Page 54 of There's No Us Without You
I clear my throat as her warm breath sends goosebumps racing over my damp skin. “Yeah, night.”
Goddamn it.
I’m dead.
Fucking. Dead.
FOURTEEN
Eden
It’smy first day back at the restaurant after two weeks of what was supposed to be my honeymoon, and as I stand in front of the old brick building, staring up at the paint peeling off the sign above me, I hope Kent is still paying off the holiday.
We had planned day trips, skiing adventures and as much food as you could eat. Surely, he wouldn’t have qualified for a refund so close to arrival.
Although, knowing him, he probably managed to weasel his way out of it.
A slight breeze sends the sign swaying side to side, the rusted chains squealing as they rub together. How have I not noticed how run down this place has become? I guess being away has given me a little perspective and a fresh eye on all things broken.
I take a deep breath and push through the glass doors at the front of the building. My stomach is in knots, and it’s not only because I need to confront Tony about him wanting to sell the restaurant to someone else. The cherry on top of the melted ice cream sundae is, I woke up this morning bleeding through my underwear. Luckily, I scrambled out of bed just before I bled onto the sheets, leaving an adorable, sleeping Emerson behind.
I haven’t had one single night terror in the past week, and that’s because of him. It’s the only logical explanation I can come up with that makes the most sense.
It’s also oddly convenient. Here’s to hoping one thing leads to another and I end up seventy-five thousand dollars richer in time to get my dad’s restaurant back.
Although, I still haven’t worked out exactly how I’m going to make that happen as yet. I’m also freaking out about the thought of him seeing me naked.
When I push through the front door, the familiar scent of burning wood—something my father started doing because apparently the scent of cleaning products interferes with our dining experience—has me smiling for the first time this morning, and as I make my way into the back room to store my things, my stomach settles, if only slightly.
Dad was smart, always looking for ways to make his customers happy. The wood burning came about during one ofhis little research projects. He found that the smell is associated with cooking, so instead of the lemon or bleach scent of the cleaning products we use, the wood burning is kinder to our olfactory system.
Every one of our senses is used when we eat, so it makes sense to fill our noses with something that doesn’t remind us of a hospital room.
After dumping my handbag on a shelf in the storage room, I make my way towards the kitchen just as one of my favourite songs, “Black Velvet,” blasts through the speakers.
My hips sway side to side as I shuffle along—Smith and his amazing taste in old music reminding me of my father. The way he’d sit me on the stainless-steel bench while he prepared ingredients, singing at the top of his lungs. I’d swing my legs, and snack on whatever I could get my hands on. Never once did my dad scold me for eating something Ishouldn’t.
Food will always be part of who I am—literally and figuratively.
When I reach the open entrance to the kitchen with its white walls and stainless-steel benches, I cross my arms and lean against the tiles. Smith—our head chef—bops his head to the song, his feet shuffling around while he slices up heads of broccoli.
I clear my throat, making him jump and press a hand to his chest.
“Shit, girl,” he says, wiping his hands on his white-and-navy striped apron. “You almost gave me a damn heart attack.”
I stifle a laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your flow.”
He rolls his eyes and waves me over. “Come on then, come tell me all about how wonderful married life is.”
The smile on my face fades, my shoulders sagging in response. “About that...”
Smith rounds the large steel bench and comes towards me, his eyes narrowed. “What did that little fucker do?”
I lift a shoulder and sigh. “Let’s just say there was no wedding.”
“Oh, honey.” With his bottom lip pushed out, he frowns. “If it makes you feel any better, I never did like that dickhead. Are you okay?” He wraps me in his arms, crushing me to his chest.
I’ve missed him. Even if he smells like lemon-scented detergent and laundry powder.
