Page 4 of Burn for You

Good riddance.

I had to fight to peel my eyes off of them once they sat down after tracking them from the door to their seats. I obviously wasn’t as subtle as I thought, considering Gianna had to ask me what I was staring at “so hard my eyes were going to pop out.”

If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that I can’t stand May Whitley. She’s wild, and she’s always up my ass about something. She’s got this air about her like she doesn’t know how harsh the world could be. Ever since that first night when we met at Caio’s town gala, she’s always trying to piss me off in one way or another. Ever since that night, I decided I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me, and neither of us let the other forget it.

So why did she have to come here? We avoid each other whenever we can. Unfortunately, she’s fallen into my group of friends, meaning she’s around more than I’d like, but I do my best to avoid her when we aren’t with them, and she does the same. So why did she show up here in that little black dress, those chunky heels, and those red lips flirting with some guy right in front of my face?

It irked me to no end. Just her presence puts a frown on my face. I should really get a hold of myself. There’s no reason a twenty-five-year-old girl should have so much of an effect on me, but I’m powerless over it.

“Rafael,” Matteo says, catching my attention.

“Yeah?”

“I think that’s ready.” My sous chef looks down at the sauce bubbling in the bottom of the pan that I’ve been mindlessly stirring.

“Merda.”I pull the pan off the element and move it to the side where Matteo picks it up to plate the pasta dish that gets ordered on repeat all night, every night. People come to Italy, and they want pasta.

The sound of a dish smashing sounds behind me, and I turn to see one of our new dishwashers standing above the mess on the floor.

“Mi dispiace,Rafael.” He looks up at me with worried eyes. No, terrified eyes, like he’s scared of what I might do. God, am I that much of an asshole that this kid is afraid of me?

“Va Bene,” I say, trying to put on my most sincere facial expression. “I’ll go get the broom.”

He nods frantically as I walk past him and push on the door.

I sigh in relief as I escape the heat of the kitchen into the cool air of the hallway. Sometimes I just need a moment away from the chaos.

The old me would cringe to know that I’m even thinking that. He’d probably hate me for it.

The chaos of a kitchen used to be my sanctuary—the place that I felt more at home than in my own bed at night. The place where I would escape to instead of from.

But things change. Thingsdidchange, and no matter how much I wish I could go back to that version of myself, I can’t.

I wipe my hands on my apron, trying to shake off the feeling of uneasiness in my stomach. Every shift I work, I feel this numbness, this feeling throughout my entire body that I’m not sure if this is where I’m supposed to be anymore. Like maybe I’m better off doing something else. But every time the thought appears in my mind, I crush it.

I can envision the look on my nonna’s face if she knew I was thinking about giving this place up. She’d be turning in her grave. And I know she’s not around anymore, but some little part of me still wants to make her proud.

Before my nonna died, I was thinking about becoming a culinary instructor. I would teach other people what she taught meand share my love of food with so many more people than just those who enter Olive&Vine. I hoped that in restaurants all over the world, people would feel the essence of my love for cooking. But it’s been two years since then—two years since I gave up that dream to run this place. It became my responsibility. I couldn’t let this restaurant die with Nonna. Couldn’t let her legacy crumble when someone else bought this place and replaced it with something new. But like I said, that spark faded. Instead of this restaurant dying with her, my love for it did, and I don’t know how to get it back—how to getmyselfback when everything just feels wrong.

As I approach the supply cupboard, I hear a thump from inside.

What the fuck?

Another thump reverberates through the wall, and…was that a moan?

I wrap my fingers around the handle and swing the door open to see a dude's bare ass staring back at me.

“What the fuck?” I spit.

The culprit whips his head around, revealing a flash of a blonde bob from behind him, and I immediately feel my anger boiling. If this was a cartoon, there would be steam pouring out my ears. I should’ve known they didn’t leave; the universe wouldn’t let me off that easy.

“Oh my god,” the guy says, quickly pulling his pants back up. The clanging of his belt buckle is the only sound filling the room besides their collective panting.

The smell of sex wafts through the air of the tiny closet and I nearly gag. Someone is going to need to disinfect this entire closet, and it isnotgoing to be me.

He turns back around to look at me, still fumbling with his belt.

Seriously, I'm a thirty-four-year-old man, and I feel like an ancient school teacher busting two teenagers in the locker room.

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