Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Matteo
“Chef, there’s someone asking for you.”
I don’t look up. I’m plating a pasta carbonara , and my staff knows I don’t make a habit of talking to customers anymore. I’m not good at it.
That was supposed to be Aria’s area.
“No time, Zeb,” I tell the waiter, wiping the edge of the dish.
Across the kitchen, I can feel Nicola and Val staring daggers into the back of my head.
“She says it’s important,” he says. “She’s a little, er . . . manic?”
At that, I stand upright as Val moves toward me and sets the plate up for one of the other waiters to take. “Go, Chef.”
I glance over at her, and she’s moved into the spot where I was, plating the next order without missing a beat. When I don’t move, she adds, “I’ve got this.”
And she does. Obviously. That’s not why I’m hesitating.
After a beat, I look at Zeb. “I’ll be right out.”
Zeb disappears through the doors, and I wash my hands, knowing exactly who is waiting for me .
A part of me, weirdly, is hoping I’m right.
Seconds later, the kitchen door swings open, and I get my confirmation. There, striding into my kitchen, is Iris. Invading my space like she has a right to be here.
She really doesn’t. Not here.
The magic of the newspapers has never shown up at my work . . . until now. Still, seeing her isn’t as annoying as I thought it would be.
“Oh! Uh . . . I’m sorry, miss, you can’t be back here,” my prep cook, Dante, says, angling to get between her and me.
Iris doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s laser-focused, scanning the kitchen with a clear purpose, and when her gaze finally lands on me, she starts walking again. Behind her, I can see the worried expressions of my kitchen staff, and I hold up a hand, assuring them that she’s not a threat. At least not a physical one.
I do find her emotionally disruptive, and that’s something I have no intention of analyzing.
I hang up the towel. It’s obvious she’s not giving any of this up. Unlike the other people I’ve told about the newspapers, she’s remembering. I don’t know why the rules have suddenly changed, but I can’t ignore the magic. It’s to my own detriment. Especially if this really is my chance to be done with it once and for all.
That means Iris is also someone I can no longer ignore.
She stops right in front of me. “Hey.”
I make a face. “Hi.”
She purses her lips. “We need to talk, and I can’t wait for you to decide when.”
Bold. I respect that.
“Okay.”
She looks up at the others in the room and leans over to make sure they can’t hear her .
“It’s about you know what, ” she whispers at me, then leans back, a pointed expression on her face.
Right. Okay. So . . . it’s time to talk.
“Fine,” I say. “But?—”
Before I can tell her that the kitchen full of staff isn’t the best spot to discuss this, she cuts me off.
“Today at school I met an old man who was—get this—teaching the third graders how to square dance,” she says, and not quietly. “And you know my co-workers? The ones I told about—” She looks around for a second, the only indication she’s aware that we aren’t alone. “Everything? They don’t remember the conversation.” She throws up her hands. “Completely oblivious.”
She takes a step toward me and points. “But you remember. Don’t you?”
I straighten, looking around the kitchen at my staff. “I’ll be back in five.” I motion for Iris to follow me into the small office next to the back door of the restaurant. I walk around the desk then turn to face her, finding her standing in the doorway, eyes roaming over my workspace.
While I do have a business manager, I spend a fair amount of time in here, planning menus, booking events, paying bills, working on inventory. It’s the business of owning a restaurant, and while it’s not my favorite part, it’s critical to Aria’s success.
The longer Iris stands there, looking, the more exposed I feel.
Finally, she meets my eyes. “You’re meticulous. This is the cleanest office I’ve ever been in.”
I give the office a cursory glance as she steps inside.
“Close the door,” I say.
She lifts her chin, as if to make sure I know she doesn’t like to be bossed around.
“Please,” I add .
She closes it, then turns and squares off with me.
“I like things in their place. It helps me keep things—” I stop. I don’t want to get into this. I’ve been over my need for order with my therapist. Control the things I can control. I watch her. “What questions do you have?”
But she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s too engrossed in the wall where Val framed and hung my diploma, business license, and the cover of a regional magazine that featured me as an up-and-coming chef to watch. A shelf of plaques and trophies—awards I’ve won.
“Chef of the Year?” Iris asks, studying one of the frames. “Most promising up-and-coming . . .” Her voice trails off.
I inhale. She’s discovering information about me, and I don’t exactly like it.
She turns back. “You’re kind of a big deal.”
“Not really.”
“According to this magazine, you are.” She points to the framed image, reading the headline next to that horrible posed photo. “And your restaurant is one of the top ten to visit in the entire northeast region? That’s huge.”
I don’t look at her. I don’t like this. I just want to get back to my kitchen.
“I get it. I tasted your pasta, remember?”
A picture of her talking with her mouth full, gushing about how good it tasted, flashes through my mind.
It’s not an intrusive memory, the kind I have to shake myself to dislodge from my mind. It’s the kind with a warm feeling attached to it.
It’s been a while since memories felt like that.
“You mentioned something about a man you met?” I ask, hoping to get her—and me—back on track.
She takes a few steps toward the desk, then pauses, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to sit. Which is funny considering she didn’t employ that same caution when she barged into my kitchen in the first place. “I know I keep bugging you about this, but . . .”
And that’s when I see the genuine fear in her eyes.
A familiar worry that her mind is playing tricks on her. That something is genuinely wrong with her.
And something I don’t want to feel creeps in. Empathy .
I motion to the chair. “Sit.”
She does, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, her gaze falls to her hands, folded in her lap. I notice she’s fidgeting, clasping and unclasping her hands, spinning a simple silver ring around her finger.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
At that, she glances up, eyes wide. “Wait. That’s an option?”
I tilt my head slightly.
“It’s a restaurant.”
She stares at me, like she’s not sure if she can trust me, and after a moment, she shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure how to process kindness coming from you.”
I quirk a brow. “I can take it back?”
“No!” she practically shouts. After pretending to gather her composure, she adds. “No. Please don’t take it back. I’m hungry.” She smiles. “And out of frozen pizzas.”
I groan.
“I do have Pop-Tarts, though. I might actually be okay.” She smirks, and while I’m sure she is flush with Pop-Tarts, it’s clear she’s said this to get a reaction from me.
I hide how at ease she makes me feel.
Shaking my head, I stand and walk toward the door and into the kitchen, sensing the questions my staff isn’t asking, and when I reach Val, I hold up a hand.
“She’s a neighbor. She’s got a few questions about our building. And she’s hungry,” I say, hoping to keep the questions at bay .
Nicola sidles up next to Val, and now I’ve got two pairs of wide eyes trained on me. “She’s the same one who walked you to work.”
“She walked you to work?” Val gasps.
“She did not walk to me to work,” I say. “She followed me. She had a bunch of questions then too, and when I didn’t answer, she wouldn’t go away.”
They look at each other. “That tracks,” Val says. “But why is she here now?”
“I told you. More questions.” I glance through the window and see Iris sitting there, looking around, patiently waiting.
“She’s really pretty,” Nicola says.
“But cute at the same time,” Val agrees.
“Right,” Nicola says, like the two of them are spit-balling. “Not intimidating?—”
“More like a girl-next-door.”
“Ooh, so convenient!”
“Just a trip down the hallway?—”
“Bottle of wine?—”
“Short walk of shame?—”
“Are you two finished?” I ask desperately.
They both smile, extra-wide.
They’re ridiculous.
“Do you like her?” Nicola asks.
I only stare.
They gasp.
“Chef! You do?!” Nicola exclaims.
I take an extra-long breath, gauging my dwindling level of patience before I speak. “I don’t know her. I just want her to leave so I can get back to work.” I scrub a hand down my face. “But she’s going to eat Pop-Tarts for dinner if we don’t feed her?—”
They both let out a comical groan in unison .
“Exactly. So. Can you two stop acting like annoying teenagers and bring something back when you get a chance?”
Val’s eyes narrow. “You want her to go . . . so you’re feeding her dinner?”
“Pack it up in a to-go box,” I say. “Maybe she’ll get the hint.”
“Uh-huh,” Val says. “Okay. I’ll bring back a chicken parm.”
“Great.” I start to walk away.
“And I’ll bring back a dessert,” Nicola calls after me.
I turn back. “I didn’t ask for that!”
“Too late!” She disappears around the corner.
“I don’t think you both need to deliver it,” I shout after them, but there’s no answer.
There’s no point in arguing. Nicola and Val have an agenda, and it doesn’t matter what I say. After all, Iris is the first person outside of vendors and employees to show up in the kitchen looking for me.
I walk back into my office and find Iris, still waiting, but looking worried. Maybe even scared.
I sit down, remembering how jarring it was when the magic first showed up for me. It feels overwhelming and confusing, and there is no way to just “go with it.” And it took me months before I asked anyone about it. With the exception of my grandpa, nobody remembered anything I said. It was like . . . the same magic that delivered the newspapers, magic I assume the building generates, also decided who got to know about it—and who didn’t.
Once my grandpa acknowledged it, I started to accept the fact that while the magic doesn’t make sense, it is a part of living in our building.
Maybe that’s what I’m supposed to do for Iris.
And maybe—hopefully, finally—that means the magic will move from me to her, like it did from my grandpa to me .
“Will you be straight with me?” she asks. “Like, will you just answer my questions?”
I pause for a three-count, then nod. It feels like the humane thing to do. But also—the realization that I could get my life back, free of magic, is too tempting to ignore.
Before she can say anything else, though, the door opens and Nicola walks in, followed by Val, who is carrying not one but two plated dinners. Neither of which is in a to-go container.
I frown, but Val is not looking at me.
“I thought you might be hungry too, Chef,” she says. “Figured you guys could have a bite back here.” She sets the plates down next to the two napkins, silverware, and a small tray of desserts Nicola has already placed on the desk. The only thing missing is a taper candle and a violinist. They are the opposite of subtle.
“I don’t eat during service, Val,” I say curtly, hoping that if my glare doesn’t remind her this isn’t a romantic dinner for two, then maybe my tone will. I add through gritted teeth, “You know this.”
She waves me off. “I know, Chef, but there’s a first time for everything.”
“The rush is over, and we only have a few more customers out there,” she goes on. “Figured it’s good for you to see that we can handle things, you know, if you ever need some time off.” She glances at Iris, then finally meets my eyes.
I’ve got my most annoyed expression pinned in place, though, and she quickly looks away.
“I’m Val,” she says to Iris. “Sous chef.”
“And I’m Nicola.” Nicola beams. “Pastry chef.”
They’re like two annoying little sisters with a very obvious ulterior motive.
“First, you two are amazing and beautiful and I want to be best friends with both of you,” Iris jokes .
They all have a laugh, and I want to chew my arm off.
“Second, you guys did not have to bring me this,” Iris says. “I would’ve been happy with a piece of bread.”
Nic laughs. “You’re not a peasant.”
And Val adds, “That’s just not how we do things here.”
Dante strolls in with two glasses of water, sets them down on the desk, and leaves without a word.
“You two have a nice dinner,” Nicola says, moving toward the door. “Let us know if you need anything.”
Val walks over and closes the blinds that cover the windows facing the kitchen.
I stare into the back of her head, willing her to feel my frustration, but she continues to avoid looking at me.
Probably as a means of self-preservation. As if I’m not going to address this little stunt after Iris leaves.
Once they’ve gone, I resist the urge to apologize for them but then give in. “They’re . . . a lot.”
“I like them,” Iris says. “They seem really great.”
“They are,” I say. “Just . . . nosy.”
She smiles and then glances down at the plate. “Is it . . .okay if. . .?”
“Yes, of course. Buon appetito .”
She picks up her fork and cuts into the chicken, dragging it through the sauce before taking a bite. She closes her eyes, inhaling as she chews, like she’s tasting the food with all of her senses.
I watch as her brow furrows and she lets out a sigh of appreciation, like this is the best thing she’s ever tasted. It’s borderline inappropriate, but I don’t look away. Nicola and Val are right. Iris is beautiful. And cute. A rare combination.
Watching her enjoy even the simplest things—like her food—wakes something up inside me.
She opens her eyes and finds me staring. “Aren’t you going to eat? ”
“I’m still working,” I tell her.
Her frown deepens. “Sounded like your staff is going to handle things so you don’t have to.”
“Do you want to ask your questions?”
“Yes,” she says. “But now I want to devour this entire plate of food and maybe part of yours, and I really want to do that before it gets cold.” She picks up a loaf of bread and tears a chunk off.
I love that she’s not shy about eating in front of me, but I don’t say so. And once again, the way she shovels the food into her mouth but still takes time to appreciate it makes me like her a little more than I want to.
“I know what you’re going to ask,” I say.
“All the same thousand questions I’ve already asked but you’ve refused to answer, probably.” Her mouth is full of bread, but I can still hear the sarcasm.
“Right.” I squint at her. Am I really going to do this? I haven’t talked about the magic in three years, and only ever with my grandpa. But it’s obvious if I don’t, Iris won’t go away.
If the magic wants her to know, then I’ll tell her, and maybe—fingers crossed—I’ll be able to get rid of it for good. Besides, there’s still a chance she won’t remember anything I tell her tomorrow.
“I was in the same boat as you a few years ago,” I say.
She stops chewing.
“You’re not hallucinating.” I meet her eyes. “The building we live in is magic.”