22. Brie
Delia came to my apartment ahead of my date under the guise of helping me pick out something to wear.
But I saw it for what it was: nosiness.
Thankfully, I called in Ella for reinforcements, and she was doing her level best to run interference—not an easy task, considering Delia was a bulldozer.
“Lia, you are aware that I’ve been dressing myself for years,” I said as I flicked through the hangers in my closet. “I can get ready for a date alone.”
“No, you need us, baby sister,” Delia cooed, walking over to pat my head despite the fact that we were the same height. I swatted at her, and she leapt away from me with a cackle.
“God, you’re annoying,” I told her, though I couldn’t help but grin when I turned away.
“You love me,” she quipped, throwing herself onto my bed. The cheap mattress folded dangerously under her frame, and she grumbled, “I don’t know why you don’t move into a bigger place so you can get a bigger bed.”
“I like it here,” I said. “And how come you guys don’t bug Ella about her shoebox apartment?”
“Hey!” Ella exclaimed. “Don’t drag me into this.”
“I’m just saying,” I sighed. “Ella’s place is actually smaller than mine, but no one tells her to move to a bigger one.”
“Maybe we should,” Delia said, turning her gaze on Ella. “It’s not like you guys can’t afford it.”
“I like being close to the shop,” Ella and I said in unison, then both broke into a fit of giggles that had Delia pouting.
“Just because you bought a huge farmhouse with enough rooms for our entire family doesn’t mean we have to do the same,” I told Delia when I settled.
Delia shrugged. “I’m just saying. A little more space for sleepovers wouldn’t kill you. And how can you stand sleeping in that tiny ass bed?”
“I like my bed,” I said, though from the looks my sisters gave me, they saw it for the lie it was.
Okay, so I didn’t love it. I’d much rather starfish on a large mattress than be stuck within the confines of my full one, but it was all I could fit. And it’s not like I had anyone to share it with.
I refused to let myself remember the one and only time I’d had a guest stay here with me. Those three years had passed in a blink but painfully slow at the same time. It was the first and last time I’d let a man I wasn’t related to into this space. As much as I tried to forget, there was no scrubbing my memory of the way Ezra had wrapped his long, lean body around mine, both to avoid falling off the bed and to keep me close—not that I would’ve gone anywhere. I’d learned that night that his arms were my favorite place to be, and I hadn’t felt that way about anyone since.
This date was the first step in moving on. I was finally letting go of that tiny spark of hope in my chest that said Ezra would come back.
“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” I asked, blowing my hair out of my face. I was grateful the building’s central A/C serviced the shop and my apartment, because it was unseasonably warm out, and I would’ve been sweating otherwise—both from nerves and the temp. I opted to wear my hair down—something I rarely did. The thick, heavy curtain was usually more of a nuisance than it was worth, and I secretly wished I was as brave as Ella, who had long ago chopped hers to her collarbones. If she wanted length, she added clip-in extensions.
Braids were my go-to, my signature hairstyle, typically a single one, the tail hanging between my shoulder blades or draped over my shoulder. Sometimes, if I was feeling spunky, I’d do two.
But this was a date, which meant stepping out of my comfort zone and putting some effort into my appearance. I even applied makeup, another thing I rarely did.
Delia resumed her flicking through my closet, gasping when she came upon something she liked. She pulled the hanger off the rod and turned toward us, and I couldn’t help but grin.
“I forgot I had this,” I said, moving across the room to take it from her, letting the fabric glide through my fingers.
“It’s perfect,” Ella agreed.
The mini dress had a tight bodice that flared out at my ribs into a flouncy little skirt. It had sheer sleeves, a deep V-neck, and adorable crochet detailing along the collar and around the band below my breasts. The caramel color was perfect for fall, looked amazing with my olive coloring and dark hair, and made the few specks of gold in my eyes pop. My sisters nodded approvingly when I put it on, and after further rummaging through my closet, Delia passed me a pair of light tan ankle booties. With gold dangly earrings and my favorite rings, the look was complete.
And not a moment too soon.
Promptly at seven, Damian texted to let me know he’d arrived. After blowing kisses to both of my sisters, I headed outside to meet him. He was leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed over his chest, admittedly delicious biceps stretching the black material of his shirt—another Polo—to its limits. A pair of Ray Bans shaded his eyes, but the soft smile on his lips bloomed into a full-on grin when I stepped onto the sidewalk.
He approached me, taking my hands in his and studying me head to toe. “You are breathtaking.”
Heat rose to my cheeks as I squeaked out, “Thank you.”
“Ready to go?”
“Yes, please. I’m starving.”
He chuckled lowly as he led me around to the passenger side and opened the door for me. “I appreciate a girl who can eat.”
After I settled in the car—a fancy silver Tesla that would never survive a winter in Michigan—and he was behind the wheel, steering us through the streets of Apple Blossom Bay, I said, “Of course I can eat. I own a bakery, after all.”
His eyes flicked to me quickly before returning to the road. “You definitely don’t look like it.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. What exactly was a pastry chef supposed to look like? The Pillsbury Doughboy? And even if I didn’t look the way I did, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. It wasn’t Damian’s place to make comments about my body, and I couldn’t help but make a mental strike against him.
“So what is there to do for fun around here?” he asked conversationally as we wound up the peninsula toward the winery.
“We usually go into the city,” I admitted. “But there’s also Granny Smith’s Tavern here in town, which is a fun place to grab casual drinks.”
“Sounds…quaint,” he said, his lips twitching.
I pursed my own but didn’t speak. Small town life wasn’t for everyone, but I didn’t appreciate the insinuation in his tone. Sigh, another strike . Maybe I wasn’t meant for dating after all. Maybe I should’ve learned my lesson with Ezra.
Oh, wait.
Ezra .
The man who would be cooking dinner for me and Damian.
My heart rate kicked up to cardiac arrest levels as we pulled into the winery lot. The gravel crunching under the Tesla’s tires seemed comically loud, and I scrambled for a way to get out of this before it even started.
At this point, I was prepared to consider the whole evening a wash.
But, oblivious to my internal strife, Damian hummed happily as he parked the car, got out, and came around to help me out and lead me inside. My eyes darted across the space as we moved into the lobby and toward the hostess stand. Of course, the girl working recognized me immediately, but I shot her a pleading glance, willing her to keep her mouth shut. Damian had begun to show me his true colors, and the last thing I needed was him laying it on even thicker when he found out my name was on the walls, my family’s fingerprints all over this place.
“Reservation for two,” Damian said. “Under Damian Fellowes.” He shot the hostess a smarmy smile, and I choked back a groan.
Why hadn’t I seen it before?
Well, I knew why.
I’d been so desperate for some attention, I’d accepted a date with the first guy who batted his eyelashes at me instead of taking the time to think things through. Damian’s presentation was gorgeous, with his classic, all-American good looks and charm, but as a chef, I knew that wasn’t everything. The flavor—or in this case, personality—was what mattered, and the more time I spent with him, the more I found Damian’s lacking.
And I wasn’t even getting a free meal out of it, because it’s not like I paid for my food at the winery anyway.
Mentally, I shook myself, dropping my shoulders away from my ears. I was here, Damian was nice enough, if a bit pretentious, and I was obviously a huge fan of Ezra’s cooking and CD wines. I could find a way to enjoy myself.
Once we were seated—and I was once again forced to make sweeping cutting motions across my throat at our waitress behind Damian’s back as she approached our table—he took the liberty of ordering us a bottle of wine to share.
“I’m a bit of a wine-o,” he said, giving me a sheepish grin. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I shook my head. “Go for it.”
Our waitress stood idly by while Damian perused the menu, and I was annoyed on her behalf. He could have asked her to come back, but he held up a finger when she said she’d give us a moment to decide…then proceeded to ask questions about every wine on the menu.
The poor girl’s eyes kept darting to me, knowing I could answer them all better than she could, but I was just along for the ride, and what a bumpy one it was proving to be.
At last, Damian said, “We’ll take a bottle of the 2000 Cabernet.” He grinned at me as he handed the wine menu back to the waitress, who scurried away quickly.
When she returned with our bottle, Damian poured us each healthy servings, swirling his around and holding it up to his nose.
“Great bouquet,” he said absentmindedly then took a small sip, smacking his lips together as he let the liquid coat his tongue.
God, I needed to get out of here.
Desperate to take the edge of my annoyance, I swallowed a large mouthful despite my dislike of Cab, and Damian narrowed his eyes on me.
“You’re supposed to savor it.”
I plastered a phony smile on my face and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“I will say, though, I’ve sampled wine all over the world, and this”—he brandished his glass, the deep red liquid sloshing up the sides, dangerously close to the rim—“is really good liquid for this being such a small operation.”
I’d lifted my water glass to my mouth to wash away that dry mouth feel the Cab left on my tongue, and I was grateful that pretending to choke on the water covered the sound I made over his comment.
There was nothing small about the Chateau Delatou operation. This winery was the flagship business, where everything was made, bottled, and shipped from, yes. But our wines were in restaurants, bars, and clubs across the entire globe. We’d won numerous awards for quality, taste, and packaging, going toe-to-toe with other big-name wineries in the world and beating them.
But I wasn’t going to waste my breath explaining that to him. Instead, I nodded and drank my wine as quickly as I could, grateful when the waitress returned to take our orders.
“I’ll have the ribeye,” Damian said. “Medium rare, with Hasselback potatoes and a garden salad.”
“Dressing?”
“Whatever you’ve got for vinaigrette,” he said. “On the side, please.
The waitress nodded then turned her attention to me. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the whitefish cakes with a Caesar salad on the side.” I lifted my empty wine glass. “And could I also get a glass of Lena’s Best Sangria.”
The waitress grinned as she punched my order into her tablet. “Sure thing. I’ll be right back with that.”
When she disappeared again, Damian turned a disappointed frown on me. “You don’t like the wine?”
“I’m not really a Cab girl,” I said with a shrug.
“That’s okay,” he said, reaching across the table to pat my hand condescendingly. “Not everyone can have a palate as refined as mine.”
God, what was wrong with this guy? What happened to the sweet man I’d spent the last week around? The one who seemed genuinely interested when I told him about the businesses lining Main Street alongside the bakery? Who raved about my food and the slice of paradise in a small town I’d carved out for myself?
Conversation was stilted—and mostly one-sided—after that, and I heaved a sigh of relief when our food arrived, saving me from having to make any more small talk about his travels or stupid TikTok follower count.
For the record, Delia had more followers than him, and she rarely ever talked about it. But Delia and Damian were clearly very different people. One was someone I loved deeply, who was loyal and funny and would literally give anyone the shirt off her back if they needed it.
The other was…a douche.
I eagerly dug into my meal, my mood lightening for the first time since we walked into the building as the first bite of the whitefish cake hit my tongue. The smoked fish, combined with the spices and bright cheese, was heaven in my mouth. I hadn’t let myself enjoy Ezra’s food in too long, but in that moment, I happily let his expertise distract me from my disastrous date.
Well, I tried. But then Damian muttered “what the fuck” after cutting into his steak, and my good mood popped like a balloon.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, though, to be honest, I didn’t particularly care.
“My steak is undercooked,” he grumbled. When he lifted his head to signal our waitress, his cheeks had gone ruddy, a vein appearing in his forehead.
I leaned forward to get a better look, finding the meat…perfectly cooked to medium rare.
“You asked for medium rare,” I said calmly. “That’s exactly what that is.”
“I didn’t ask for it to still be practically bleeding,” he hissed at me. “What’d the chef do, cut it off a live cow?”
“I can assure you, he didn’t.”
Damian made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, raising his arm over his head and waving at the waitress. I couldn’t begrudge the girl the fear in her eyes as she approached.
“Can I get something for you?” she asked politely, sparing me a glance. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile in return.
Damian gestured to his plate. “This is undercooked. Take it back and have the chef prepare it correctly this time.”
It took everything in me not to come to Ezra’s defense—hell, not to defend my family’s establishment. I bit my tongue hard enough that the coppery tang of blood coated my mouth.
As the waitress apologized to Damian and retreated to the kitchen with his plate, I couldn’t help but think I was sitting there waiting for a train, unable to stop, about to barrel into a car parked on the tracks.