9. Tabitha
CHAPTER 9
TABITHA
Tuesday night dinner rush 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 subtle green 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 hours ago. 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 not that hard on them, but they also know the reality of an open kitchen like this is that everyone is always watching.
I’m met with a chorus of “Yes, chef” and guilty grimaces, followed by sheepish smiles.
“Bunch of schoolgirls, the lot of ya,” I tease as I walk past them toward the back. They chuckle as I push through the swinging doors. Then I march straight to the staff bathroom where I splash my face with cold water, refasten my bun, and ditch my chef’s coat.
I groan when I see the shirt beneath. The saying emblazoned across the front reads, Holding grudges is my superpower. Alarmingly, in this case, it’s true.
Rhys might as well know what he’s up against. That I’m combative, snarky, and slow to forgive. Character flaws, yes. True? Also, yes.
I drag my tired ass and tacky T-shirt out to the bar to face him, and it’s the funniest thing. Every person in the restaurant is staring at him or sneaking peeks, like his energy just fills the space in a way that screams look at me .
I spot two of my floor staff making eyes at him from behind the service station at the other end of the bar. They legitimately look like they’re sporting those stick-on googly eyes I’ve used to make crafts with Milo.
The temptation to go over to them and criticize their terrible taste is strong, but I opt to slide onto the stool one down from Rhys without so much as a glance at him.
He grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, I don’t bite . It rumbles through the air between us and vibrates over my skin. It’s so deep that I feel it more than I hear it.
I snort and volley back with, “I do though.”
Rhys goes rigid but doesn’t get a chance to respond before my part-time bartender, Scotty, hustles over to me. “Bordeaux?”
I give a weary nod, dropping my cheek into my palm.
“It’s good. That’s what I’m having,” Rhys pipes up from beside me.
“Yeah?” I don’t look at him, instead watching Scotty chat up a few women at the end of the bar while he pours my glass. Great bartender, even if his brain is in his dick.
“2015 was a good year for Bordeaux.”
I do look at him now, shifting my head so that my ear is propped against my palm. “I know.” It’s not only annoying that he’s drinking wine but also that he has knowledge about it. “I chose it.”
His heavy shoulders rise and fall as he mumbles, “Good choice,” before taking another sip.
I can’t help but watch him. His lips, just a touch too full. His Adam’s apple, just a little too pronounced as it bobs in his throat.
When he swallows, I drop my gaze and cross my legs, pressing them together.
Turns out my taste might be just as bad as my servers’.
The worst kind of taste because this man isn’t here for me; he’s here to take something from me. Someone I love. And legally he can, which is why all this hanging around and chatting is feeling an awful lot like a lion playing with its food.
It’s the reminder I need to keep my head on a swivel. Rhys Dupris may be easy on the eyes, but he’s a fucking nightmare for my heart.
Scotty swaggers back with my wine and slides it across the live-edge bar top. Then he props his palms against his sides and cranks up the wattage on his smile so that his dimples pop. I swear he’s practiced this look in a mirror. “Damn, boss, you are looking mighty fine in that tee?—”
I cut him off with a raised hand. “No. Go back to hitting on the cougars, Scotty.” I take a sip of my wine, letting my eyes close as the liquid hits my tongue, effectively dismissing him like I always do when he pulls this flirty nonsense.
Scotty chuckles as he walks away. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
I’m shaking my head when I open my eyes, and try as I might to look bitchy and dour, my lips quirk up. Fucking Scotty. If it’s got a heartbeat, he’ll try to have sex with it.
The weight of a heavy gaze on the side of my face has me shifting my eyes in Rhys’s direction. “What?”
He shrugs.
“Oh good. A shrug . This talk is already going so well.”
“You’re consistent at least.”
“Consistent how?”
“Consistently mean.”
I drink and let out an unladylike snort. “You try working in a kitchen with a bunch of dudes your entire life. It’s part of my charm.” I wink at the giant man beside me.
Rhys scoffs as though he finds nothing charming about me at all.
“Not my fault you aren’t man enough to handle me. But look, Scotty is.” Rhys glares, but I ignore his sour expression and let out a whistle. “Hey, Scotty,” I call down the bar.
The younger man spins on the spot to face me, his enthusiasm palpable.
“You’re fired.”
Now we get a full-fledged grin and a salute from him. “Ha! Sure thing, Chef.” Then he turns around and goes back to work.
Rhys’s glare has darkened, and it strangely excites me, so I grin back at him. “See? Scotty can take it. You just need to toughen up a bit.” And maybe it’s the few sips of wine that have gone straight to my head, but I reach out and punch him on the arm. Casually. Right on the tattoos. Like we’re old friends or something.
Except we’re not.
He turns his head to look at me. Slowly, methodically. Then his low, dark voice comes. “We need to talk.”
I nod as I reach for my wine, hoping it might help clear the sudden lump in my throat. From over the rim of my crystal glass, I watch Rhys shoot Scotty a glare.
“But I don’t want to talk with that fucking goof hitting on you the entire night.”
My eyes take a turn around my head. The last thing I want is to talk to a complete stranger about such painful personal things. I’d rather stab a fork into my eye. “What are you?—”
My words drop off as Rhys tosses a one-hundred-dollar American bill down on the bar and stands in one swift motion. I’m still sitting slack-jawed when he reaches for the back of my stool and drags me away from the bar.
“You don’t need to pay for mine.” I don’t want him buying me drinks. But I’m not comping his either.
“Let’s go.” His jaw pops, and he reaches out, not hesitating at all to place his massive hand on the small of my back and guide me away from my seat.
The way he takes control is very caveman-like, and it stirs something inside me. I shouldn’t like this dominant side of him. I definitely shouldn’t let him lead me out of here like we’re anything more than adversaries. And I don’t want to turn into some simpering, starry-eyed girl over him, so I remind myself why he’s so awful as we head to the exit.
He’s rude and thinks the worst of me.
He evicted my sister and left her homeless.
He’s trying to take away my nephew, who I love more than anything in the world.
All the internal shit talk works beautifully. In fact, it makes me feel like I shouldn’t be near him at all. And just like when I shook his hand off earlier, I do so again.
“Where are we going?”
He holds the front glass door open for me, like the gentleman he’s not. “I don’t know. This town is fucking packed with tourists. I can’t get a room anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t go to your room with you anyway, Rhys. You’re trying to fuck me over , not fuck me, remember?” I shoot him my best hateful glare as I attempt to walk past him, but he steps out right in front of me before I can escape the restaurant.
His chin drops, eyes now level with mine. “Is that so?” The barely there smirk on his face does nothing but further infuriate me.
Dick .
“Yes, that is so.” I enunciate the words so that he hears me loud and clear. I’m ready for a fight. It won’t be my first, and most likely not my last, but it might be one of the most important of my life. And I’m not about to fuck it up all because he might be the most sinful-looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
His gaze lands on my lips. I’m trapped there for a beat, trying to decipher his expression. Like a deer in the headlights, I stand and stare, wondering if he’s going to hit me with his car or kiss me.
The thumping in my ears crescendos with each beat that passes, but it’s replaced by flaming cheeks when he claps back with, “I think it might be the opposite.” Then he draws back, taking all the air in my lungs with him as he saunters away.
I watch his hulking form make its way down the sidewalk.
Do I follow him? Do I demand he explain himself? Opposite as in… he’s trying to fuck me, not fuck me over?
What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.
Except that when he waves a hand over his shoulder and says, “Let’s go, Tabby,” the first thing my jumbled brain fixates on is that he’s never called me Tabby before.
And I hate how much I like it.