Chapter 13
Olivia
Now
When I left Carmello mopping up fridge water last night, I dialed Paula’s number and asked her to call Steven.
Being the sous-chef, he has a key to Celia’s Place in case he needs to open or close it when Carmello can’t.
And his exact words to Paula were: “Bro, I never come in early unless I have to.” To which Paula reminded him that he owed her a favor.
For what, I don’t know. But the three of us arrived here an hour ago.
Steven still had sleep in his eyes, and it looked like he’d been partying last night.
When he unlocked the restaurant door, he glanced at me and said, “Carmello’s going to be pissed.
You better tell him this was all you.” I reassured him that I could handle Mello.
Now, I clear my throat from where me and Paula are sitting in a booth across the room. Carmello stares at us, then shakes his head like he doesn’t have the energy to question what the hell is going on here. We all watch him walk to the kitchen, and then we wait.
It doesn’t take him long. The door is swinging open five minutes later and he’s pointing a finger behind him. “Where the hell is my fridge?”
“You mean that big metal half-broken thing that’s had more birthdays than me?” I say. “It’s probably at the junkyard by now. I bribed these two to help me get rid of it.”
“Olivia,” he says. “You. Are not. Staying.”
“Just thank me for the shiny new appliance and one less potential hazard at Celia’s Place, then move on, Mello,” I say.
He inhales loudly through his nose, mutters something that sounds like a thank-you, throws a sharp look at the three of us, and walks back into the kitchen.
“I already know how this day is going to go for me,” Steven says before he downs an energy drink that has been referred to as diabetes in a can.
***
I had a similar thought to Steven’s earlier, but surprisingly, I think that the day is going much smoother than it was yesterday, and dare I say, Carmello looks relaxed.
I swear I’m not trying to win his love with favors—that fridge really was a hazard, I just wanted to help—but every time someone compliments the new one, I shoot him a grin, which he doesn’t groan at.
I’m patiently waiting for the dinner rush, happy to be dicing tomatoes in the meantime, when Veronica comes into the kitchen with a smirk on her face. She says something to Carmello that I can’t hear. “What?” he asks. Something. Something. Whispers. And: “She wants to see you.”
My ears perk up at that particular pronoun before those particular words.
Carmello grumbles something under his breath, then looks up at the clock on the wall, removes his apron, and turns to Steven. “It’s almost time for me to go anyway,” he says. “Can you take over from here? I’ve only got one order to fill.”
I hurry to throw the diced tomatoes into a bowl, then step out from behind the chopping counter. “Me. Me. I can do it,” I say.
“Don’t you have to mince garlic for the…” he starts.
“Garlic finely minced, apples cored,” I cut in. “Onions made me cry. Tomatoes diced like they’ve never been diced. Steven’s busy. Put me in the game, Coach.”
“We agreed to dinner rush,” he says.
“But we didn’t sign a contract,” I point out.
I think he wants to smile. He takes his hat off, and I get the sudden urge to run my right hand over his hair and see how soft it feels. “Do you remember how to make pancit?” he asks.
“Don’t insult me, Mello,” I say. Food holds memories for me, and learning to make pancit from his mom, making the noodles just right, perfectly balancing the slight sweetness of the sauce, was one of my favorites.
Carmello’s mouth falls slightly, and I wonder if it’s my casual use of his nickname. “Don’t do anything extra,” he says. “Just like we used to make it. Okay?”
When he says we, I get flutters in my stomach, but I try not to show it.
“Got it, Boss,” I say, and do a happy dance all the way to the stove.
He stands in front of the door for a few seconds, exhales, then pushes it open.
Veronica hurries to peek through the window.
I glance at the pot in front of me, then rush to join her.
Carmello’s walking over to a table of three women in the back left corner of the room.
One of them is waving at him. The flutters I felt have been replaced with a sharp sensation.
Different from the cramps I had last night from my endometriosis trying to start up.
This is…curiosity? Concern? Jealousy? A mix of all three?
“Who is that?” I ask quietly.
“Rachael,” Veronica says after a moment. “Said she’s a girl he’s been seeing.”
I have an instinct to look at Vero because her tone is tight, but I can’t take my eyes off of her cousin heading toward that woman. That Rachael person I didn’t know existed until now.
“I should’ve asked if he was actively dating instead of single,” I say. “Do you think it’s serious between them?”
“I don’t know,” Veronica says, “but she did bring her friends to meet him.”
There’s a knot in my throat as I stare. “She’s pretty.”
“She is,” Vero agrees, then turns to me. “Are you feeling…insecure?”
“What? Hell no. Just a baddie recognizing another baddie.”
From here, I can’t tell if Rachael’s white or a fair-skinned woman of color, but her makeup is on point and her long dark hair is laid.
We don’t look anything alike, but I wonder if Carmello has a personality type.
Doesn’t matter if I’m working alone in a client’s kitchen, I enjoy getting dressed up and beating my face.
Even my work clothes at Celia’s Place are curated looks.
“Okay,” Vero says, shifting her attention back to the window. “But maybe you should take this as a sign if you’re still considering pursuing him.”
She leaves the kitchen before I can respond, and I feel heavy about her passive-aggressive comment and the fact that Carmello might be getting serious with someone else.
I’ve been taking him warming up to me being here as a sign that he might still feel something for me too.
I swear there was a moment between us last night in the back room, but now there’s a slight ache in my chest.
There’s no doubt that I still have deep feelings for that man.
But I’m not going to force him to see me or try to ruin a relationship he’s building.
When Steven slams a lid on a pot with emphasis, I snap back to focus. “Yo. You’re burning the pancit,” he says.
“Shit, shit,” I say, rushing to the stove to fix the situation before Carmello smells it.