the flowers aimlessly as he reads off the dry alert he received. He set them up on Ross, Courtney, and me when we were kids and added Violet, Carly, and Kaede when they joined the family. Unfortunately, the alerts have been bad news more often than good, especially with Ross’s younger tabloid-worthy days. Luckily, those are far behind him and us.
“We’re celebrating tonight, and I won’t take no for an answer. Your mother’s already made reservations at the club for seven o’clock.”
“Uh, okay. Sure, Dad.” I can’t say no to him, even though what I really want to do tonight is go home, curl into a burrito inside a fluffy blanket, and stare at bad reality television until I fall asleep. Alone.
The quiet hum of the fancy country club dining room brings me back to the here and now, as does Dad’s deep voice. “So, pretend I’m an old, out of touch sort and explain to me again how this helps you,” Dad says with a light chuckle.
I take a big breath, knowing that while Dad’s joking and is definitely not that clueless, he’s not particularly social media savvy. “Claire’s a huge online personality with a lot of pull, like millions-of-followers type of influence. She posted an album’s worth of wedding photos, tagging vendors from the event like the resort, the wedding planner, the bridal gown designer, and the florist.” I frame my smiling face with my hands because that’d be me.
Dad follows up, “And all of these followers see the tags, and you get money on that how?”
I shake my head, though I’m impressed that he understands that clicks equal dollars. He’s getting better. “I don’t. She gets the click-through monies for her likes, but I get the exposure. It’s a free advertisement to a cultivated audience. That’s huge when we’re talking that many people looking at every detail of Claire’s wedding and wanting to copy it down to the flowers. I’m already getting more calls, and people are booking their weddings with me sight unseen, just wanting to reserve their dates.”
“All based on this Claire person’s recommendation?” Dad summarizes.
Mom lays a hand on his arm. “It’s like a personal recommendation for the social media age, honey.”
He lifts his glass again, understanding now. “As long as it’s good for my girl, I’m happy for you.” He takes another sip of scotch as our dinners arrive.
We eat in relative peace as Ross tells us about Carly’s sleep and poop schedule, since Vi’s at home with the baby, and talks about One Life Gym’s business. It’s nice that he can share that with Dad now. They spent a long time on opposite sides of the table, but moving to separate sandboxes has done them well. And Dad is truly proud of Ross’s success. Courtney jumps in, and she and Dad get to talking about work stuff, as always. They’re two peas in a pod and their brains are always at least half-focused on work.
I’m mindlessly zoned out as they talk about their latest project and I pick at my chicken. That zero-percent focus—my daydream tendency, as Mom calls it—causes me to miss the incoming bomb until it’s standing right beside me.
“Abi! Oh, my gosh, it’s so great to see you!” a voice exclaims happily.
I look up to see the absolute last person I want to lay eyes on. “Emily.”
“Can you believe it? We don’t see each other for years and then it’s like we can’t stop running into each other.” Emily laughs, looking around the table at Ross, Courtney, and my parents. “Emily Jones . . . oh, I mean Emily Daniels. It’s my new last name, so I’m still getting used to it. My Dougie is a VP at a mutual fund index company. Working late, you know?” she brags.
Slick, Emily. Way to throw in that you just got married without saying it outright, and tack on Doug’s title like we’ll be awed by that. Everyone at this table is a VP, CEO, or sits on a Board of Directors. Titles don’t impress. People do. Wisdom from my dad.
“Congratulations, Emily,” Mom says, ever polite even when some stranger interrupts our family dinner.
Courtney knows exactly who Emily is and mutters under her breath, “Working late hours after the market’s closed?”
Mom jumps in, covering Courtney’s snarkiness with a gracious smile. “May you and your new husband have a lifetime of happiness.”
Emily ignores Mom’s well wishes, her eyes locked in on me. “I guess you don’t have that problem, do you, Abi? Not since you kept your last name.”
Dad chokes on his bite of pasta, coughing into his napkin. “Kept? Your name?” Dad’s right eyebrow has climbed a solid inch up his forehead, and if I know anything about him, his calculating mind is putting together puzzle pieces faster than a Rubik’s cube champion can spin those colored blocks.
Ross and Courtney have my back, knowing exactly what’s going on and what Emily is playing at. Courtney jumps in first, on defense, “Forgive me for forgetting you, Emily, but how far behind Abi were you? In school, I mean.”
Ooh, she’s good. So damn good. I forget how skilled my sister is with her words, cutting like knives as she tells Emily to her face that she was utterly forgettable while making it sound like simple pleasantries.
Emily’s lips purse. “We were in the same class. But that was so long ago.” She forces a smile to her bright red lips, making her look like Pennywise, evil clown incarnate. “Imagine my surprise to see her in Aruba! And for both of us to be th
ere on our honeymoons!”
Her voice has gotten loud, enough so that conversation at the tables surrounding us has all but stopped as people look our way. She’s a good strategist.
Even Mom loses any semblance of caring about her public face and screeches, “Honeymoon? Abi, what is she talking about?”
Thanks, Mom! If everyone wasn’t already looking, that would’ve gotten their attention for sure. And Emily is cunning enough to know she’s struck a nerve with a direct hit.
She feigns horror, her eyes wide and her hands covering her mouth, but she makes sure to drop them and enunciate so everyone hears her loud and clear. “Well, yeah. Abi’s husband, Lorenzo. She said they were on their honeymoon in Aruba last week too. Of course, I saw her working there one day and everyone saw the mention of her little flower shop, SweetPea Boutique, on Claire Johnson’s ’gram this morning, and I just thought it was the sweetest thing that Abi could piggyback her honeymoon on a work trip. Double dipping and all. Must’ve been cost effective to have Claire pay for your honeymoon, huh, Abi?” She lifts a shoulder at me, almost like she’s giving me a friendly nudge, but she’s a solid foot away and talking louder and louder, dropping names left and right to demolish me with every word.
The room is no longer quiet. A hum of whispers surrounds us and disgusted glares are being thrown at me from every angle. Except from one table behind Emily, where a group of women sit . . . women I know from school. They were Emily’s friends then and apparently are her tag-alongs still, because they’re smirking with victory at taking The Abi Andrews down so publicly. Vaguely, I wonder what Emily told them about our week and the childish competition we’d resorted to. I’m sure it was nothing flattering to me.
My tongue is thick in my mouth. For all my brilliance, I can’t find a word of explanation that can somehow make this okay. But knowing I have to try, I sputter out, “No, that’s not . . . Emily.” I take a sip of my water, trying in vain to find the ability to speak.
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 27
