Page 38 of Can't Kiss the Chef

“Dalton.” That’s it, just his name.

It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

“I’m going to go grab a round of shots for everyone,” Byron says wryly as his eyes drag from Dalton to me. “Lola, want to help me carry them?”

“I’ll stay here and keep Dalton company,” Charlotte pipes up. She pats Dalton on the shoulder a few times. Her and Dalton hang in the same circle at Hamilton but they have never been particularly close. I don’t think that’s why she is offering to keep him company. She has always been on team Byron. She thinks he brings out the best in me.

“Ummm, sure, I guess.”

Byron opens the cabinet where they hide their good liquor. It’s only when his back is facing me that he starts his interrogation.

“How did you meet Dalton?”

My back rests against the countertop opposite Byron. I have a great view of his backside, which has only gotten better since the last time I had an unrestricted view of it.

“At a bar when I was home this summer. He was coaching a camp in the city.”

“Oh, cool.” The silence between us drowns out the rest of the party. I can’t hear the music or drunk girls retelling stories of their weeks. I hate this distant version of Byron. “Is he treating you well?”

“Other than the night we met, I have just bumped into him randomly. He seems like a good guy.”

Byron’s cutting limes for the tequila shots when it slips out of his hand, nearly slicing through the tip of his thumb.

At the same time, I’m asking, “Byron, are you okay?” He grunts out, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I rush to his side and grab his hand. Examining it to make sure he didn’t knick himself.

Byron faces me and places the hand I’m not checking for injuries on my cheek. It’s the most intimate we have been since the night of the draft.

“I’m okay, Pips. I missed my finger.” He runs his thumb over my cheekbone, and I close my eyes. I inhale deeply remembering how much I used to crave his touch. How we would sneak away to Hamilton to get coffee. Where we didn’t have to consistently look over our shoulders. When I can’t hold my breath any longer, I exhale, those memories going with it.

I peel his hand off my cheek and let go of the one I’m holding. When I open my eyes, Byron’s are still locked on mine.

“Just be careful, Lo.”

Nobody will ever be able to hurt me the way he did. I don’t say it out loud, I’m not looking for a flight.

“I will be.”

He hands me a tray with a few shots, limes, and salt, and he takes the one that carries most of the drinks.

A laugh bubbles out of me when I can’t hold it back any longer.

“You guys actually use these?”

One night, when Jasper’s was closing and the boys were drunk, they stole two serving trays from the bar. That night, only the core of our friend group went back to the hockey house for after-hours, and they couldn’t stop talking about how they tookthese trays. You would have thought they were part of the cast of Ocean’s Eleven.

The tension between us remains in the kitchen.

Byron waits until we all have a shot in our hand before holding his up. We all follow suit.

“To the best year of our lives.”

We all clink our glasses before taking the shot.

Sunday morning, I‘m awakened to a leg slung over my waist and a large body wrapped around my back.

“Did you sleep okay?” The voice is more profound than the one I’m used to having in my bed.

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