Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Walker
There was a bottle of whiskey in the top drawer of my desk at Charred.
Of course, here, I had access to a full bar that kept an inventory of some of the best brands and most-sought-after bottles in the world.
But this one was my personal favorite, and at seven thousand a pop, the restaurant didn’t stock it.
I had several more at home, but I didn’t want to wait until I got there to have some.
Home felt like a fucking eternity from now.
So, I opened the drawer, where I also kept a glass, and poured myself several fingers’ worth. I was just bringing the tumbler up to my mouth when there was a knock at my door.
Goddamn it, I just want to be left alone.
My jaw tightened, and my teeth ground as I barked, “Who is it?”
“It’s Rachel.”
I reclined in my chair, the spring allowing me to bounce. “Come in.”
The door cracked, and she stuck her head through the opening, smiling at me. “Can I really come in?”
Rachel knew if she was too chipper, I’d fucking lose it. Her smile was tickling my limit.
“Yes.” I held up my glass. “Want one?”
She took a seat in a chair on the other side of my desk. “I’m afraid I want more than one, and I won’t be able to stop at one, so I’ll pass.”
I nodded, knowing I had zero intention of stopping either. “What’s up?”
“I just want to thank you for agreeing to come in. Tonight went better than I could have imagined.” She rubbed her hands on her legs before she crossed her arms.
“Rachel—”
“I know you didn’t want to. I know you probably didn’t even want to answer my call.” She gave me another grin. “But this place needs you, Walker. There’s no way we could have executed everything we had going on if you hadn’t been here.”
A bolt of anger shot through my chest. “I almost took Keith’s head off.”
Her eyes closed, and I could tell she was taking a deep breath. “And Trish’s. I know. But still … tonight was impressive. It was definitely one for the books. And when I run the numbers tomorrow, when I’m actually able to see straight, I think we’ll be blown away by them.”
What she had said should please me. Her compliments should hit my chest and make me feel something. I should be able to return the sentiment, given that she’d had one hell of a long night and I’d only made things more difficult.
But I felt nothing.
And when I went to respond, only, “I expect that as well,” came out.
Jesus Christ.
Was I really that dead inside?
“Go home,” I ordered. “Have all the drinks. We’ll talk numbers tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” Her brows lifted. “You don’t mind locking up?”
There were two people in this restaurant who had a key, and they were both in this office.
“I’m sure.”
She got up from the chair. “Thank you, Walker. Have yourself a good evening.” She nodded toward my drink. “And a few more of those.”
I shouldn’t always be so fucking hard on her. She was invaluable to me and this restaurant. But instead of saying that, I gave her a dip of my head, appreciating the moment when the door closed and I was finally alone.
I stared at the amber liquor in my glass. It didn’t matter how much of this I drank; not a single drop would make me feel.
I’d tried changing that last night, and the only thing it had earned me was a whopping hangover this morning.
I hadn’t wanted to work tonight.
I didn’t want to be in this fucking restaurant.
Shit … I didn’t know what the hell I wanted anymore.
But I knew I didn’t deserve even a syllable of the gratitude that Rachel had expressed. It was the staff who held things together, who had achieved almost the impossible tonight.
My presence had only ripped them apart.
I drained the rest of my glass and returned the tumbler to my drawer and got up, making my way into the kitchen. The lights were still on. A few of my employees scattered about, finishing up their closing duties before they took off.
I hadn’t eaten a thing since I’d arrived, and my stomach fucking ached.
I went into the walk-in and grabbed a raw cut of rib eye and a small container of mushrooms, and I brought them over to the gas range.
I liked my beef Pittsburgh-style, so I prepped the cast iron pan with extra butter, watching it sizzle from the fire.
I could tell when the metal and dairy reached the right temperature—the bubbles in the butter peaked and popped—and I set the steak in the center.
I got out a spoon and a few sprigs of thyme and rosemary, and when I estimated about seven minutes had passed, I flipped the beef, dropping the fresh herbs and vegetables into the butter, spooning the excess onto the meat.
I’d made this exact meal thousands of times. Not just for customers, but for myself.
I could do these steps with my fucking eyes closed.
I could look at a rib eye and know just when the center had reached the level of red I desired.
And with the way my stomach hurt, I would think I’d wait out the next seven minutes and then devour this meal like I’d intended.
But the sight and scent of it were making me sick.
I took the pan off the heat, and as I was carrying it to the sink, where I was going to dump it, I happened to glance through the shelves of the prep station, where the most gorgeous brunette was walking past.
A brunette whose familiar locks were wrapped tightly on top of her head. Whose blue eyes were wide as she looked at me. Whose petite frame had stopped dead in her tracks, as though she were a deer connecting with headlights.
It took a moment, a quick rewind of time, as my brain tried to process what I was really looking at.
Why the woman I’d spent two nights with was standing in the middle of my kitchen.
Why she was in a Charred uniform.
Why she was staring at me as though I was the last person she wanted to see.
I was trying to connect the pieces, but the questions were coming in too fast.
I set the pan on the range and went around the prep station, halting directly in front of her. “Sky?”
Maybe I was seeing things.
Maybe she had a fucking twin.
“Yes.” When she went to take a breath, I could tell the air wasn’t moving through her lungs, and she pressed against her chest, holding her hand there. “Yes … it’s … me.”
“But why? I … don’t understand what’s happening right now.”
“I wish I didn’t either.” She glanced down, her shoulders rounding, her body almost folding in. “My real name is Alivia.”
“Alivia …” Why was that so achingly beautiful, like her? “What are you doing here?”
She looked up and scanned my eyes from right to left, now clutching her hands in front of her. Her lips parted, but nothing came out of them. Her face was so full of expression; I couldn’t tell which emotion was coming through stronger.
“Walker—Whiskey—whatever.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and her head shook. “I … work here.”
Had I heard her correctly?
She’d said … she worked here?
The questions were coming in even faster.
So was the anger.
The bolt that had shot through me earlier was roaring in my chest like a sky full of lightning, and when my mouth opened, I didn’t try to control my voice at all. “You … what?”