Page 31 of The One I Hate
He points to the headband that I’m wearing, which happens to be red with ladybugs printed on it. “Yes. Bug. Until you tell me your name, that’s what you’ll be called.”
“Please don’t.”
“Come on, Bug. Don’t be like that. I have a feeling this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“I have a feeling I want to slap you.”
He gives me a wink. “That’s part of my charm.”
“Stop it!” I scold myself, giving my head a shake. No. No more Simon thoughts. I need to keep things in focus: Surviving work and saving for my restaurant.
That’s what’s important. That needs to remain the focus. Not Simon and his stupid smirk and his stupid mouth and his stupid penis.
I start furiously cleaning my prep station, needing more than ever to get the hell out of here, when my phone rings with a FaceTime call. Normally, we don’t answer calls in thekitchen, but I’m the only one here, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck. Especially when I see that it’s my favorite Nashville event planner.
“Whitley! To what do I owe the honor? Do we have an appointment I forgot about?”
I just saw Whitley a few days ago, and she didn’t mention anything about seeing me later in the week, so I don’t think I forgot anything. Then again, after the past few weeks, I’m surprised I remembered to put on deodorant today.
Wait, did I? I give my pit a subtle sniff.
“No girl, no appointment. Yet.”
“Yet?”
“What are you doing tomorrow morning? Say, eight o’clock?”
Whitley’s smile is taking up her entire face, and I think she’s bouncing in her seat. The woman is always in a good mood—she once told me it was part of her pageant training—but right now I’m pretty sure a rainbow is coming out of her ass. So this is over the top, even for her.
“Why are you so excited?”
“Girl, I think I found you a restaurant.”
I blink a few times, trying to decide whether I heard her right. “You found me a restaurant?”
She nods frantically. “Yup! It’s perfect, and you need to come see it. Immediately.”
My face drops, because I’ve been through this before. There’s always a “perfect” place, but there’s always something that makes it not perfect for me. And I’m not talking about a little makeover or some new plates. I’m talking big things—like affordability. Or walls collapsing in.
“Don’t tease me,” I say. “That’s not nice, and you know it.”
She shakes her head. “No. I swear. It’s perfect. It’s an already established restaurant that’s been open for like forty-some years. It’s an institution, but the owner is retiring. The companythat bought it just wants to lease the space, but wants someone to come in and make it a restaurant of their own.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t breathe as I wait for the other shoe to drop. Because another shoe always drops.
“How do you know this?”
“The owner told me,” she says. “She said it was a secret, no one even knows she’s sold, but she was wondering if I knew of anyone who would be interested. Of course I thought of you first.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But I don’t know. I haven’t even begun to save enough to really be ready.”
“No! That’s the best part. The restaurant comes fully equipped. She’s leaving everything. Yes, you might want to change the interior, but when you don’t have to buy the big stuff, everything else is more manageable. And you know the rent in Rolling Hills has to be much cheaper than Nashville. It’s perfect. Please come look at it. Pretty please?”
And there’s the shoe that fell from the sky straight onto my head.
Rolling Hills.
Where Simon is. Well, it’s where I assume he is considering the two times I’ve seen him it’s been with people who live in Rolling Hills.
