8. Elliot
Chapter eight
Elliot
Expect the universe—and your dog—to embarrass you when you least expect it. This definitely wasn't how I pictured things playing out, especially the part where my dog knocked the wind out of her and sent her stumbling into the water.
"I'm sorry, Ollie. I was walking him and took my eye off him for just a minute," I apologize, though it’s not the full truth.
I’d been keeping an eye on Max, but the moment she arrived at the beach, I couldn’t help but notice her. She stood there, gazing out at the ocean with such peaceful contemplation that I found myself wanting to know what thoughts were drifting through her mind. For just a moment, I was completely distracted by her, losing track of everything else. But she doesn’t need to know that.
“It’s fine," she says, brushing it off. "I didn’t expect you to be a dog lover. You named him Maximus?” She bends down, and Max licks her face with the kind of enthusiasm that makes it seem like they’re long-lost friends.
“Yeah," I chuckle. "I thought he was going to grow into a massive German Shepherd, but now that I’ve got this little furball, I’m considering a name change.” I groan, and to my surprise, she laughs.
Hearing her laugh catches me off guard—especially at something I said. “I think he’s cute," she says, still stroking Max's fur. Then she glances up at me, eyebrows raised. "And why are you staring at me like that?”
I shake my head, trying to pull myself together. “Sorry, it’s just… we usually argue or bicker. I think this is the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically, standing up. But as she does, I notice her body trembling slightly, even in the jacket I’d given her. Nice going, Elliot—leaving her out here in the cold, I silently scold myself.
"Let me grab you something to wear and make some soup before you catch a cold," I suggest, but she’s already nodding before I finish.
She slips the jacket off her shoulders and presses it into my hand. "It’s fine. I’ll just find my way home," she says, her voice betraying the shiver she’s trying to hide.
"I know you don’t like me, and I’m not trying to change that. But I’m not letting you go home like this—even if it means throwing you over my shoulder to prove my point," I say, my tone firm but light enough to leave room for humor. Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, whether from the cold or the thought of me actually carrying her, I can’t be sure.
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she pulls the jacket tighter around herself and starts walking ahead. "You’d better make some seriously good soup," she calls over her shoulder, "or I’ll write a scathing review of your restaurant on my blog."
I grab Max's leash and hurry to catch up. "I thought your blog was all about giving love advice," I tease. The moment the words leave my mouth, I see her flinch, the memory of our argument from the other day flickering in her eyes. I hate myself for what I said then.
"You called it 'delusional,'" she snaps, using air quotes around the word, "so maybe this is my chance to branch out into something more... 'logical.'" Her sarcasm is sharp, but I catch a flicker of hurt beneath it.
I smile, though I know it might not be the best response right now. "I'm good at a lot of things, Ollie, and making the best soup in town is definitely one of them." I wink, and she rolls her eyes in mock disgust, but doesn’t argue.
Thankfully, my restaurant and cottage are only a few minutes’ walk from the beach. I bought the place after returning to town—somewhere I could wake up with the ocean right outside my window. It’s one of the few places that gives me peace, like she does, though I’d never admit that.
We reach the restaurant, long after closing time, with no staff left inside. When I unlock the door and flick on the lights, I catch her wide-eyed expression. Her jaw drops slightly as she takes in the place. It’s not as big as the flashy restaurants I run in the city, but it has its own charm. The chandeliers cast a soft, golden glow over the warm brown tones of the furniture, and the glass walls frame the ocean like a living painting.
For a moment, it feels like a world set apart from everything else—a private escape.
Turning to look at me, she says, “Life isn’t fair, Elliot. No one should get to be cocky and wealthy at the same time. It’s no wonder you’re so cruel.”
I can’t help but laugh, especially at the way her lips pout like an indignant child. Up close, her blue eyes shimmer with a light that’s hard to ignore, and the perfect curve of her lips draws me in. Even her damp hair seems to beckon me, tempting me to brush it aside.
Clearing my throat, I nod toward my office. “You can wait in there with Max while I whip something up for you—and find yourself something dry to wear.”
I move quickly into the kitchen, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead and smacking my chest to slow my racing heart. What is happening to me? Maybe the stress of running this place is finally getting to me.
Rolling up my sleeves, I grab an apron and start sautéing garlic and onions, the familiar rhythm of cooking helping to calm my thoughts. As I add crushed tomatoes, broth, and seasoning, I push her out of my mind. But with her sitting in my office, it's hard not to wonder if I should have just let her go. I knew better than to get involved when I saw her at the beach. After she missed two meetings with the event planner, I felt responsible—not only for jeopardizing Daniel's wedding but for making her feel unappreciated.
She’s talented—probably one of the most talented women I know. I read her blog every night. Her posts make love seem believable, which is exactly why I lashed out. Her words were starting to make me question everything, even my own cynicism. The idea of butterflies and a fluttering belly had always been nonsense to me—until now. And it’s all my mother’s fault, really. Her words still echo in my head.
“What if your hatred for her is something deeper than you’d rather admit, El?”
Frustrated, I bang the can opener against the counter. I need to regain control.
"You know, you didn’t have to offer to make me soup if it’s going to stress you out this much,” Olivia’s voice breaks through my thoughts, startling me. I look up, surprised to see her standing at the kitchen entrance.
God knows how long she’s been there. She’s wearing one of my black polos, and it hangs on her like an oversized duvet. Somehow, she makes it look like the best thing I’ve ever seen. From now on, I’m only going to picture her whenever I wear it.
“I told you to wait for me. You never listen, do you?” I say, pouring heavy cream into the soup and reducing the heat to a simmer.
She drags a stool across the floor and perches herself across from me, leaning forward to peer into the pot. “I was going to, but the smell was too tempting. You’ve only got yourself to blame, Mr. Cocky Chef, for cooking up such temptation.”
Her playfulness is unexpected, and strangely sweet. I find myself hoping this version of her doesn’t disappear anytime soon. Ladling soup into a bowl, I place it in front of her, along with a few slices of fresh baguette.
“Tomato soup? I love this!” she exclaims, digging in with enthusiasm. “Wow, Elliot,” she groans in delight, taking bite after bite before resting her head on the counter, visibly content.
“So, still planning to write that scathing review of my restaurant?” I tease, knowing her answer already.
She lifts her head, beaming. “If I didn’t know you, I’d consider marrying you just to eat like this for the rest of my life.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re hilarious, Ollie. Now eat up,” I say, cleaning the kitchen, but I can feel her eyes on me.
“You look different when you smile, Elliot—softer. You shouldn’t hide such a beautiful smile,” she says softly, as if it’s the most casual comment in the world, even though it hits me like a truck.
Dropping the rag, I turn to face her. It’s time to say what I’ve been avoiding. “I’m sorry, Ollie. About last time—and for calling you delusional. You’re not.”
She looks taken aback, but I press on before my nerve fails. “I know I’m far from perfect, and that you don’t exactly like me, but I had no right to say what I did. I’m really sorry. Now, can we focus on planning Daniel’s wedding before he burns my restaurant down?”
She laughs, and the tension lifts. I let out a breath of relief, glad to have gotten it out.
“Wow, that’s a lot of words for an apology from you, Elliot,” she jokes, standing to scrape the remains of her soup into Max’s bowl. She watches as he devours it, smiling warmly.
“Please don’t ask me to repeat it,” I say, feigning terror. “I’d rather take my chances with Daniel’s fire.”
She reaches across the counter and briefly squeezes my hand. “I forgive you—because you made me an amazing meal.”
“That’s all I can ask for,” I say, rinsing her plate in the sink. When I turn back, she’s still sitting there, wearing a familiar expression—the kind that tells me she’s got a question burning inside, and she won’t rest until she gets an answer.
“Go on, Ollie. We both know you’re not leaving without asking.”
Her lips part, hesitation flickering in her eyes. “Why did you come back, Elliot? Don’t give me the ‘I love it here’ line. We both know there’s more to it.”
Her question hits harder than I expected. This isn’t the light-hearted conversation I imagined after serving her soup. And yet, something about the way she’s looking at me makes it feel like the truth is on the edge of spilling out.
"Why did you bring her here tonight?" I ask quietly, unsure of the answer myself, but knowing things would be simpler if I could just push her out the door.