Chapter 3 #2
It’s quiet inside, clean and still. There are several circle-top tables with tiny mosaic tiles in bright colors, the chairs all different styles and hues. It’s like the owner walked through the streets of Chicago and picked up random chairs from the back alleys along the way. I like it.
The idea of giving something a second life.
The walls are covered in different paintings ranging from melancholy-looking portraits to landscapes of fantastical places, photos from all over the world, and pieces of art that jut out, offering texture and not leaving much room for the azure paint covering the walls.
I’m glancing over everything when a photo catches my eye.
It can’t be…
Just as I near it for a closer inspection, someone clears their throat from behind me. My breath hitches as I let the smile in the photo I’m staring at offer me a warning: This isn’t going to be as easy as you’d hoped.
“You’re definitely not avoiding me,” Quintin tells me as I turn. He’s smiling the same smile in the picture he caught me staring at as he wipes his hands with a bright-red towel he then sets on one of the nearby tables.
He’s still wearing the clothes from earlier, and I wonder what the fuck the universe is playing at. Had he even gone to the gym? Or is he just a crazy man who let the Chicago cold assault his bare legs for fun?
But that wasn’t important right now. I clear my throat, straightening to look him right in the eyes—those goddamn pretty eyes.
“You own this establishment?” I ask, trying to keep my professionalism intact. This is business. I need his business to impress Paula. To make partner. To finally feel like I’m winning in one aspect of life.
Fuck.
“I do,” he answers, walking closer to me.
I don’t even know how this man managed to sneak up on me, still in those fucking shorts like a psychopath.
“You’re lucky I’m here. I’d planned on heading home for a shower after the gym, but I figured I should come handle the interviews instead of pawning the task off on someone else. ”
“Interviews?” I can’t help but ask, bringing my hands together in front of me.
His eyes track the movement, and he pauses, assessing me for a moment before he chooses to answer, his gaze slowly traveling back up to mine. “I need to hire more people.”
Due to an increase in demand? How many people work here? Hell, what kind of food does he even offer? And where the hell is everyone? Is the restaurant closed? Am I the asshole who didn’t check the hours of operation and just ambled in like the world is laid out perfectly at my feet?
My mind wanders as I stare at him, and he lets me, not offering to fill the space with pleasantries.
“Oh,” is all I say for a moment before I remember why I’m here. “Actually?—”
The door opens, and Quintin glances behind me.
I step to the side, keeping my hands clasped.
While he acknowledges whoever joined us, I let my eyes rove over his face.
High cheekbones and dark brows seem intimidating when he doesn’t have that hazel-eyed humor thing going on.
It’s my first time witnessing a straight expression on him.
“Robert?” he asks, and when the man behind me answers, I start to disassociate as they share words.
The art on the walls swirls in my daydream, and when Quintin waves his hand in front of me, I blink, coming back to the present.
“I’d say your name, but I don’t know what it is,” he tells me, and I nod, ready to offer it, but he speaks again before I can. “Can we pick this conversation up later? I’ll knock on your door around…three? Before I have to come back for the dinner rush.”
I take a second, trying not to seem as eager as I am for a moment of his time. One glance at Robert, who’s pulling off his coat as he watches us, tells me I shouldn’t say no—not when he’s hiring more staff, likely to accommodate a growing clientele.
“I…think that’ll work,” I tell him, glancing at the man— Robert —watching as he stands just behind a chair at the table nearest us. “Good luck.” The words are directed at them both, and I try not to let myself overthink as I step away just as they start to speak.
The man named Robert doesn’t pay me a lick of attention as he leans forward to shake Quintin’s hand. Quintin finally looks away from me, focusing on the man in front of him.
“I can’t believe you’re hiring,” he starts as I make it to the door, and I wonder what the fuck is the big deal.
And then I remember his amazing soup and how eager Paula is to hire him, and I start to sweat.
Had I puked all over Chicago’s newest and hottest chef? Had I then done everything in my power to avoid him? Just to show up at his business prepared to beg for his services?
I groan as I get in my car, struggling out of my coat, hating the heat that quickly crawls up my neck. I glance at the time on my dashboard, calculating the hours between now and three o’clock.
It looks like I’ll be working from home today , I think as I shoot Remi a text to let her know that I have a meeting with the potential caterer.
If I get home fast, I can probably fit a short nap in after getting some work done before convincing this man to cater Paula’s event.
I did rescue that damn cat, after all.
Is today my lucky day?
Calm down. You’re just stopping by to see why she was at your restaurant.
Seeing her there, examining the art I’d collected over the years, piqued my interest even more.
Something about her desire to see the artwork up close made her…
infinitely more attractive. Anyone can enter a room and glance around, but she wanted to see .
I watched her silently for a moment, bearing witness to the appreciation written on her side profile.
Once her eyes widened, I knew exactly what she was looking at: a picture of me and my dessert chef at the Great Wall of China.
I can’t make sense of the nerves, but I’m excited to see her. No one makes me nervous anymore. No one has held that power over me for a long time, and I couldn’t tell you this woman’s name if I wanted to.
She doesn’t know I’m already next door, mindlessly watching TV to pass the time so I don’t seem as eager as I feel. Her obvious surprise at seeing me in my own restaurant told me she wasn’t there for me. At least, not to her knowledge.
I wonder what landed her in front of me again. And if I’m being honest, I plan on milking whatever it is for all I can. Something about the way she avoids me makes me want to know her.
You like to fix people so you feel less fucked up.
You like to be needed so you feel important.
Years of therapy have gifted me with a self-awareness that makes me want to turn my brain off, but I don’t. I lean into the thoughts and remind myself that while she may seem hesitant to know me, that doesn’t mean she needs fixing—or that she needs anything at all.
In an attempt to keep from smelling like a men’s locker room, I hop in the shower.
The hot water soothes my aching muscles, and while the thought of going back to work tonight makes me want to take a nap, it battles against the quick shot of adrenaline coursing through me at the thought of her, just next door.
She swirls through my mind as I lather, my dick twitching as I remember the rise and fall of her breasts as she caught sight of me at my restaurant, the way her lips parted ever so slightly when she heard my voice.
I don’t even know her , I try to rationalize. I don’t even know her name .
But the rationalization does nothing to my dick, so I ignore it, praying it goes down before I see her.
I try not to think about how long it’s been since I’ve slept with someone else, the thought making me feel pitiful. I’m not the kind of guy who thinks sexual conquests dictate anything in my life, but if seeing a fully clothed woman gives me a chubby, I might need to reprioritize some things.
If she was avoiding me before, she would run at the sight of me if I knocked on her door with a fucking erection.
Pervert.
I rinse away the soap, turn off the water, and grab a towel from the hook near my shower. While I dry off and get dressed, I run inventory in my head to tamp down the lust twisting within me. I have far too much to get done to be derailed by my beautiful next-door neighbor.
But trying to tell the inner me that’s already accepting the challenge of pursuing her is pointless.
More than beautiful, she seems…layered. I’ve heard her laughter as she walks into her apartment, likely on the phone. I’ve strained to hear the soft music she plays. I’ve felt the thud of her door shutting as she shuffles through her day.
I can’t like her, because I don’t know her—but I’m curious.
The right thing to do would not be trying to shit where I eat, so to speak. Is it worth it to make our living situations awkward?
I open my front door and walk out, feeling strange that I’m walking merely a few feet to my destination.
Thankfully, my erection is gone.
Keep your dick in check.
Famous last words.