Page 22 of Wild Side
But that would be a lie. Because much like the very first time I met her, I can’t get the woman out of my head.
Haven’t been able to for the past two years.
CHAPTER 9
TABITHA
Tuesday night dinnerrush was busy. A large party hit the kitchen hard during an already busy night. It gave me that buzz. That feeling where my mind and body are so focused on the task at hand that every other thought fades away. Being needed is keeping me sane. But the guests have dwindled down to only a few tables, and my mind wanders as I stand at the pass of the open kitchen, looking out over my pride and joy.
The Bighorn Bistro.
Café by morning. Chic communal farm-to-table eatery by night.
Started working in a kitchen at sixteen and never looked back. Worked my way up through the ranks while attending culinary school. And then bought the run-down old building with my own money. Meticulously saved every penny and spent the majority of it remodeling this place.
Now there are thick wood beams spanning the vaulted ceiling, each one wrapped in twinkle lights. Leafy plants hang from above too—they’re a pain in the ass to water, but they give the space an outdoor feel. And when the sun streams in from the skylights above, it bathes the entire dining room in a subtlegreen glow. Tall glass windows line the front, facing the main drag of Rose Hill, just a couple blocks off the lake.
And a mere five-minute walk from where I left Rhys. Tossed him right into the deep end and didn’t even ask if he could swim.
Out loud, I’d say I hope he can’t. The bitter, petty part of me wants to scare him off and send him running. But then I saw him smell Milo’s hair when he lifted him up this afternoon. And the look of relief on his face… it’s haunting.
The dirty truth of it is, I wouldn’t have left him with those guys if I truly wished him dead. Because if someone were drowning, West would be the first person to leap in after them. Ford comes off aloof, but I think he’d ride into battle for the people he cares about. And for all of Bash’s grumbling and scowling, he’s got a good heart. You just have to dig for it a bit.
With a heavy sigh, I glance over my shoulder at the two remaining chits. And all at once, I don’t have the energy to complete these final dinner orders. As the executive chef, I don’t need to—that’s what my sous-chef and line cooks are here for. My priorities are the menu, the orders, and the sourcing, and on busy nights, I come in to plate for the dinner rush.
I look back out over the restaurant and freeze. Because like I summoned him out of thin air just by thinking of him, Rhys is sitting at the end of the bar with a big bell of red wine settled between his thick fingers.
Staring at me.
I blink a few times, as though it might make him disappear from the stool he’s perched on. Like windshield wipers clearing a splattered fly from the view ahead.
But it doesn’t work.
He’s still there. Dark hair combed back, one side flopped down, grazing his cheekbone, while the other curves around his ear. Somehow, his stubble looks thicker than it did mere hoursago. His skin is tawnier now that it’s bathed in the dim golden light of the bistro.
He looks too big for the stool and too rugged to be sipping a glass of wine.
Yet here he is, doing just that. He’s also making me hate myself, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t peel my eyes off him. He exudes so much aloof confidence. He’s magnetic. Unflappable.
It’s like the world is orbiting him rather than the sun.
God, no wonder my sister was so into him.
He doesn’t react to my gawking. Instead, he stares back, gaze licking over my skin like flames. It’s as though here, in public, with the buzz of the restaurant between us, there’s something less scandalous about enjoying the view.
If someone were to ask, I could say I’m staring at the plant beyond him, wondering if it’s been watered lately.
Him? No. I hadn’t noticed him at all.
But that becomes harder to deny when he tips his chin toward the stool beside him—a clear invite for me to join.
Immediately, I shake my head and hike a thumb over my shoulder to the kitchen.
Rhys smirks, and when I turn to look behind me, all three of my kitchen staff are in a huddle, chitchatting. Laughing. Clearly not working. Selling me out without even trying.
A beleaguered sigh slips from my lips, and I hold up a finger, signaling I need a minute. Then I spin on my staff. “Guys, if you’ve got your giggles out, one of you can come up here and plate. The rest of you can keep things moving. Sauté. Grill. Clean. I don’t care who does what at this point. Just make yourselves useful. Please.”
They all freeze and then lurch into action like chickens with their heads cut off. I’m notthathard on them, but they alsoknow the reality of an open kitchen like this is that everyone is always watching.
