Chapter 22
Since I rarely leave my small Cassero radius, it’s taken a while to feel at home on my scratched-up little marigold scooter.
But flying down the road tonight, past the outstretched blur of wildflowers, I finally am free on it.
The warm summer wind is an antidote to the way my body thrummed all day, itching to continue where the morning left off, an unfamiliar sensation of wanting to escape my usually contented confines of a kitchen.
As I pull up to Nico’s house, that roaring of speed slows and gives way to lilting humidity and the chirping of cicadas and crickets.
It’s late, and no lights are on except the small one above the front door. It opens with my arrival, and Nico is framed in the fuzzy halo. He leans against the doorjamb, watching as I climb off my bike, unbuckle the matching yellow helmet I bought, and tousle my hair so it’s not so flat.
I walk to him, and that sensation of being allowed to stare still seems brand new and exciting, like suddenly getting to buy a lotto ticket when the clock strikes midnight on an eighteenth birthday.
It’s amazing the things you don’t see when you’re not looking.
I’d dulled all his edges out in my mind, protective, placing everything beautiful in the deepest recesses where it couldn’t torture me.
But now I get to see him in full color. Dark hair rumpled and lightly falling over one eye.
The softest-looking dark-blue shirt I’ve ever seen that curves perfectly over his shoulders.
Casually frayed light-wash dad jeans. End-of-day scruff so tempting I can practically feel it against my fingers just by looking at it.
That top lip freckle, slowly rising as he gives me a small lopsided grin.
How on earth was I ever capable of not throwing myself at this man? Being a chef requires a lot of willpower—long days on your feet, avoiding exhaustion and bathroom breaks and outside problems—but maybe all of that has led up to the work of willpowering my way around this.
As I get closer, I’m the strangest version of shy. Our morning bubble popped, the day passed, and now we’re out in so much open space. What are we now? I try to shake off Emilia’s prophesying and focus.
“Hi,” I finally breathe, unable to stop my own sheepish grin from forming.
His eyes scan my whole face. “Hi.”
We stand there for a moment, goofily watching each other, drinking up this permission to take in all the previously uncatalogued details we’d averted our eyes from.
Luce jumps up on my leg, and it breaks the spell. I crouch down and give him a pet, scratching behind his ears until he starts spinning in an excited circle and he’s moving too fast for me to have my hands on him anymore.
I stand up. “So we should probably—”
But I don’t finish the sentence before Nico’s mouth is on mine.
My hand instantly fists into his T-shirt, as soft as it originally appeared.
He backs me up against the door and pants my name.
He kisses me like he wants me to feel it all the way down to my toes, like he’s trying to memorize how I taste and every curve of my mouth.
I feel my insides unfurl, that aching need to press against him suddenly roaring back.
He’s so damn sturdy, and for the first time in my life, I feel delicate, as though I could let myself sink into him.
The thought jars me and I pull back. I hadn’t noticed that Luce was barking excitedly at us, so I reach down again to pet him, using that as the excuse as my mind stays as jumbled as the air in my lungs.
“Sorry,” he says, as breathy as I feel. “I just . . .”
“I know.” I reach out to touch his bottom lip. I can’t resist it. And god, the way he blushes. I can’t get enough of it. “Although we’re not going to scare off any wannabe hunters if we’re ignoring the world and making out like teenagers.”
There’s a playful bent in his smile now, his breathing evening, the blush calming. He holds up one of the reflective vests he always makes me wear when we’re out here at night. “Think if we both don these fashionable items we’ll be more or less likely to stay off of each other?”
I giggle and loop my arms through a vest until it hangs off me, overly large as always. “Are you hoping it’s more warning sign than tractor beam?”
He surveys me, lips pressed together in mock seriousness. “I’m afraid to admit that I’m finding it dorkily adorable. I’m hoping the smell of cows makes me capable of not pouncing on you.”
“Who assumed the problem was going to be you?”
He laughs, and I love the lightness that’s wrapped around him. “I think the evidence of my behavior in the last twenty-four hours isn’t great for my case.”
My smile grows as I take the other vest out of his hands and pull it over his head. I give him a long look up and down. “It’s not going to detract me.”
“The reflector vests or the pouncing?”
“Either.”
He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, muttering, “Of course helping Gia means I have to sleep outside on the ground instead of in your bed tonight.”
I raise my eyebrows suggestively. “Might be the only way we get sleep.”
His eyes widen, amused. “You’re trying to torture me.”
I shrug and reach up to adjust his vest, wanting so badly to kiss him again.
But I know we need to get moving. If Tommaso thinks there’s a night where he can get away with anything, he will.
He’d probably do something at this point just to spite us.
I’m still convinced he’s the person who messed with the fence, even if Nico has cast a wider net of suspicion.
But as long as the hunters are coming through, we need to keep watch to keep Gia’s property safe.
Nico must have the same thought, because he lifts his large duffel bag and then takes my hand, leading me out into the trees.
Our setup is the same as always—Nico sets out the chairs and sleeping bags, and he’s got snacks and lamps and our unloaded rifle in his bag. Luce lays down at our feet and falls asleep with a little snort. It’s nice to have some familiarity amid all this sudden change in our routine.
We sit down, and he hands me a beer like usual. I take it, the cool drink a balm in an otherwise humid evening. I pull out the pastries from Emilia, and I can see from the look in his eyes that my desserts would never hold a candle to hers.
We sit in companionable silence for a little bit, enjoying the warm air and the pastries and the new comfort that’s now looping between us.
“Do you think you’ll change your menu when you go home?” he asks out of nowhere.
“I’m always changing,” I reply, rolling with wherever he’s taking this conversation. “I mean, I’ve never taken this length of time off of work before—”
“I like how you consider working ten-hour shifts six days a week ‘taking time off of work.’”
I scoff. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re talking to a guy who essentially works six weeks a year.” He’s picking at the label on the bottle mindlessly.
“I don’t think building an entirely new filtration system counts as not working,” I point out.
“I’m only saying you could take vacations in the future.”
But I shake my head. “I can’t, though. This is really only because my restaurant literally burned down. There’d be no other excuse for me. They just wouldn’t buy it otherwise.”
“Who wouldn’t buy it?”
I sigh deeply, knowing this answer is so much more complicated. “The entire fucking world of fine dining,” I say, lifting my hands in the air. “I have to be in the kitchen, kicking ass, saying hello to the guests, innovating, if I want to stay relevant.”
“Come on,” he says, looking straight at me now. “So many of those big chefs open multiple restaurants or do TV shows. They’re not always in their kitchen.” He clearly thinks he’s making some wise point. “You could take an extra day off of work or delegate a little bit. Surely you’ve earned it.”
Now I’m the one picking at labels. I don’t know how to explain this to him. It’s almost like I don’t want to burst the pure bubble that he has. I don’t even want to look at him. “I don’t get that courtesy,” I finally say, and he shifts forward to look at me more closely.
“Why?” He’s genuinely curious.
“Women in this business always have to work twice as hard.” We’re both silent for a moment, and I tilt my head up to see the stars dancing through the leaves of the tree.
There’s a brightness peeking through the darkness, and it’s such a beautiful sight to take in.
“Women technically can be anything now, sure,” I start, trying to think of the right way to say this.
“But if you look at the top . . . like of all Michelin-starred restaurants, only six percent are run by women.”
“Six?” he says, and I like the twinge of anger that’s automatically taken hold in his voice, like somehow he’s in this fight too.
“Six. We can be anything, but to succeed we have to be everything. More organized, harder working, more giving, better mentors. No illness, no weakness, no tardiness, definitely nothing gynecologic. No stagnation. My restaurant burning down was probably the only scenario on earth where I could’ve left and then eventually come back. ”
He puts a hand on my thigh and stays quiet. We sit in that silence for a little while, our breathing one instrument among the sounds of all the bugs making their symphonies.
“That’s a lot to carry,” he finally says.
It’s really all there is to say, isn’t it?
I’ve been carrying a lot of expectations on my own for a long time.
I have myself to blame for a lot of it, but the career I’ve chosen, the path I want, can also take some of that dubious credit.
It’s hard to be free and let people in when you need to stay focused to have what you want.