Page 9 of Wife Number One

“He did,” I insisted.

But Liam wouldn’t hear it. “You just told me the man has had the same menu for five years. So yeah, sure, you owe Simon for teaching you how to make decent mac and cheese, or how to deep-fry potatoes. But I’ve seen the shit you’ve been posting on your Instagram. That isn’t deep-fried, diner food. Simon didn’t teach you that.”

That heat started up at the back of my neck again. “You follow my Instagram?”

Liam chuckled. “Mae said I wasn’t allowed to tell you that we found it. She thinks it would make you uncomfortable.”

“She’s right.” I hated the idea of my older, much more successful brother following along my stupid, dinky little Instagram page that had less than a hundred followers. That was embarrassing.

Liam wasn’t having it though. “Your food looks like something out of a cooking show. You’re an amazing chef.”

I shook my head. “I’m not a chef. Just a cook.”

Liam rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone. A second later he spun it around to show me a photo I’d taken of the chargrilled tuna steak with salsa verde, shaved fennel, and a green bean salad I’d plated up yesterday after Simon had gone home for the night. My boss had no idea I stayed late, well past closing every night, in order to practice making dishes that weren’t on his very basic menu.

I probably needed to shut the stupid Instagram page down. If Liam and Mae had found it so easily, then Simon probably would too. Then I’d be fired for fucking around.

I couldn’t afford to lose my job. Not when I was this close to having the down payment for a restaurant of my own. I didn’t care that I rented a shitty apartment in the worst part of Saint View. Or that my truck was about as old and run-down as they came. I’d keep putting the damn thing back together with sticky tape if it meant all my money could go toward buying something of my very own.

Something I could be proud of. That no one could take away from me.

I didn’t even want to rent a place. Something deep inside me needed to know it was mine. That I couldn’t be kicked out at the whim of some asshole landlord. So I’d been saving every cent for years now.

“That is the work of a chef.” Liam stabbed a finger over the screen and scrolled through my photos. “As is that. And this. And this, oh damn, what is that? That looks fucking amazing.”

“It’s lobster thermidor.”

“I don’t know what that is but am I drooling? Like seriously, my mouth is so full of saliva right now it has to be sliding down my chin.” He lifted the phone toward his mouth.

“If you lick that screen, I’ll never let you live it down.”

Liam let the phone drop away from his face. “Fine. But my point still stands. You’re a chef. And you’re way too fucking good to be working in that shithole diner, even if they do sell good burgers. You’re going to be running your own place in no time.” His eyes lit up. “Did you see that place on the main street of Providence is up for auction? That would be the best spot for a restaurant. Not a ton of competition for food like yours either, but the right market for it.”

“I’ve seen it,” I said reluctantly, knowing exactly which place he was talking about because I’d been stalking it for weeks. And just this morning my app had reminded me the auction was that afternoon. “It’s going under the hammer today. In a few hours, actually. You’re right. It’s perfect.”

So fucking perfect I wanted to cry every time I drove my shitty truck past it. I’d been looking at properties in Saint View for the best part of two years, just waiting for something workable to come up, but it hadn’t happened. And then just last week, I’d gotten a ping on my real estate app, and up had popped the space of my dreams.

But of course, it was in fucking Providence, so it was well out of my price range. The two towns shared a border, but it was very much a case of upper-class snobs to the left, broke-ass bitches to the right.

I was one of the broke-ass bitches, unfortunately.

Liam, not so much.

Once upon a time that would have eaten away at me. I would have become sullen and angry about the fact he’d always had so much more.

I didn’t want to go back to being that person.

Liam eyed me. “So go for it.”

I peered over at him. “Go for what?”

“The place on the main road! Start your own restaurant. You’ve got the experience.”

“But not the money.”

Liam’s leg bounced. “How much would you need?”

My fingers tightened around my glass. “To get the deposit the bank requires to give me the mortgage? Or to actually be up and running?”

---