Page 72 of The One I Hate
Confusion. Want. Need. A little hate. A lot of want.
I recognize them because I know that’s what’s going through mine.
The energy between us right now is charged in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s almost like I can feel the current pulling us together. It’s the attraction I feel every time I’m with her, only…more.
Again, I don’t think. Apparently that’s my MO tonight as I squeeze her hand against my chest and slowly start to lean in. She surprises me again by not pulling away—in fact, leaning forward as well. I can almost taste her cherry lips when the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life breaks the moment.
What the actual fuck…
“I’m sorry, Chef,” a teenage guy says as he hauls three garbage bags toward the dumpster. “I thought you had gone home. Billy said you left. I didn’t mean to slam the door open.”
“It’s okay,” she says, quickly standing up and taking off my jacket she’s been wearing. “I should go.”
She turns to walk away, but I grab her elbow. “Let me take you home.”
Charlie shakes her head. “I’m fine. Plus, you have a wedding to finish DJing.”
“I don’t give a shit about that.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Go back. Have fun. I’ll see you around.”
I watch as Charlie heads back inside, only this time, she doesn’t turn back around for one more look.
Chapter 17
Charlie
Yellow.
So much yellow.
Yellow walls. Lemons. Sunshines. Sunflowers.
There isn’t a part of this restaurant that isn’t in yellow.
And if there is one color I hate, it’s yellow.
“Okay,” I say to myself. “Let’s do this.”
I crank up the ‘00s hip-hop and R&B playlist on my Bluetooth speaker before bringing over the ladder and paint supplies to begin “Operation White Walls.”
I can never repay Mona for leaving everything here and keeping this restaurant in perfect working order. And not just in working order; some of this stuff is brand new. I don’t know how I missed that on my walkthrough, but I’m not going to say no to state-of-the-art ovens.
Everything else is updating or cosmetic. New plates, cutlery, and mugs. Actually getting POS systems that take credit cards. Maybe new upholstery on the booths, but that’s only if there’s time and money.
And most importantly: painting. Though that’s easier said than done, considering I’m about to go through roughly ninety-two gallons of white paint to transform this place from the yellow submarine to my dream restaurant.
This is by far the biggest project, and I’ve been putting it off for weeks. But we’re a little more than week away from opening, and I can’t procrastinate any longer. And yes, I could have asked Mellie to help me, but the poor girl spent ten hours deep cleaning the kitchen, pantry, and coolers. I felt bad asking her to say.
So it’s just me. Time to paint until I pass out from exhaustion or the fumes—whichever one happens first.
Though judging by my last few weeks, the exhaustion is going to win. I never realized how tired I’d be opening this place up. Like, I need a nap every day to function. It doesn’t help that my stomach has been hating me so much I can barely eat.
Oh well. I don’t have time to think about any of that now. I have walls to de-yellow.
“Knock, knock. We heard there was a paint party happening tonight?”
The voice startles me, and I turn to see three women walking in carrying pizza, paint brushes, and drinks.
