Chapter 25 Eliana
ELIANA
al den·te: /al ?den tā/: adjective
The thing about kissing Bastian Hale is that it makes everything else feel like background noise.
The HVAC disaster? Background noise.
Impending blindness? Background noise.
My mother’s eviction notice and the twelve hundred dollars I just transferred that she’ll almost definitely spend on wine? Background noise.
All of it fades to a dull hum compared to the electric memory of his mouth on mine, his hand cradling my neck, the warm heat of elevator darkness swaddling us.
I steal another glance at him as we drive toward the Olympus site. He’s staring holes through the road. It’s like he believes that, if he concentrates hard enough on the asphalt, he won’t have to think about what just happened between us.
If only it were so simple.
We pull up to the Olympus construction site, and I force myself back into project manager mode. Or at least, I try to. It’s hard when I can still taste wintergreen gum. But ya girl is doing the best she can.
Frank Moretti is waiting for us outside the main entrance, hard hat tucked under one arm, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“Mr. Hale,” he greets as we approach. “Ms. Hunter.”
“Frank.” Bastian is all business now, showing no signs that he had his tongue in my mouth twenty minutes ago. “Show Ms. Hunter the problem.”
Frank leads us through the construction site.
“Now, I know the HVAC situation isn’t ideal,” he begins, waving a hand at the skeletal framework around us, “but I want to focus on what’s going right first. The structural work is ahead of schedule.
The plumbing passed inspection on the first try—that never happens.
And the electrical contractor says we’re looking at completion two days early on their end. Ain’t that something?”
I make notes on my tablet as we walk, dodging stacks of drywall and coils of copper wire. The space is massive—twelve different restaurant concepts under one roof means it’s basically a small city of kitchens and dining rooms, all in various states of completion.
“The tile work in the sushi concept is chef’s kiss.” Frank smooches his fingertips to underscore his point. “Imported from Kyoto. Hand-laid. Looks like a million freaking bucks.”
“It cost two million bucks,” Bastian drawls.
Frank’s smile falters. “Right. Yeah. But it looks great, don’t it?”
Bastian doesn’t answer. He’s walking with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw clenched tight.
I recognize this version of him. This is the Bastian who ridiculed me in front of the test kitchen staff. This is the asshole who tore up my resignation letter, the tyrant who pinned me against the wall of the walk-in freezer.
The one who kissed me in an elevator is nowhere to be found.
“The bar installation for the cocktail lounge is also coming along beautifully,” Frank tries again. “Custom walnut. The grain pattern is—”
“Which part of this concerns the HVAC?” Bastian interrupts.
Frank’s shoulders slump. “Right. Of course. This way.”
We follow him through a maze of I-beams and plastic sheeting. I wrinkle my nose to ward off the heavy scent of sawdust and paint primer.
“Watch your step here,” Frank warns. He points at a gap in the flooring where subflooring hasn’t been laid yet. “We’ve got—”
But even though I hear the words, my brain is engrossed in the HVAC specs I’ve got cued up on my tablet, so I don’t see the two-by-four lying across the walkway until my toe catches on it.
I pitch forward with a yelp.
It’s one of those life-flash-before-your-eyes moments.
Mine is a bit too bland and depressing to be good primetime viewing.
I mostly get a montage of lonely Lean Cuisine microwave meals and half-hearted jogs through Millenium Park after an over-long Instagram doom-scroll convinced me that I had to get abs or I’d die miserable and alone and be eaten by housecats.
My real death, however, is looking like it’s gonna be a bit more dramatic than that. Because there’s a hole between the plank and the finished section of subflooring, and that hole opens up onto a three-story drop that’s got my name on it.
This is how it ends, I think. Speared to death on a piece of rebar. At least I’ll make the five o’clock news.
But death is not getting its hands on me. Not today, at least.
Because Bastian gets his hands on me first.
I don’t know where he came from or how he moves so fast. All I know is that, one second, I’m contemplating demise by construction material, and the next, the familiar heat of that hand is wrapped around my wrist.
He drags me back to safety.
Our eyes meet.
His face—God, his face. For just a second, the asshole mask is gone and there’s a real man there. A man who cares more than he’d ever say out loud.
“You okay?” he rasps.
“Dandy,” I manage to splutter, though my heart is hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with almost falling three stories to my death.
His fingers linger on my wrist for one beat too long before he releases me and steps back. He shoves both hands in his pockets again like he doesn’t trust them.
The asshole mask reappears.
And life goes back to what I always thought it was: lonely.
Frank clears his throat awkwardly. “You alright, Ms. Hunter? ‘Bout gave me a heart attack there.”
“I’m good,” I promise, wiping my hair out of my face. “Just, y’know, genetically clumsy. Sorry. Proceed.”
“Right.” He squints at me for another second before turning and lifting up a curtain of plastic sheeting. “Uh, the station is just through here.”
We form a half-circle in front of the truffle oil station. It’s like a giant church organ, insanely complex, pipes and wires running every which way.
I glance at Bastian, but he’s saying nothing and gazing strangely into the distance, so I take the lead. “Pretend I don’t know anything and tell me what’s going on,” I instruct him.
With a cough, Frank launches into his explanation.
“So basically, the original specs called for a standard commercial system,” he’s saying, “but once we started the install, we realized the heat output from the truffle oil prep station is gonna be way higher than anticipated. The existing HVAC can’t handle the load without creating a fire hazard. So…”
I nod along as he keeps talking. I’m making notes on my tablet, but I’m only half-listening. The other half of my attention is on Bastian, who’s gone very still beside me.
His eyes have narrowed, focused on something across the room. I follow his gaze to see that two of Frank’s crew guys are having what looks like a heated conversation near a stack of copper piping.
One of them, a younger guy with a Bears cap, keeps glancing over his shoulder toward us like he’s worried about being overheard.
The other one, older with a gray beard, puts a hand on Bears Cap’s shoulder and says something that makes the younger guy shake his head emphatically.
Bastian’s frown deepens.
“—which is why we need the upgraded system,” Frank finishes. “Make sense?”
“Er, yeah,” I tell him. “I think I follow. Don’t see any faults in the logic, but the whole thing is pretty unfortunate. As you know, we’re on a very tight launch schedule here. Lots of money and moving pieces in the balance.”
“Of course, of course,” he says. “Believe me, I’m the last person who wanted this to happen. It’s just that—”
Bastian’s jaw ticks. Then, without warning, he’s striding across the construction site toward the two workers.
“Excuse me,” Frank calls after him. “Mr. Hale. Mr. Hale—!”
But Bastian’s long legs eat up the space in seconds. Frank is a full head shorter and he’s struggling to catch up. Seeing as I’m shorter than both of them, I’m the turtle in this race.
By the time I arrive on the scene, Bastian’s already inserted himself between Bears Cap and Gray Beard.
“Gentlemen,” he says, “care to share what’s so important it can’t wait until after my walkthrough?”
The younger guy goes pale. “Nothing, Mr. Hale. We were just…”
“Just what?”
Gray Beard shifts his weight. “Just discussing the timeline, sir. Nothing to worry about.”
“What about the timeline?”
The two workers exchange glances. Neither speaks.
Bastian turns to Frank, who’s finally caught up, breathing hard. “Frank. What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing! Nothing at all, sir.”
“I’ll give you two fucking seconds to explain it to me.”
Frank clears his throat. “Mr. Hale, I can explain—”
“Then explain.”
Frank’s face goes through several shades of red before settling on a kind of mottled purple that cannot be cardiovascularly healthy.
“It’s not just the HVAC,” he admits finally.
He sounds almost relieved to be confessing.
Guilty conscience, I guess. “The walk-in coolers for the seafood concept are the wrong size and we’re having the damndest time getting the supplier to call us back about it.
The gas lines for the open-flame stations can’t handle the BTU load we need.
And the ventilation hoods—Jesus, the fuckin’ ventilation hoods—they’re commercial-grade, sure, but not rated for the kind of volume you’re planning to push through here. ”
Bastian’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Keep going.”
Frank’s torrent continues. “The water filtration system for the sushi bar isn’t compatible with Chicago’s water pressure.
The temperature control units for the wine storage are backordered until May.
The custom ovens for the bakery concept arrived damaged and the manufacturer is claiming it’s not their problem because we signed off on delivery.
” Frank runs a hand over his balding scalp and sighs, like he’s aging years for every second that passes.
“And the fire suppression system—the whole damn thing, Mr. Hale—needs to be completely redesigned because the inspector says the current configuration doesn’t meet code for a space this size with this many active cooking stations. ”
The silence that follows is so thick I could spread it on toast.
“How long have you known?” Bastian asks quietly.
“Some of it? A few weeks. The fire suppression thing? That’s new as of yesterday. I swear, Mr. Hale, I tried to—”
“You tried to bury it,” Bastian snarls. “You thought you could fix it before I noticed. You’re fucking me over here, Frank, and you really thought it would all just be fine.”
“No, sir, I— I— Well, sir, I’m just awfully sorry. The whole damn thing’s spiraling out of control.”
“How much?”
Frank blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“How. Much. Money. Are we talking about to fix all of this?”
The contractor’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Conservatively? We’re getting into the millions here, sir. Plus at least six weeks added to the timeline. Maybe eight.”
I watch the color drain from Bastian’s face. Then he turns on his heel and walks away without another word. Not to me, not to Frank, not to anyone.
He just storms across the construction site with his shoulders rigid and his hands still clenched into fists.
“Mr. Hale!” Frank calls after him. “Sir, if we could just—”
But it’s too late. Bastian’s already gone, disappearing through the plastic sheeting and out into the weak February sunlight.
Leaving me standing there with Frank and his crew, my tablet full of notes that suddenly feel completely useless.
“Well,” I say into the awkward silence. “Shit.”