Chapter Forty-One
Garett
The following week at the cookery school is like a perfect dream.
“We’ve had another query for something in the new year,” Ruby calls out. Her smiles are infectious, and there’s joy among the team. Maybe it’s because Christmas is coming or that the business is doing well. We’re working twelve-hour days with groups and then kept busy with the prep and cleaning for the subsequent sessions, and laughter fills the room all the time.
“That’s brilliant. Amber’s smashing it,” Wicksy replies as he tidies up from the last session. It’s nearly nine at night, and we’ve got another group coming in early for sunrise Christmas. It’s for people with dementia who struggle with sleep and the people who care for them.
Kath winks. “The only thing Amber is smashing is her husban—”
“Kath,” I gasp, but she only shrugs. Ruby giggles.
“Have you bought a lifetime supply of earplugs?” Wicksy asks as he dances to the first bars of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas.” “How do you get any sleep?”
“That’s not a problem for Ruby, is it, hun?” Kath says with a cheeky smile as she grabs Wicksy into something that resembles a clumsy waltz.
Ruby’s smirk betrays her as she shakes her head. “I don’t know what you mean.” But she does because, since the surprise party, Ruby’s spent every night in my bed. And every morning, she’s at my breakfast table gorging on whatever she’s demanded I prepare for her.
When we’re at the cookery school, we act professionally, but at night, we explore and learn about each other’s bodies and lives. I know so much about her past and dreams; she also knows mine. Wicksy has no idea what’s going on after the debacle of Ruby getting jealous with the hen party, and we want to keep it that way.
“Of course you don’t, Ruby. Now dance with your number one chef.”
“Number two,” I counter, “although Mary Berry is—”
“More of a baker,” Wicksy, Kath and Ruby say in chorus.
“Have I mentioned that before?”
Ruby replies, “Only once.”
“Twice!” Kath shouts.
“A billion times!” Wicksy hollers as Kath dips him before spinning him around the room.
“I don’t know why I put up with you all,” I grumble, but the corners of my mouth tug up into a smile, betraying me.
“Grab Ruby and dance. She’s waiting.”
I gaze at Ruby, who shrugs. She presses her lips together and taps her feet. My lady is indeed waiting to dance. I bow in front of her and hold out my hand. “Would you be kind enough to dance with this penniless, imbecilic, second-to-many chef?”
She holds her chin as if she’s debating it.
“Rubes,” I warn. Her cheeks flush.
“Of course I’d love to dance with the man whose skills pale compared to Mary Berry.”
I roll my eyes as I grab her hand and twirl her. Her girlish laugh fills me with light. Her eyes dip, and her eyelashes flutter. This cookery school is my home, and Ruby has quickly become my world.
“All I want for Christmas is you,” she sings along to the chorus while wrapping her arms around me. It’s safe to say that Ruby is no singer, but as she wails, I long for her to sing those words for me alone.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s the scheduled call with Ciara. I haven’t given her an answer, but she wanted to share her plans for next year. She said it’s for my professional opinion, but I suspect she’s using it to convince me to move.
Ruby radiates the scent of passion fruit mixed with brandy, ginger, and other Christmas spices. It’s a bizarre concoction, but it smells like home. I breathe her in, ignoring the vibrations. I want to immerse myself in this fantasy future for a little longer.
“Is your phone buzzing in your pocket, or are you enjoying watching Kath and Wicksy dance a little too much?” Rubes teases me.
I can’t answer it in front of her. “I’m sure they’ll call back.”
“It might be Flora. I called and invited her to our family Christmas meal in a couple of days. She sounded keen but nervous. You’ve spent all this time with me, and I worry she’ll hate me for taking her big brother away.” Ruby’s concern for Flora and her desire for her to join the family makes hairline cracks in my heart. If I leave, which is more likely than not, unless Ruby tells me she wants to do the couple thing, then I’ll hurt this family I’ve grown to love.
At least Flora will have them when I desert her. The phone stops, and I continue holding Ruby close, but then it starts again.
“Garett.”
“Okay, I’ll take it. Maybe you should meet me at home.” I step away. “As much as there’s been a lot of laughter today, we’re all tired.”
“I won’t get any rest at yours.” My blood burns with prospects of what we might get up to tonight.
We’ve continued to be fuck buddies, but I want to be the boyfriend that I pretended to be weeks ago and not just the man she wants for sex.
“Besides,” she adds, “we need to do the next part of the baking. I need to get that last technique down for the competition. I’ll be here when you’re done. Now go answer that phone before Flora kicks off.”
I force a smile. “Hey,” I say to Ciara. I shake away the weird image of the hairline cracks in my heart, frothing with guilt. I lie to Ruby every day that I don’t tell her the truth about Clive and this job offer, and I lie to her whenever I don’t tell her I want more—a lie of omission but still a lie.
“You okay, mucker?” Ciara asks. “Is this still a good time?”
I stare warily at Ruby, who’s dancing with Kath, hercheeks pink from laughing. In five days, it’s Christmas, and my decision will be made.
“Yeah, all good,” I say with a throat that’s sandpaper dry and emotion welling up. “Tell me about these plans.”
◆◆◆
When I come off the call, my body sparkles with excitement. Ciara’s dreams for the restaurant resonate with everything I want to do. I’ve tried to forget how much I love running a restaurant and making it my signature place, but that call with Ciara enthuses me.
“Fuck you, you floury dickhead,” Rubes shouts at whatever she’s working on at the demonstration counter.
“Floury dickhead?” I ask as I near her.
She slams down a crushed macaron.
“Whatever,” she grumbles as she throws another onto the side. “How was Flora?”
“It wasn’t Flora. It was a chef I know.”
If she senses my awkwardness, she doesn’t comment.
Ruby attempts to fill the macaron, but it disintegrates in her grip. “They’re not working.”
I stand behind her and attempt to massage her shoulders, but she shrugs me off. It’s weird how much that hurts. I never hugged my parents because the couple of times I tried, they shoved me away, too busy smoking or playing on their phones. Has a fear of rejection stopped me from having relationships, too?
I take a breath. This moment isn’t about me. “Rubes, why are you making macarons? They’re bloody difficult and will be impossible to fit in with timing when it comes to the dessert you have planned for the competition.”
Ruby rounds on me, and I swallow loudly. Her eyes blaze, and tears slip down her face. “Because I want to win. Amber mentioned money to Kalen when I popped in this morning. I was preparing to tell them I was still happy at Flora’s when I overheard her say something about ‘raising enough with all these new things happening.’ I need to win for them.”
I open my arms, and the fear of rejection grips my heart. “Then we’re going to win. But you’re not in any state to try something new. You’re hyper-focused, and it’s destroying your creativity.”
When she sighs, all the air goes out of her, and she presses herself against my chest. I hold her against me as she breathes slowly. “Cinnamon, something like fennel, and another scent.”
How did she get fennel? She guessed two of the secret ingredients from my pasta dish that won Clive the best restaurant competition. He couldn’t get one of them. I made her bread with them this morning. She shouldn’t be able to smell it after all our Christmas cooking today, though. She’s fucking incredible.
“You can’t call macarons floury dickheads because they haven’t got flour in them,” I whisper as I brush kisses against her hair.
“I know that. Are you trying to make it worse? I’m so wound up that I can’t even give them good angry nicknames.”
I hold back my laughter. “Let’s go for a walk while we devise other nicknames for them. I was considering bourgeois bastards.” She chuckles against my chest. “Or baked bitches?”
“What about eggy twats?” she says before lifting her face to mine. I kiss her briefly on her lips, which are salty from her tears.
“Agreed,” I reply before shouting at the macarons, “Now go cook yourself, you eggy twats. We’re heading out.”