The Something about Her: Opposites Attract book four

by Higginson, Rachel

  “Don’t turn this around on us,” Molly warned. “If anyone was making out in the corner last night, it was you and Vann.”

  “We’ve never made out,” I said patiently. At Vera’s pursed lips and wide eyes, I quickly added, “We’ve never even kissed. Seriously, we’re friends. That’s all.”

  Vera slumped in her seat. “Probably for the best. He’s not the nicest guy when it comes to girls. I haven’t even met one of his dates before. I don’t think he’s into the whole commitment thing.”

  I resented her implication that I needed commitment. “Who said I am? Just because we might have flirted last night, after copious amounts of carbs and cocktails, doesn’t mean I’m ready to marry him. Keep your wedding cooties to yourself, Vere. He’s funny. I like talking to him. That’s it.”

  “He’s not funny,” she argued. “He’s grumpy and responsible and the cheapest person you will ever meet.”

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  The three of them leaned toward me, eyeing me shrewdly.

  “You’re like complete opposites,” Kaya pointed out. “You’re never grumpy and you’re never responsible and you’re the opposite of cheap.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the truth in her words. “See? It would never work. Good thing there isn’t anything going on between us! Can we move on now?”

  “I suppose,” Vera sighed. “But it would make me happy to see him settled down with someone I love.”

  “Maybe you could set him up with Jo,” I suggested. “She’s grumpy and responsible and cheap.”

  Kaya snorted. “Cheap as hell.”

  “Good grief, they’re perfect for each other,” Vera groaned.

  We were all able to laugh about Vann after that and finally move on. We spent the rest of brunch drinking more cocktails and talking about details of the remaining weekend and all the exciting things Vera had going on in her life right now.

  Sure, there was also a lot of stress attached to all the major life events converging at the same time—a wedding, a restaurant opening and a baby in five months. But they were the very best things she could have ever hoped for.

  And I was so beyond happy for her and Killian. Life wasn’t going to be easy going forward, but dang, it was going to be beautiful.

  That pang lanced across my chest again, reminding me that some day I wanted this too. Not any day soon, I tried to maintain, but my old argument fell limp inside my head.

  Who wouldn’t want this? Vera made it look wonderful.

  And so did Molly.

  And so did Kaya.

  When I was surrounded by all this love, it was hard not to notice it was missing from my own life.

  But it was. It so was.

  After brunch, we headed over to Salt. The place was a madhouse. There were people everywhere. Florists setting up for the wedding tomorrow. Last minute construction guys making sure everything was in working order. An electrician. A couple of plumbers. Landscapers out front and around the building.

  In one corner of the restaurant, Ezra’s maître d’ was instructing a gaggle of waiters. And in the other corner, Vera’s wedding planner and business manager were in the throes of a knockdown, drag out fight, each wielding a clipboard like it was a sword.

  “This place is a circus,” Molly noted as we sidestepped a painter speckled with white paint and wearing goggles, a mask hanging around his neck.

  “Killian’s been coordinating the final stages. I told him that it doesn’t have to be perfect, but he’s insistent that we’re in excellent working order by tomorrow.” She glanced back at us as she led us through the dining room and bared her teeth. “As long as we don’t have to use port-a-potties I’ll be happy.”

  “Working on that now, ma’am,” a man in overalls called out as we walked by.

  Vera stopped to talk to him, but the rest of us forged on, arms full of produce from Jo’s and protein from Vera’s favorite butcher. The men had been in charge of finding everything else on the extensive list.

  Molly pushed through the kitchen door, then held it for Kaya and me. We were the first ones here and the competitive part of my soul rejoiced.

  “We won!” I cheered.

  “What did we win?” Molly asked, sounding totally confused.

  Kaya got me. “We beat the boys.”

  Molly set her bags down on one of the gleaming countertops. “Was it a race?”

  Kaya and I mumbled noncommittal maybes while we unpacked our sacks laden with the best produce money could buy. Wyatt and Killian tumbled in a few minutes later.

  “Damn,” Wyatt groaned.

  Killian set paper sacks next to Molly’s. “I told you we shouldn’t have stopped for those burritos.”

  “Were we racing?” Molly clarified more sternly.

  Poor, poor Molly. She wasn’t a chef, so she didn’t get it. Even though she technically worked in the restaurant business as part of Ezra’s EFB Enterprises, she was the only person in her department. She didn’t have anyone to prove herself to or beat.

  The rest of us were pretty much in a life long race to see who was better than everyone else. Sure, we were all good friends and loved each other fiercely. We also wanted to win. We would always want to win.

  It was who we were.

  Ezra pushed through the doorway a minute later, Vann and Vera following close behind.

  “I told you those burritos were a mistake,” Ezra said to Killian.

  “Not you too,” Molly murmured, staring at her fiancé in horror.

  My brother looked at his bride to be with the most clueless expression I’d ever seen. “What?”

  She shook her head at him.

  We had picked stations naturally. Killian and Vera next to each other, with Ezra close to Killian. Wyatt and Kaya close together, with me not far off. Molly and Vann stood in the middle of the room, not having a clue what to do with all this food.

  “I didn’t think you were coming till later,” Vera said to Vann, her gaze darting to me for a split second.

  He shrugged and hopped up onto one of the counters, pushing the stack of one hundred quail eggs to the side. “I didn’t have anything else to do. Thought I’d see if you needed help.”

  “But you don’t know how to cook,” Vera reminded him.

  He shrugged again, but never looked at me. I wondered why he was here too. But then again, Molly was hanging out all day and she couldn’t cook worth a damn.

  Actually, it was worse than that. She was a total disaster in the kitchen. We were playing it risky just by letting her in the building.

  “I can chop or whatever,” Vann said, defending himself. “Or time things.” He rubbed a hand along his smooth jaw and added. “I’m also adequate at pouring liquid into measuring cups.”

  “Oh, I can do that too!” Molly added. “I can also chop. And time things.”

  “We have ourselves a couple of sous chefs, y’all.” Vann finally looked at me, his gray eyes sparking with laughter and familiarity and something warm. God, he was especially good looking today in only a gray t-shirt and dark red shorts.

  He saluted me. “We’re here to serve.”

  Without looking away, I announced, “Then I call Vann.”

  “Wait just a second,” Killian crowed from the other end of the kitchen. “Shouldn’t Vera get first pick? It’s her wedding day.”

  Busted. “Oh, it’s just that… I thought since Molly is the maid of honor and all… you know…”

  “Vann is my brother,” Vera argued. “I should probably stick with family on this one.”

  “Hey!” Molly planted her hands on her hips. “That sounds like an insult.”

  Vera and I shared a guilty look.

  Vann ticked his chin toward me. “It’s okay, Vere, you don’t have to spare my feelings. I know you want to be with Molly.”

  Vera’s jaw unhinged, not expecting her brother to throw her under the bus. “Oh, uh, that’s sweet of you. Er, thanks.”

  Molly shook her head. “I still feel no lo
ve here, people!”

  Kaya tried to hide her snicker in Wyatt’s shoulder, while the rest of us avoided Molly’s gaze completely.

  “You can help me,” Ezra told her, his voice holding all the affection he felt for her. “I want you on my team.”

  Molly walked toward him, her shoulders still slumped. “Aren’t you supposed to tell them how much better I’ve gotten? Last week I made that toast. Remember? I didn’t even burn it.”

  “You didn’t,” Ezra agreed patiently. “You didn’t even burn the toast.”

  That led the rest of us to dissolve into fits of laughter. Shortly after, Killian broke up the shenanigans and we got to work.

  Even though this was a totally informal afternoon of cooking together, I still drank in every second of Killian’s leadership and how he led so effortlessly. I needed these tools in my pocket. I needed to be able to command a kitchen—any kitchen—flawlessly.

  I needed to inspire greatness just by walking in the room.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” Vann admitted to me after I’d pulled our ingredients over to our station.

  I turned my head to look at him, drinking in his casual attire all over again. There was chemistry between us today, a gentle pop and sizzle that sparked all around us. “What’s that?”

  He leaned even closer, our cheeks briefly brushing as he moved toward my ear. “My kitchen experience basically involves making coffee and pouring a bowl of cereal. You might have been better off with Molly.”

  It was then, at that moment, in that sweet, secret smile and those sizzling gray eyes, that I realized I had a crush on Vann Delane.

  An actual crush.

  What was I fourteen?

  Maybe. Because all I wanted to do was pull Kaya into the pantry and tell her all about it. I felt giddy and giggly just thinking about him. And standing this close was pure torture.

  Okay, I wasn’t fourteen. I didn’t have the imagination I do now when I was fourteen.

  When I had a crush back then, it stopped there. Maybe I pictured handholding. Maybe a kiss. Today, with Vann standing so close and smelling so good, all I could picture was pushing him down on the counter top and throwing my body on top of his. Or jumping him in the walk-in freezer and heating things up… if you know what I mean.

  Oh, brother… now I was punning.

  Clearing my throat, I stepped forward and tugged on his sleeve, my fingers brushing over his bicep. “Don’t try to talk me out of this now. Hell or high water, we’re in this together.”

  His gray eyes sparked with something electric, like flashes of lightning before a downpour. “All right then, Baptiste. Let’s show ‘em what we got.”

  Twelve

  Sixteen hours later, I woke up with a start—this was not my bed.

  I opened my eyes. This was not my apartment. It took me a few groggy moments to remember where I was and what had happened.

  A warm arm was wrapped around my waist, the body attached to it puffing soft snores into my tangled hair.

  I carefully, quietly, gently slapped a hand over my eyes as I shame spiraled into an eternal abyss of broken memories.

  It had started with the appetizers. Vann and I were charged with preparing egg dishes for thirty. That meant making the wasabi scotch eggs and burrata, which was this delicious peasant bread served with a yolky egg and mashed potato spread, accompanied by homemade apple butter.

  There had also been alcohol involved.

  Lots of alcohol.

  A a flirty afternoon of teaching Vann basics in the kitchen was followed by a swoon-worthy practice ceremony where Vann got choked up when his sister walked down the aisle for the first time. And then a night of eating amazing food including, but not limited to our appetizers, plus popcorn chicken served on mini waffles while Vera claimed some kind of redemption I didn’t understand, also oysters on the half shell with a to-die-for green chimichurri sauce. The main course was surf and turf. Scallops with sweet potato and roasted beets; short ribs over the creamiest polenta, fried octopus; shrimp and curried grits with shaved coconut and crushed pistachios; and pork belly sliders with pickled red onions and fried kale. All of it accompanied by crispy brussels sprouts, charred broccoli, and butternut squash hummus.

  And don’t get me started on dessert. Individual pots of chocolate pot de crème, apple pie bread pudding, and my favorite thing on the planet right now, affogato—rich, hot espresso poured over creamy caramel ice cream.

  It was delicious. And filling. And I probably gained thirty-ish pounds. I drowned that horrible thought by drinking. Don’t ask questions, it made sense at the time.

  I drank a lot. Champagne, gin fizzes, Old Fashioneds, and I think at some point there were tequila shots. Probably Wyatt’s doing.

  And now I was wrapped naked in a man’s arms, barely remembering how I got here.

  PTSD crashed hard all around me. I’d been in situations like this before—waking up with a fuzzy recollection of the night before, sharing a bed with a virtual stranger. And then the last time… that last night when I’d woken up alone with no memory of the night before and no clothes on… God, I felt like puking just thinking about it.

  Too chicken shit to turn around and risk waking up the mystery man next to me, I scrunched my eyes closed and tried to remember again what had happened.

  The cooking.

  The drinking.

  The rehearsal.

  The drinking.

  The eating.

  The more drinking.

  The dancing.

  Oh, god, the dancing.

  That’s when the shots had come out.

  My gasp of realization burst out of my mouth like a gunshot through the silent room. The man to my left stirred, pulling me tighter against his solid body.

  I let my imagination take form while I registered that the man behind me was fit, firm… fabulously muscled. His chest was a toned wall of masculinity, his forearm wrapped around my middle evidence of tanned, perfect skin. His tapered waist, tucked against my bum—we didn’t need to think about how nice that felt right now.

  Or ever.

  Ahem.

  Starting now.

  I started back at the beginning of the night once more, hoping the more awake I became, the clearer my memories would become.

  Vann and I cooking.

  Vann and I drinking while cooking.

  Vann and I walking down the aisle together, the first groomsman and bridesmaid of the group.

  Vann and I sneaking glasses of champagne while Vera and Killian worked out the kinks of the ceremony.

  Vann and I making flirty eyes through the meal, meeting up halfway through to congratulate each other on our excellent appetizers.

  Vann and I hanging out at to the bar, laughing, talking, teasing.

  Vann and I dancing.

  Wyatt giving Vann and I shots of tequila.

  Toasting the happy couple with more drinks.

  More dancing. With Vann.

  Vann. Oh my god, Vann. That’s who I was with now. That’s whose apartment I was in. That’s whose arm was wrapped around my middle.

  I slid to my stomach, grabbing a few inches of space between us and buried my face in the pillow.

  Bad idea! It smelled like him.

  Struggling to remember the dirtier details of the night, I found that I couldn’t put them in the right order or give them any clarity. They were a mess of muddled memories. His hands around my waist, pulling me against his naked body. Tripping over my shorts as I tried to step out of them. My shoe abandoned in the hallway. Gasping for breath. In the best way. But that was the only, paper-thin memory I could grasp. The rest all flitted away, dried leaves in a brisk breeze.

  Fuck.

  I had to get out of here.

  Good thing I was a total pro at the morning after—even if I was a little rusty after six years of celibacy. My hangover pressed down on my limbs, making them weak and heavy. Still, I managed to push into a partial plank and slip over the side of the be
d without making a sound.

  Of course, if Vann were to wake up, I would look like a hungover ninja with yesterday’s makeup streaked all over my face.

  Probably not the vision of loveliness he would be expecting.

  Popping my head up, I looked for my cellphone on the nightstand, but it was nowhere to be seen. Crap.

  I had a vague memory of using an Uber to get here. No worries, I could Uber home. I was an Uber pro.

  Assuming I could find my phone.

  To be honest, this was not the first time I’d army-crawled through a man’s bedroom before the sun came up. I had a few wild years under my belt. Er, maybe more than a few.

  Culinary school might as well have been a nunnery. I gave it all up. The boys. The partying. The binge drinking. The drugs. Especially the drugs. The random hookups with assholes.

  The accepting drinks from assholes when origins were unknown.

  Dropping my head to the wood flooring, I took a minute to collect myself. I hated thinking back on those days. I hated remembering the girl I used to be and the mistakes I made.

  I had been a total and complete fool. And a mess. The worst part, was that when it all came crashing down, I wasn’t even surprised. By that point it had felt inevitable.

  My therapist assured me that it wasn’t my fault. And that blaming myself for what happened was natural. But it also felt logical. If I put myself in stupid situations weren’t stupid things bound to happen?

  A wave of nausea washed over me. I swallowed quickly, the reverse action to puking. I’d read once that it was supposed to stop the mouth-tingling feeling and calm your stomach when in danger of retching.

  Five full minutes of struggling to swallow with a mouth that felt stuffed with cotton balls, the sickening feeling passed. God, was I really here again? In this same, alcohol-soaked-morning-after hell?