I shake my head. I barely ate at the restaurant and got too side-tracked to eat the Indian food at home.
“Let’s go somewhere.” He grabs his leather jacket from the table beside the front door.
This would be a good time to ask about the mug shot. But if the roles were reserved, knowing what I know of James, he would retreat even further. If I sound like I’m accusing him of things he’ll just get defensive. I like him. I need to do this on my own terms.
And before I can say no, I take James Hughes’s outstretched hand, and let him lead me somewhere I’ve never been before.
Chapter 22
“Chef James Hughes eats from food trucks?”
In the chilly summer night James leads me to Copley Square. I haven’t spent much time around this area. The trees are lined up symmetrically and adorned with white Christmas lights. It gives everything a pretty glow. A young guy plays the guitar down the way, and his slightly off-key singing isn’t so bad.
James grabs me by the waist and pulls me close, narrowly missing a stream of cyclists with glow in the dark tape on their bikes. We get on line for Fugu 2. It’s the longest line. Off to the side, people are hunched over the Korean BBQ.
“When did Boston turn into New York Jr.?” I ask.
James frowns, letting me go. “Don’t say that. It’s not.”
“It’s familiar though. The buskers, the whole vibe.”
“Isn’t it better here? No garbage.” Gah-bage. “Less of a frenzy. Just a good time.”
“So you have been to New York,” I say.
James sighs. “What is this obsession you have with the places I’ve been?”
“So you’ve never read Dr. Seuss either? No wonder you’re so serious.”
I playfully dig my finger into his chest. He looks up at the sky, as if asking the universe for patience to deal with me. He smiles, despite himself.
“Look, James, I know things have been crazy and we didn’t get off to a good start. Yesterday wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He snaps his attention back to me. “The fight or…the other thing?”
Heat creeps up my skin remembering our kiss. “You mean our making out?”
The couple in front of us turns around and giggles. My remedy for embarrassment is facing it head on. James wasn’t expecting me to say that because he looks away again.
“Come on, we’re not in high school. We can talk about it. It was an emotionally charged evening. It was easy to take comfort in each other.”
James studies me, and I feel extremely exposed, like he should have a measuring tape and a stopwatch in hand. “You think I kissed you because I was upset?”
I shrug. Suddenly, I can’t face my embarrassment head on. It’s too much with him. This guy turns me around. On a good day my judgment is questionable. On a good day with James—it’s this.
“Lucky,” he says, closing the empty space on the line. “I kissed you because you’re—unexpected.”
“What?”
He grumbles. I recognize the confusion in his features. It’s like he’s trying to sort the words out in his head but it’s not working quite right.
“I mean, I wasn’t expecting to feel so protective of you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
He smiles. I love the way one of his canines is a little crooked. “I know that. I can’t explain it. It’s like, you waltz into town and start putting out fires and yelling at people and taking charge of The Star. You act like you don’t care about anything, but you do. If you didn’t, you would have told your mother to go fuck herself. But you’re here, and I don’t know why you’re here and I don’t care. I’m glad that you are. I kissed you because you’re beautiful. Because when you look at me I forget what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Then why did you stop?”
“Because we were going to be seen. Because we work together. Because I’m not go—”
“Uh—hate to break up your moment of truth,” the food truck guy says. We’re standing at the window, the line behind us watching with a combination of wide grins and exasperated sighs. James turns to face the guy and he’s flooded with recognition. “Oh hey, man. That was, like, beautiful. You wanna hurry up? I got customers.”
James chuckles and hands the guy some money. “Two braised pork belly steamed buns, and two BBQ beef tacos.”
I’m trying to process James’s words. Though I’m thankful for our interruption to give me time to think, I don’t know how to get back to the topic.
James likes me.
I like James.
It’s kindergarten logic, and it has me floating out of my body with sudden glee.
We find a bench to sit on beneath a lit up tree. The off-key guitar player sings most of the correct lyrics to Wonderwall. I prefer when things aren’t perfect. It makes them more memorable.
We dive into the incredible flavors of Korean BBQ. It’s spicy and sweet and juicy.
“This,” James says between bites, “is why I eat from food trucks.”
“So then why did you give me grief about your menu item?”
“Because The Star isn’t a food truck.”
I lick the sriracha off my lips. I throw our garbage into the nearest can and when I come back I sit closer to him. He takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. “I’m still not so sure what The Star is supposed to be. Other than nice to look at.”
James looks down at his lap. I wish I hadn’t phrased it exactly in those terms. “I just want everything to taste this good. I want you to go back for seconds.”
Seconds. That’s exactly what I want. With my belly pleasantly warm with food, and my heart doing sprints in my chest, and the photo in my back pocket sounding an alarm.
“So let’s get seconds,” I say.
He looks up at me, and in that moment he knows I’m not talking a rice bowl. We lean in together, his lips searching for mine. His jacket falls off my shoulders, but it’s okay because his hands are there to make me warm again. He pushes my hair away from my face and holds me so I have nowhere to go. I wouldn’t go if he let me. I part my lips to let his tongue brush against mine. I answer every one of his licks just a little bit harder.
James pulls away first. He presses a sweet kiss on my jaw, my neck. “You taste delicious.”
I smirk, returning every one of his kisses. “I think I still have some bbq in my teeth.”
“You’re fucking weird,” he says.
“Some guy told me I was unexpected. I like that better.”
“I’m about to do something that I probably shouldn’t.” He presses his lips to mine and then lets go so I can respond.
“Was that it? Because I’ve already done that.” I press my hands on his abs and rub them back and forth.
“I’m going to ask you to dinner.”
“We did that, too.”
He holds my gaze and slowly, carefully, runs his fingers through my hair. “Tomorrow night. Say yes.”
There are a lot of things that I should say. Instead, I settled for a quick nod, and decide all I want to do right now is go in for thirds.
Chapter 23
“Can I borrow some of your energy?” Felicity asks me. Training the new staff is draining. After getting in late last night, my lips swollen from James kisses, I slept like a rock. I even woke up without the urge to inject myself with coffee. But as the day fills with paperwork, construction, and unanswered calls to my mother, the energy wanes.
Felicity talks uniforms with the staff while I let my eyes wander towards the kitchen. James has been in there for the better part of the morning. When I came in, he was already here arguing with Nunzio about what order to serve the dishes. Who wants to eat soup in the middle of a meal? Pans rattle, as I’m sure the boys are settling things playground style.
Felicty’s kitten heels clip-clop their way back to my table. She squeezes her temples. “Those two need to stop making such a racket. Between them and the construction my head is about to burst.”
“Belle can make you a margarita,” I suggest.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
I shrug. “There’s orange juice and lime in it.”
Before she can judge my advice some more, James thunders out of the kitchen. He holds a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “Lucky! My office!”
Felicity sets her terrified eyes on me. I try my best to look bored.
“What’s the magic word?”
He grumbles. “Please.”
I follow him down the hall that leads to the offices. We make a right at the supply closet and then a left at the storage room. Surrounded by stacks and stacks of alcohol, James grabs me around my waist and sits me on a box tower of tequila. I’ve always fancied myself more of a whiskey girl.
He dives in for a kiss and I pull him in by his open chef’s jacket. I want to tell him that I missed his mouth on mine, that I dreamt about his body pressing the breath out of mine. I want to, but I don’t. Instead I show him. I rub the growing bulge in his pants. He puts each hand on my ass and slides me forward until the heat of my center is pressed right against his. My leggings quickly soak through.
The best thing we could do is have sex. The dumbest thing we could do is have sex with everyone standing right outside.
One of us has to be the bigger person, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me. I slide my hands down his chest and unbutton his jeans. I tug on the zipper slowly, taking pleasure in the way his breath is ragged against my ear.
Then his hands seize my wrists. He pulls them around his neck and kisses me hard. I bask in the sea-green of his eyes, the freshly shaved jaw that feels soft against my skin.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Yes, it is.”
“We should go back before Felicity comes looking for you.”
“Tease.” I hop off the boxes. As soon as I turn around James slaps my ass. I turn, grab his package in my hand. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Then when I’m sure he’s going to have painfully blue balls, I press a kiss to his pink lips, and head back first. I stop by my mother’s office (temporarily mine) and apply some Chapstick. I let my body return to its regular state of boredom and apathy. It’s hard as hell. James sets something awake in me that I didn’t know what there. It’s exciting and strange, and even though a part of me is telling me to be careful, the rest of me is reminding me that it feels so good.
As I pass James’s closed office door, I realize he’s still in there. I’m tempted to slam the door open. I’ve always wanted to sweep things off a desk and have a passionate tumble. Surely it can’t be very comfortable, but at least it’ll be entertaining. Then, I notice he’s talking to someone.
Curiosity, my old friend. Haven’t you done enough? I tell myself to keep walking. The reason the door isn’t open is because he wants privacy.
“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.” James says forcefully. “No, everyone’s here. Just—meet me at the kitchen entrance. Don’t worry, I’ll bring it out. Give me ten.”
I dash down the hall and back to the dining room. Ten minutes to do what? It’s times like these that I wish I could read people’s minds. It’s the one superpower I’d pick. It would certainly solve lots of misunderstandings…or, you know, create a whole bunch of new ones.
“What’s wrong?” Felicity says. She looks back in the direction of the offices.
“Uh—” My senses are dulled and confused from kissing and eavesdropping. I don’t have enough energy to lie. “James is just in a weird mood. There’s nothing wrong with his menu.”
Felicity giggles. “Chefs are such divas.”
“I need a breather,” I say. Lie lie lie. “Be right back.”
She doesn’t even doubt me. I go out the front door. Men and women walk past me toting coffee trays and briefcases. Guys in hard hats park across the street at the construction site of a new high rise. I stop when I get to the corner that marks The Star’s alley, where James parks his Harley and the local staff park their bicycles. A million unlikely scenarios run through my head. James is a terrorist spy, he works for the CIA, he smuggles cocaine in our $52 a plate filet mignon—
When a new crowd of people walk past, I chance a glance around the corner. James shakes hands with someone. I lean back and stand against the wall. If I were a smoker I’d have an excuse to be out here by the metal ashtray. Instead I start flipping through my phone. I have drunken texts from Bradley, and zero calls from my mother. She’d better get back here in time for the tasting or I’ll—I’ll—keep doing what I’m doing, I guess.
The man James was with walks out of the alley. I recognize him instantly. It’s James’s brother. He doesn’t look back, only crosses the street to an old parked truck. There’s a small package wedged under his armpit. I’d bet anything that’s what James what bringing out. They sure as hell aren’t meeting in our garbage alley to hug it out like bros. Why on earth wouldn’t he just come inside? James doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to be embarrassed about his family. No, maybe just his past. I have the mug shot to prove it, and more questions than ever before.
My phone buzzing in my hand scares the bejeezus out of me. It’s James: I’m blue in places where the sun don’t shine.
Me: That’s your fault, not mine.
James: Still on for dinner tonight?
Me: Why? You’re getting cold feet?
James: You wish. Triton’s Oysters 7 P.M.
I’m waiting for James to come clean of his own volition, but at this point I might be waiting for a long time.
Chapter 24
Triton’s Oysters is on Salem Street in the North End. After spending the whole day training staff and finding any excuse to be near James at the restaurant, I’m surprised seeing him walk up the street to meet me makes me jittery. First date jittery.
He presses his lips to my cheek and opens the door.
Triton’s has about ten tables and a long bar with twenty stools. The lighting is low and fills the small place with an intimate warmth that shakes off the unseasonable cold. There’s a section at the front of the bar designated only for raw food. Oysters, clams, crab legs. There’s a small tank with two lobsters, and I have a feeling that those aren’t for sale because of their unusual large size.
“Hey you.” The hostess kisses James on both cheeks. Her dimples make her look younger than she probably is. “Long time no see.”
James smiles that room-brightening smile. He places a hand on my lower back and puts enough pressure on it that I have to take a step forward. “This is Lucky Pierce, and she’s here to try the second-best chowder in town. Lucky, this is Adelle.”
I hold out my hand and she takes it.
“Don’t let Marco hear you say that,” Adelle says. I can only think that she’s referring to the chef or the owner. “Table or bar?”
“Bar is great,” he says.
She sets two menus in front of us and leaves us alone. James introduces me to the guy manning the raw bar, Wilson, who’s been fishing with his dad since he was eight. I call him a “raw bartender” and he busts out laughing.
“What do you like?” James asks.
The questions shouldn’t surprise me but for some reason it does. No one has asked me this for a long time. I don’t think I’ve even asked myself that in a while. I fill the silence with a long “Uhhhh” and fiddle with the lens of my camera. I zoom in on the amazing display of oysters that are ready to be shucked. Wilson’s hands are red from the ice and the cold metal he uses to pry the little suckers open. I know squat about oysters, other than I don’t consider them real food. They’re like salty, perfect morsels of the sea and I can eat dozens and dozens of them without feeling full.
I even take a snapshot of the menu. Each corner has a beautiful nautical symbol. It’s these touches that make a place special.
“How’s the lobster roll here?” Though since almost every table around us is half way through a lobster roll, I’m guessing it’s a big selle
r.
“Mouthwatering.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. So this is what a happy James looks like.
“Wait,” I ask. “How do you even know about this place?”
Even though it’s on a busy street where the Freedom Trail is the biggest attraction, the outside isn’t exactly a loud attention-calling pub. If I walked past it, I wouldn’t have noticed the gold sea god etched on the glass window unless I had been searching for it.
He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I worked here a few years back. I was a line cook, but Marco took a liking to me. Showed me how to make a mean bisque. Which I perfected, of course.”
A crowd of tourists walk in, which makes him budge his seat closer to me. My leg is sandwiched between his. His knees squeezes my thigh and that sets all of my senses on fire.
“What can I get for you guys?” Wilson asks, cleaning his hands on a dry towel.
“I’ll have the lobster roll,” I say happily.
“Excellent choice. Bun or lettuce?”
James rolls his eyes.
Wilson shrugs. “What? People are lettuce crazy. They all want food that’s wicked good but has zero calories, and I hate to break it to you but that just don’t exist.”
“Load me up with carbs,” I tell him. “And a side of drawn butter.”
“Atta girl,” Wilson barks. “What’re you doing with this bum, anyway? You’re way too pretty for this mess.”
I take my glass of rosé and James takes his Boston lager, and we busy our lips with long drags of alcohol to avoid Wilson’s saucy wiggling eyebrows. It doesn’t stop James from giving a playful squeeze to the leg trapped between his. All of this—the restaurant, the warmth of it, the wine, the salty brine of seafood—it gives my heart a giant tug that aches in ways it hasn’t ached in so long. It’s like a rusty machine that I’m trying to crank to get it to start up again.
“Let me get two dozen oysters. Six Kumamoto, six blue point, six cowboys, and six surprise me.” Then he looks at me. “Have you ever tried giant crab claws?”
“How giant?” I ask, not even hiding the flirtation from my voice.
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