Chapter 22 – Roman
ROMAN
“We’re narrowed down to two potential sites in London, and the architect in Frankfurt needs an hour with you,” my assistant, Katie, says. “Also, the supply company is giving us some grief on the fridge and freezer pricing.”
I rub a hand across my forehead and pace by the window in the restaurant that overlooks the ocean. “What kind of grief?” I swear, it’s always something.
“Oh, you know, that they want to double the initial quote because they’re swearing we never told them we’d want standalone units instead of side-by-sides.”
“Yes, we did tell them that, and that’s what they quoted us at. Tell them that if they can’t meet their quoted price, we’ll go with someone else. I know for a fact that they’re not the only restaurant supply company in Germany.”
“On it. Have you had a chance to review the housing options I sent you?”
I stop pacing and instead get lost in the waves as they roll in.
Braelyn doesn’t want to talk about anything serious.
She doesn’t want to talk about what we’re doing or what we are or what we could be.
Fine. She’s been single all of like three weeks.
Not even that. Before she was engaged and nearly married.
I get that she needs time. The last thing I want to do is push her. If I do, she’ll retreat. Hell, she already hid in the bathroom and cried because she was overwhelmed. That nearly killed me. I thought I had fucked up. Seriously, irrevocably fucked up.
I keep reminding myself to be patient. To remember that she’s in my bed with me.
That she needs time and space to work this out because that’s how she operates.
It’s why I came into the restaurant after breakfast, when what I really wanted to do was stay there with her.
There’s all the time in the world for this to build between us, except there’s not because I have a very real and looming deadline on my head.
“I haven’t really looked yet,” I admit.
“Roman, it’s a six-month rental and those aren’t all that easy to come by, especially for the type of place you want. I know you’re in Mexico and working on stuff there, but we need to get these places figured out.”
My eyes close and I release a silent breath. I’m so fucking torn. How do I continue to plan the future I have set in place when the future I always dreamed of but never thought possible is now within my reach?
I have to go to Europe.
The restaurants I’m opening there aren’t like this or even the one in Vegas.
They’re not part of some resort that takes care of the heavy lifting and I don’t have the same managerial and chef presence.
They’re being built from the ground up, from scratch, and need my constant input and my fingerprint all over them.
It’s exactly how I did it when I first moved back to Boston and opened Roundhouse and South Paw and then Uppercut after them.
But…
Braelyn doesn’t want to be with me. She wants her fun. Her fling. It’ll be five days of this and after we’ll go home and life will return to normal as she said. We’ll get a divorce and I’ll have to move on and leave because she won’t want me to stay. Friendship ruined. Heart TKOd.
Fuck.
The thought cuts the air from my lungs and has my insides seizing.
“I’ll take a look this evening and let you know.”
“Good.” Katie exhales a relieved breath. “Great. I’ll send you some Paris options as well. There isn’t much in London yet, but I’m keeping my eyes on it.”
“Sounds good, Katie. Thanks.”
“You got it. Let me know if you need anything else.”
We disconnect the call and I slide my phone into my pocket and put my hands on top of my head. I need to tell Braelyn about Europe. I didn’t want to put it on her before the wedding because she had enough on her plate, and I figured I’d tell her after it.
The day after Adam proposed, she came over and was so happy. She showed off her ring and asked if I’d be her maid of honor. Of course I said yes.
Even as I felt like I was dying.
The next day, I decided I couldn’t stick around after she was married. That I needed the distance to finally get over her. It was easy. A no-brainer. Setting up restaurants keeps me busy like nothing else, and I’d already thought about the type of places these would be.
I wanted five-star dining but at an affordable price.
I was tired of only serving to a particular clientele. When I mentioned this to Katie, she went running with it, and before I knew it, things were falling into place. Contracts were being signed. Now the wheels are in motion and can’t be stopped.
But if I tell Braelyn now, she’ll use it as her reason why we can’t be together for real. She’ll shut her mind down to the possibility.
I can’t have that.
All of this might be for naught, but I can’t go backward. I can’t have her like this and then pretend we’re only friends after. I can’t pretend that she’s not all I think about. All I dream about. All I want.
Except I might not have a choice.
I’m at her mercy with this.
My hand dives into my pocket and I finger the ring in there. I take it off whenever I come in here. I’m Chef Fritz in this building and a wedding band on my hand will garner questions. Questions my wife doesn’t want me to answer.
My wife.
I nearly laugh at that.
I’m married to the love of my life and to her it’s fake.
Then there’s the Adam factor, but right now, I don’t have it in me to care about his bullshit.
The fire alarm going off interrupts my thoughts. Only it’s not just the alarm. It’s lights flashing, things breaking, people screaming, and chaos.
Then there’s the smell of smoke.
“Oh my god!” someone cries out in Spanish. “The stove is on fire.”
Fuck. Seriously?
“Why is it hooked up?” I call out, also in Spanish as I walk briskly toward the kitchen. “And can someone turn off the fucking alarm and laser light show?”
“Laser light show?” the designer questions.
“The lights.” I point up at the strobes.
“Oh.” She laughs. “I think you might want to get the stove under control first.”
I give her my most scathing look as I plow past her.
I enter the kitchen and sure enough, the stove—the brand-new, top-of-the-line, expensive-as-fuck—stove is on fire. Four of sixteen burners are shooting flames high into the air, with black smoke rising from them.
All I know is, thank god the sprinkler system isn’t hooked up yet or this entire kitchen would be flooded.
The plumber is staring at the flames like he has no clue what to do.
Not exactly reassuring. Two guys are running around, there are broken pieces of something on the floor, and another guy is working on the lights, but the bigger question to that is why are the lights going on along with the smoke alarm?
“I started the burners to test the gas,” the plumber tells me.
“Turn off the burner.”
“Oh. Smart idea.”
“Ya think?” I can’t stop my sarcasm, but this is literally what the man does. He doesn’t even hear me over the blaring siren. “The grates are clearly not on right,” I shout. “Turn it off!”
The smoke is a problem. There shouldn’t be black smoke from a gas stove. Then I notice that the plastic is still covering the grates and that’s what caught on fire and caused the smoke.
He tested the gas with the plastic still on.
Also, while the alarm has been going off, he didn’t turn off the gas or the burners. If he ruined my new stove, I’ll quickly earn my reputation for being a dick all over again.
“Just the burners or the gas?” he asks, still mesmerized by the fire and I can’t with this. I just can’t.
I push him aside and twist the knobs on the burners. Just like that, the fire is gone.
Unfortunately, the alarm and lights won’t budge. It’s like a rave in here and if I ever did acid, I’d be having a flashback for sure.
I don a thermal glove and go for my stove while the electricians hopefully fix the alarm. Plastic is stuck to the cast-iron grates, crinkled and charred. Piece by piece, I peel it back and by some miracle, my stove isn’t ruined.
“How about next time you don’t test out a stove while it’s still covered in plastic.”
The plumber looks at me with a sheepish expression and this is really not what I needed today.
“Chef Fritz, the fitness center called and informed us that they got you a punching bag.”
I don’t know who’s talking to me. I don’t care.
“Great. Take care of this. It better be back to normal by the time I return.” I’m talking to everyone, but this is why I have to be on site during the construction of a restaurant.
I’m likely not coming back today, but they don’t need to know that. I need everything working before Brae’s birthday in a couple of days because I have a lot planned for that and I need my kitchen operational.
I start out at a jog, taking the trail back up to the villa, the echo of the alarm still ringing through my ears.
“Brae?” I call out.
“Out here,” she mumbles, sounding sleepy.
I find her on the hammock, swinging gently as she reads whatever it is she’s reading while looking cozy and adorable. “Hey, kid. You move today?”
I get a middle finger that makes me laugh.
“Good stuff. The gym called. They got me a bag. You cool if I go work out?”
I get a hand wave this time.
“Wanna come with me?”
Another middle finger.
Life would be so much easier if I weren’t so fucking in love with this woman.
“I could teach you how to box.”
“Ro, in all the years of our friendship and all your attempts to teach me to box, have I ever taken you up on that offer?”
“No, my beautiful wife, but you also never thought it would be fun to marry me before either and now look at us.”
“Ha. So funny.”
I lean against the wall and fold my arms as I watch her. “You just don’t want to see me shirtless and sweaty. You’re afraid it’ll turn you on and make you wet.”
I don’t even get a spare glance. “You’re quite full of yourself.”
“Yes, but think, you could be full of me too.”
An eye roll. “Go box.”
I’m so screwed. Especially when my phone vibrates in my pocket and I see it’s an email from Katie with a revised contract from the supplier, along with a resend of the email with the rental listings she wants me to pick through. Rentals I don’t have it in me to look at. Not yet.
Boxing. That I can do. That will fix everything as it always does.
I change into gym shorts, sneakers, and a different shirt before I hit the trail and run all the way across the resort to the gym. It’s empty at this hour of the day, but when I get there, the attendant leads me to a separate room where they have yoga mats and balls.
“We got you a big bag and a little one,” he tells me.
He means a heavy bag and a speed bag. I’m in fucking heaven.
“Muchas gracias.” I’ll have to remember to heavily tip the manager. They even have tape here for me. I can’t believe they did this.
I wrap my hands up and pop in my AirPods, setting my phone to my workout mix. It’s a heavy metal, angry as all fuck kind of anthem, and I start off on the heavy bag, working side lunges and punches one after another. I go hard, working my muscles and quieting my mind.
After that, it’s the speed bag with rolling wrists and alternating hands. Punch, punch, punch, dip-sway, dip-sway the other direction, punch, punch, punch. My muscles vibrate. My body hums. I block everything out. The restaurants. Europe. Adam. Guilt.
But no matter how hard I try, there is no blocking her out. All I want is to be with her. Except if I’ve learned one thing, life doesn’t care about what I want. Not when it comes to Braelyn.