Page 82 of Butcher & Blackbird
If she’s bothered by my long hours or my exhaustion and stress, she doesn’t let on. I know she’s worried about me, but there’s no irritation or demands for more attention and presence than I can give right now. In fact, she seems to be thriving, even though it’s hard for me to believe.
“I feel terrible, you coming all this way, upending your life and I’m barely even here,” I’d said as I stared through the dark toward the ceiling when we laid in bed two nights ago. But what I didn’t say was how worried I constantly feel that this isn’t going the way I envisioned at all. I’ve wanted Sloane for years, and now that she’s finally here, it gnaws at me that I might not be giving her what she needs. What if I’m just coming home every night to fuck enough stress out of my system that I can fall asleep but not providing anything tangible in return? Is that what I’m doing?
“I’m happy,” she’d replied simply, as though it should be obvious. “I like solitude, Rowan. I feel safe when I’m alone. Maybe not always with that furbag over there looking like he wants to shred my face off,” she’d said as she flailed a hand toward the bedroom door, “but Winston aside, this is good for me. I don’t feel lonely. Actually, it’s the first time in a long time that I don’t.”
She had pressed a kiss to my cheek as though punctuating her point and then she fell asleep where she always does, resting on my heart. But I stayed awake long after that, with a single question rolling through my mind:
What if she’s lying?
I blow out a deep breath and refocus on the task at hand, namely not burning the pan-fried foie gras for the appetizers as Ryan, themaître d’,enters the kitchen for a time check for the appetizers.Two minutes. Two minutes and the first guests will be eating atButcher & Blackbird. Two minutes until the next step in my career becomes reality.
I place the foie gras on the toasted brioche prepped by the sous-chef, Mia. We dress every plate, five in total, and place them on the pass for the server who’s already waiting, and we’re immediately on to plating up the next orders that are already cooking.
Then we hit our stride.
Soups. Appetizers. Salads. Fast and nimble. Plate after plate. I keep watch on the table numbers but there’s no seventeen, and that table is permanently reserved for Sloane.
I glance at the clock mounted on the wall.
Seven forty-two.
A pang of worry hits my ribs and twists my guts. She’s forty-two minutes late.
“Is Sloane here?” I ask when Ryan enters the kitchen with one of the servers.
“Not yet, Chef.”
“Feckin’ Christ,” I hiss.
Mia chuckles next to me on the line. “Put the Irish accent away, chef. She’s just late.”
“She’s never late,” I bark with a glare.
“She’ll be here, don’t worry.”
I want to call her, but I can’t stop, not even to check my phone. I’m in the middle of the first round of main courses with more appetizers coming in as the restaurant fills to capacity.
My heart claws through my chest and chokes up my throat.
This isn’t like her.
She was lying. She’s fucking miserable here.
She’s gone.
Something’s happened. She’s been in an accident. She’s hurt or harmed orfuck, arrested. She’ll wither away in a place like prison. That would be worse than death for a woman like Sloane. Can you fucking imagine? Shy and acerbic Sloane Sutherland, surrounded by people twenty-four hours a day, never able to find a safe space to hide?
“Hey Chef. Sloane’s here,” one of the servers says casually as she picks up two mains from the pass. She darts away with the plates before I can even release my barrage of questions on the breath I’ve been holding.
But it’s enough relief to re-energize my efforts and recharge my spiraling focus.
The team and I plow through the service and I pay special attention to table seventeen, not knowing which of the six orders for that table is hers. And then the onslaught gradually wanes, and as we finally move into desserts, I unwrap the apron from my waist, thank my hard-working kitchen staff, and head into the front of house.
Smiles and applause and half-drunk, sated faces greet me as I enter the dining area, but my eyes immediately find Sloane where she sits surrounded by my brothers, Lark, Rose, and my friend Anna who she seems to be growing closer with. Ryan passes me a champagne flute as other servers float from table to table, handing complimentary glasses to the patrons.
“Thank you so much for coming tonight,” I say as I raise my glass in a toast. My gaze pans across the room, snagging on Dr. Stephan Rostis where he sits at a table with his wife before I force myself to look away.Fuck, that would really make my night to cut that asshole up. My smile brightens at the thought. “Without your support of3 In Coach, this next venture ofButcher & Blackbirdwould not have been possible. I also want to thank my hard-working and dedicated staff, who have done an incredible job not only tonight, but in the run-up to opening.”
Applause rises around me as I shift my attention to Sloane’s table. She sits between Rose and Lark, who have both made the trip for opening night, my brothers on either end of the curved bench. “Thank you to my brothers, Lachlan and Fionn, without whom I know I wouldn’t be here. We might give each other shit, but they’ve always had my back. You know I love you boys.”
