by J. M. Paul
I gulp and then dig out my phone to distract myself.
Me: Did you fall in?
Her answer is immediate.
Cami: In what?
Me: New guy’s bed. Do I need to bring you some antibiotic cream?
Cami: Huh?
Me: For your herpes or whatever STD you contract.
Cami: *rolls eyes* I haven’t fallen yet, but I think I might have landed a date this weekend!
I glance at Connor, who’s making something that looks like pasta and already smells delicious.
Me: What about Connor?
Cami: That’s a casual thing.
Huh. That’s new.
Me: Well, your casual thing is cooking something that smells like heaven. We’re in the kitchen when you decide to come up for air.
Cami: Roger that.
Cami: Love you in case I die. x
I shake my head at our saying.
Me: Love you in case I die, whore. x
I finish my drink and make idle chitchat with Connor while he finishes cooking. His beer sits untouched next to mine.
“Can I help you with anything?” I chew on an ice cube.
“Get yourself another drink if you want. The food’s almost done.” He stirs the contents in a pan, slices what looks to be grilled chicken, and then pours the pasta and meat into the saucepan.
“I’m good. I don’t indulge often, and two drinks are more than enough.” I flash him a sloppy smile. “Do you want another beer? This one’s probably warm.” I lift his forgotten bottle to gauge its weight. It’s still mostly full.
“Nah. That’s fine.” He plates the food and walks toward me with two full bowls.
Whatever Connor sits in front of me smells divine and looks like a lie. This isn’t a meal thrown together by someone who claims to cook marginally. This is a dish created by a fraud who knows his way around a kitchen.
My stomach rumbles, and when Connor pulls two forks from his pocket and hands me one, I dive into the grilled chicken pasta.
When the sustenance hits my lips, I close my eyes and moan. The flavors are exquisite—chicken, bacon, spinach, and pesto—and perfectly complement the other.
“Oh my God, you just became my favorite person,” I say with my mouth full.
I swallow, open my eyes, fill my fork again, and shove it in my mouth. When I glance at Connor, his full fork is stopped midair, and his jade eyes are carefully studying me.
“This is really good.” I swivel my fork above my bowl. “Where’d you learn how to cook?”
“Um”—Connor clears his throat, focuses on the dish in front of him, and swallows a few times—“I grew up in the restaurant business.”
“Really?” My food’s almost gone at the rate I’ve been plowing through it while Connor’s sits basically untouched.
He nods while avoiding eye contact and takes another bite.
“You going to expand on that?” I wipe my mouth with a napkin Connor set out.
“Wasn’t planning on it.” He conveniently shoves a huge forkful of pasta in his mouth.
“Okay, so tell me this”—I eat the last noodle, slice of chicken, and bacon—“how are you allowed to be here this late, alone—meaning without a superior—cooking and closing up the place?”
“Easy.” He shrugs. “I’m part owner.”
My mouth drops completely open. Thank goodness I swallowed my food, or the half-chewed morsels would have fallen onto the stainless steel table we’re occupying.
I cough, clear my throat, and wish for something to drink to dislodge the shock in my throat.
“I’m sorry. I thought you said you were part owner of this very large, very successful business.” I push my finger in my ear and jiggle it around a few times. “There, that should help. Now, come again?”
Connor sighs, pushes his dish away, and turns in my direction. “You heard correctly.”
I simply blink.
“My dad previously owned Harry’s along with several other restaurants up until a few years ago. When I graduated college, I started working here regularly, and when he fell ill, my brother and I took over this place.”
“Is … your dad okay?” I reach over and squeeze Connor’s hand.
My heart clenches in my chest at the thought of him losing a parent as well. It’s the hardest blow I’ve ever experienced. People say it gets easier with time, but I think they’re shooting hot air up my rear because it hurts as much today as it did two years ago.
“It was a long recovery, but he’s doing better.” Connor flips his hand over and entwines our fingers.
My curiosity almost gets the best of me by asking him to elaborate, but if there’s anyone who understands keeping certain aspects of your personal life personal, that’s me.
We hold hands for a while, enjoying our companionable silence.
“How old are you?” I ask suddenly.
Connor scratches the stubble on his chin with his free hand. “Twenty-seven.”
“Huh.”
“How old are you?” He rubs his thumb over my knuckles.
“Twenty-two.”
“And you’re not in college?” There’s surprise in his voice.
“College isn’t for everyone.” I shrug. “People find success without a traditional education. It’s basically a piece of paper that says you paid a lot of money to be tortured for four years.”
“I can see how you might feel that way.” He nods.
I sigh and slump my shoulders. “I did go and graduated early with honors.”
Connor huffs out a laugh. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s just so … predictable.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “I try to be a little more … original. I’m not a sheep; I don’t follow the pack, but you know”—I lift my arm and swish it in the air—“I need to make a decent living. I’m a writer, which is an extremely difficult career to find success in, so education and constant learning and growing are part of the protocol. I have to stay ahead of the game.”
“Well”—Connor raises our conjoined hands to his lips—“you definitely stand out. Ever since I laid eyes on you, I haven’t seen anyone else.” He presses a lingering kiss against my skin.
Heat starts to build in my stomach until a dejected female voice says, “Well, isn’t this cozy?”
Son of a nutcracker.
Let It Be
My head whips around, and I see Cami standing with her hands on her hips, staring at Connor’s mouth still caressing my skin.
“H-hey.” I swallow and try to tug myself away from Connor’s grip.
He refuses to let go, his dimples denting his cheeks.
Turd nugget.
I give him the death glare and pull harder. My stool teeters once I get free.
“Wh-what’s up?” I ask Cami in a high-pitched voice, completely giving my shame away. The tone screams guilty with three explanation points.
I hate the overuse of unnecessary punctuation.
“Am I interrupting?” Cami’s foot taps against the tiled floor, and her brow arches.
“Um …” I lick my lips and swallow, trying to come up with something ingenious to explain away the fact that I was completely crushing on my bestie’s suck-face partner.
“Connor cooked!” I blurt.
Real ingenious, Noel. I must have a brain the size of a pea.
Connor coughs out a laugh, and I side-eye him to shut the hell up. When caught in the act of badness, both guilty parties must unite in solidarity; it’s the standard practice of protection in numbers.
Connor clears his throat and adjusts his stance on the seat.
Cami’s eyes bounce back and forth between Connor and me a few times before zeroing in on the food Connor has barely touched.
“I’m starving.” Cami pats her flat stomach for emphasis.
“I have everything in the warmer for you. I just need to throw it together real quick.” Connor stands and gestures to his now-vacated stool. “Sit.”
�
��Thanks, Con.” Cami gives him what I know she thinks is her best flirty smile.
He nods and then kisses the top of her head. My stomach clenches, and my throat starts to close up, but Connor catches me in his gaze and winks.
Even though it shouldn’t, my heart flutters like I’m a typical, pathetic girl.
When Connor starts busying himself with Cami’s meal, she swivels toward me and tilts her head to indicate the dishes on the table.
“What’s the scoop?” Cami mumbles.
“The scoop?” I glance at Connor working by the stove.
“Is the food any good?” Cami’s eyes widen when I glance back at her.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah?” She leans her elbows on the table.
“Yeah. Connor can cook.”
“Connor can cook?”
“Mmhmm,” I hum dreamily.
“Huh.” Cami’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “That noise sounds like you’re surprised you still have your clothes on, and I didn’t find you two sliding around on the table in whatever that amazing-smelling sauce is.”
“That’s your MO, not mine.” I pat her on the cheek and roll my eyes.
She taps her finger against her chin. “Maybe you should take lessons from me.”
“Uh, no. Remember the whole STD convo we had earlier?” I raise my brows.
“Ever heard of condoms?” She makes a crude gesture.
I bat her hands down and quickly glance at Connor to see if he’s listening. He’s busy pulling a bowl down and plating Cami’s food.
“You’re disgusting. You should be ashamed.” I laugh despite myself.
“I should be, but I’m not.” Cami’s eyes crinkle with her expanding smile. She sits up and stretches. “I’m so sore.”
“Me, too.” I yawn. Now that my stomach’s full, I could crash and burn.
Cami scratches her head. “Where do you think Con learned to cook?”
“He’s part owner of Harry’s,” I say like it’s a given.
“What?” Cami’s mouth falls open, and her eyes are like saucers. “He never told me that.” It comes out in part-astonishment, part-anger.
My attention flicks over to Connor and then back to Cami.
He’s never told the girl he’s sleeping with that he owns Harry’s, but he told me—someone he barely knows?
“Um, well, maybe I misunderstood.”
“No, no. That makes sense.” She nods while studying Connor. “But he’s so young.”
“He’s twenty-seven.” I motion at nothing. “By then, aren’t we supposed to have our shit together?”
Cami’s attention whips back to me. “Connor’s twenty-seven?”
My head jolts back. “You didn’t know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she snaps. “We don’t do a lot of … talking.”
I’m going to barf.
“What are you ladies gossiping about over here?” Connor sets down a fresh bowl of pasta for Cami and hands her a fork and napkin.
“About how you own Harry’s and didn’t tell me.” Cami digs into her food with vigor and bats her lashes at Connor.
He jerks his head in my direction, and only then do I realize that he told me that in confidence.
Shit.
“It’s mostly my brother’s place, but I help him run it.” Connor tries to brush it off, but I can tell he’s making it less of a deal than it really is.
There’s something deeper here …
“Oh. Cool.” Cami easily accepts his answer. She smiles and then shoves another forkful of pasta into her mouth.
Over Cami’s head, Connor captures me in his gaze.
What is going on? I furrow my brows.
He shakes his head. Let it be.
I will for now, but there’s something more to the story, and I plan on finding out what it is.
“You back for more punishment, Lunar?” Trey claims the seat next to me at the bar the next day.
“Punishment?” I rummage through my bag and situate my materials in front of me.
“Is Connor making you a beer wench again?” He nudges me with his shoulder.
“Trey”—I stop arranging my work space and face him—“I realize you might not know me extremely well yet, but do I look like a pushover to you?”
Trey’s grin is slow. “No, but I’d like to push you over this bar and—”
I slug him in the arm before he has a chance to finish his statement. He laughs and rubs his bicep like I had any chance of hurting him.
“Journal Girl.” Connor places a glass of water in front of me.
“Thanks.” I’m not sure why, but I suddenly feel shy around Connor. It’s odd because I’m never shy; it’s against my DNA.
“I was thinking—”
“Son of a bitch,” Trey interrupts Connor. He leans his elbow on the counter and tries to shield his face with his hand.
I glance at Connor. He shrugs.
“Uh, Trey? Got problems over there, buddy?” I pat him on the back.
“Shh. Don’t say my name,” Trey hisses.
“Don’t guys usually want girls to say their name? Preferably in a scream?” I laugh at my own joke.
“Fuck,” Trey grumbles.
“What’s up, bro?” Connor’s attention flits back and forth between the two of us.
“Stage five clinger.” Trey jerks his head to the left and behind us.
Connor searches the crowd, and when he spots something, his demeanor hardens.
When I turn to see what has them both so worked up, Trey grabs my hand.
“Don’t turn around; she’ll see us,” Trey says through clenched teeth.
“Too late, man.” Connor gives a chin bob to someone over my shoulder. “Lis.”
Trey expels a whoosh of air, and his body goes limp.
Lis … Lis …
Why does that name seem familiar?
“Connor,” comes a snide female reply. “Trey, darling”—a thin hand with overly manicured, pointy claws rubs Trey’s back—“I was hoping I’d find you here.”
Trey stiffens, and with his face as hard as stone, he turns to address Claw Girl but doesn’t say anything.
I glance back, and I recognize the blonde with an overdone face, batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes at Trey.
Ah. Lis, Trey’s stalker ex-girlfriend.
“It’s Friday night, and I work at Harry’s, Lis. Why wouldn’t I be here?” Trey turns toward Connor and gives him a look.
“Can we talk?” Lis asks quietly.
“I’ve heard more of your voice than I care to. Move along.” Trey shoos her with his hand.
“I know why you’re doing this.” Lis runs her hand down Trey’s arm.
Trey flinches and then grabs my hand as he says, “Lis, have you met … my girlfriend?” Then, he lifts my fingers to his lips for a lingering kiss.
“Uh,” I sputter but stop anything else from exiting my mouth when Trey glares at me.
Right, yes. I guess I’m helping out with the problematic stalker ex again.
“That’s right. I’m the good old girlfriend.” The fakest smile I own pushes up my cheeks.
Before I realize it or can react, Trey’s lips are squashed against mine, and his hands are in my hair. I know we’ve done this before, but it takes everything in me not to push him away. Trey’s a decent kisser, but he’s not the guy I want pressing himself against me.
It must be Lis who gasps, and I hear Connor clear his throat. Slowly, I pull away from Trey. Without letting Lis see my reaction, I narrow my eyes and snarl at Trey.
Trey’s eyes have gone dark, his pupils flaring. He’s apparently experiencing a deeper connection between us than me.
I pat Trey on the cheek—harder than I should, as a warning to keep his hands and mouth to himself from here on out.
When I glance at Connor, he’s scowling at Trey. Sniffling comes from behind us, and when I turn, I see Lis wiping her eyes and then her nose.
Trey grumbles out a few c
urses, stands abruptly—his stool loudly scraping across the floor—and glares at Lis.
“This is it, Lis. I’m on the clock in five, and that’s all you get, do you hear me?” Trey towers over his ex, peering down. “Five minutes, and then you leave me the fuck alone for good.”
Trey brushes past her, and Lis follows with her head down.
“Ouch.” I swing my thumb in their direction. “That was a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“That’s Trey.” Connor’s gaze follows the couple as they walk toward the back of Harry’s. “He’s put up with a lot of her crap. He’s too nice. You have to cut them quick and clean.”
“Spoken like a true player.” I slap the cover of my journal open with a whack against the granite and shake my head.
“It’s spoken like a guy who’s watched Trey go through a shitstorm, trying to protect her feelings.” Connor leans against the counter. “Being the nice guy isn’t always the answer.”
“Whatever you say, Butterball.”
We glower at each other.
“So, you and Trey seem to have … hit it off.” Connor changes the subject.
I uncap my pen and tap it against the paper. “Don’t give me that look. He’s your friend, and I had nothing to do with”—I wave my hand in a circle—“whatever that was. It’s his battle, not mine. I’m collateral damage.”
He releases an unrecognizable sound before he straightens. “I have to get back to work. Need anything?”
“Nope. All good here.”
A group of girls laugh loudly at something, and a few guys holler at a game on the television, pounding on the table and slapping each other on the backs. There’s a crowd a little ways down the bar, egging each other to do another shot, almost in a test of wills. It’s Friday night during the holidays, and the buzz floating around Harry’s says everyone’s excited or trying to blow off stress.
Many writers probably find this environment distracting, but it soothes me and allows me to get lost in a new idea.
My pen flies across the page in a flurry of inspired enthusiasm. A new vision is itching at the corners of my creativity, and since it’s the holidays—the season of indulgence—I’ve decided to let myself explore the possibility of writing a novel. The characters crashed into my head, unwanted, and they haven’t quieted since. The story is one of heartache and pain with hope and encouragement sprinkled around like confetti. To my surprise, it contains a slight variance of my truth mixed with fiction—as all good tales do.
