Page 124 of Crazy for this Girl

“We’re in the north.”

“And your Chef sucks, Mr. Harper.”

No shit.

I begin taking a bite of each item she brought me, ending up with four carryout containers all scattered around my desk, and to my utter displeasure, not her.

“I interviewed a few people on my way out,” she says through my more appealing thoughts. “Some weren’t impressed by the menu. The scallops alone were thirty-eight dollars, which is atrociously high for them being cooked like a fast-food chain. The filet could’ve been cooked better by my mother, and you remember how bad of a cook she was.”

“She could only make blueberry pancakes,” I mutter, remembering that Laynee’s dad did most of the cooking so her family could actually eat the food.

“Right.” She clears her throat and sits down in one of my leather chairs. “There’s this…chef in Detroit; he’s amazing. I’ve never eaten food like that before.” She hesitantly stares at me before saying, “You need to replace Chef Jeff.”

I spit out the potato salad that I’d just put in my mouth into a napkin, as it tastes like it’s spoiled and not freshly made, and I nod in agreement. “I think you’re right.”

“The staff there says he’s rude, lazy, he screams at the kitchen staff where some of the guests can hear him. He threatens to keep his tyranny under wraps, or he’ll start firing people or put them on dishwasher duty. I guess that’s a fate worse than death to a cook.”

I heave another brow at her going over the top on this assignment. “You were only supposed to eat there.”

“I know.” She shrugs. “But I wanted to get the whole picture. I wanted a real-time moment with real guests to get their commentary.”

“I commend you going above and beyond.” I fold my hands over my desk, plastering myself to the subject at hand. “So, this chef in Detroit…” Her face lights up again, and geezus fucking Christ.

I amallabout professionalism, but Laynee is making me not give a shit right now. The outfit she’s wearing makes me want to test how many tugs it would take to rip it apart.

I want free access.

I want my fucking girl on top of my desk, so I can slide her panties aside and lick. I’m wishing she forgets every bad year we were apart and let me back in. I remember what she tastes like, not getting the opportunity before to suck on her pussy, but I want a refresher nonetheless.

“His food was life-changing,” she quips dreamily. “Not only did he make things I never would’ve tried before, but it was his presentation. And you know how much I love a good hamburger.”

“I do. Very well.”

She bobs her head, then stands, looking around the office for something else to do other than look at me. “I was impressed, and I think you could bring someone in with a fresh menu and good ideas.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes skim the walls of my temporary office. “I like what you’ve done to the place.”

“What, throwing all Elliott’s stupid books out that he’ll never read?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “The navy blue was too dark for this room. It made it gloomy.”

“Gray was always my favorite color.”

“I know,” she mutters, even though painting this office was pointless because I didn’t plan on staying in Chicago long, and moving my things here would be useless. I was just going to get this location back on its feet and fly back home.

Until I found Laynee.

Plucking the only picture frame off my desk, I’m not quick enough to correct her mistake.

My mistake.

It’s the first picture she sent me when we used to write letters. The first summer when we were saying goodbye and I was holding a stupid turtle that took me hours to catch.

We were young, naive, and I had plans of marrying her even back then. I obsessively looked at that picture a million times in my life because it was the start of something. It was one of many that I’d go through and keep with me, even when I was in battle and fighting for my country.

I’d like to think of Laynee as my good luck charm. Someone that brought me home. And the only reason why I never pulled the trigger on that gun almost years ago in my studio apartment.

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