31. Sweet & Sour
Sweet & Sour
D inner service is finally over.
After four hours of constant shouting, the metallic clanging of pans, and heat pressing in from all sides like a damn furnace, I’m done.
My take? Cooking in a restaurant is completely different from being a private chef.
There’s no time to think, no space to breathe, just a relentless rush, one plate after another.
It’s nothing like the calm of cooking at your own pace, putting love and care into every plate, knowing exactly how the person you’re cooking for likes their food.
This was more like...being a cog in the machine. Or like being stranded at sea, and I spent the entire night treading water.
And yet, somehow, I fucking did it.
“Thanks for a great service, Chef,” Oliver says, smacking my shoulder playfully, his helmet dangling from his other hand. “You still owe me that beer.”
“Yeah. Next time.”
The door swings shut behind him, and as soon as the restaurant is silent, the adrenaline that’s been propelling me all night drains from my body like someone pulled the plug.
I set my chef’s hat on the counter and stretch my neck.
My body aches—the sharp sting of burns on my fingers, the dull throb in my legs, the buzzing exhaustion in my skull.
I fish out my phone. I should text Amelie, let her know everything went well—not that she needs me to. She probably had spies reporting every detail.
Just as I tap on our conversation, the scuff of footsteps echoes behind me. I turn, expecting to see one of the busboys or a lingering chef. Instead, I’m met with fire-red hair, a constellation of freckles, and green eyes that make my skin burn hotter than the kitchen did.
“Charlotte?”
“Hey, Chef. Or should I call you . . . Head Chef?”
“Pro Tempore Head Chef at best, but I guess that’s a bit of a mouthful.” I set my phone down, forgotten. “What are you doing here?”
“I missed you,” she says, like she’s not rewriting my entire day with just three words.
I step closer. I hate that I had to leave her like that this afternoon. She couldn’t stop crying no matter how many times I reassured her we were fine. That we’d talk about this, and that we were not over.
And though I haven’t had time to think about any of it, seeing her feels good. Understanding her better feels great. I can see the parts of her personality she shares with her sister—her determination, her confidence, her insecurities.
I just wish she’d told me sooner.
“And I wanted to see how tonight went.”
I press my tongue against my molars. “It was...a lot, honestly. I’m wiped, but I think I did a pretty decent job.”
“I’m sure you did more than that.”
Her body presses against mine. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her, my nose sinking into her hair. The scent of her shampoo—fresh, a little sweet—makes my exhaustion recede, even if just for a moment.
“Are we okay?” she asks against my chest. “I didn’t break you?”
“No.” Closing my eyes, I breathe in her smell. “I’m right here.”
When she looks up at me, she seems far more relaxed.
“But we do need to talk, Charlotte, so here’s what we’re going to do.” She steps back with a nervous glance. “We’ll have a conversation, and it might even turn into an argument. What we’re not going to do is raise our voices at each other, say hurtful things, or?—”
“I’m sorry, Aaron. I’m—I’m the worst.”
“I’m not talking about you, baby.” I cup her cheek, wishing I could stop the tears already forming in her eyes. “I need you to know that sometimes we’ll fight. Sometimes, we’ll fuck up. But we’re not walking out of here alone, all right? We’ll go home together. I need you to know that.”
“Promise?”
“I swear.”
When she nods, I offer her a light smile. “I think I know why you didn’t tell me about Amelie.”
“I was afraid you’d end things.” She swallows. “Which now I know won’t happen.”
“No, it won’t.” I inhale, thinking about the hundreds of questions I have. “Have you ever met her? Amelie?”
“Never.”
Okay. “And . . . what do you expect will happen when you do?”
She gives me a once over. “Are you worried she’ll break my heart?”
“No, absolutely not. Amelie’s?—”
“Amelie and Beatrice talk on the phone, you know that?” she interrupts. “Maybe...once a month.” She turns her attention to the countertop, her fingers pressing into the metal. “Beatrice never told me about it. I only found out last year because I overheard them.”
I nod, my hatred for this woman growing with every single word out of Charlotte’s mouth.
“I confronted her about it, and you know what she said?” Charlotte’s voice is light, like she’s telling me about the weather. “She said she didn’t want me to be upset about Amelie not wanting to get to know me.”
I have no idea how to respond to that. It’s a lie—it has to be. I know Amelie. I know her heart. If she was aware she had a sister, she would demand to know her. She’s starved for family the same way Charlotte is starved for love.
I try to find the right way to approach this, to soften the jagged edges of this conversation without undervaluing the weight of it.
“What?” She fidgets with a dish towel. “Just say it, Aaron.”
Fucking emotions playing out on my fucking face.
“Have you ever considered that your mom could be lying?”
Her nose scrunches, and I can see the immediate instinct to dismiss the idea. But she doesn’t. Instead, she hesitates. And that hesitation tells me everything.
“Lying?” she repeats.
“About Amelie not wanting to know you. About her even knowing you exist.”
She scoffs, shaking her head. “No, I haven’t considered it. And I don’t want to consider it now.”
Though she doesn’t say it outright, the problem isn’t that she doesn’t believe her mom would do this. It’s that she doesn’t want to let herself hope. She’s afraid of getting hurt.
But she has me to rely on now.
“Well, I invite you to think of it this way.” I step closer, tucking a lock of her smooth hair behind her ear. “You know me. Do you think I could ever call someone like that my best friend?”
She studies me, searching my face for something. Maybe hope. “I guess you have a point.”
“I do,” I insist. “Amelie’s a wonderful person, and she?—”
Charlotte cups my mouth. “But I’d rather not count on it, if you know what I mean.”
I nod and she releases me, looking around the kitchen.
“She needs to know, Charlotte. I need to tell her about this. I know you’re afraid and you don’t want me to, but I have to .
” Forget about how unprofessional what I’ve done is.
Knowing Charlotte is Amelie’s sister brings this situation to a whole new level of messy.
If she finds out about this before I tell her, she’ll be destroyed.
I interject once she opens her mouth. “It’s non-negotiable. But we’re still not walking out of here alone.”
Charlotte’s frown turns into a half smile, which is more than what I’d hoped for. “I understand.”
That’s it? “So . . . you’re okay with me talking to her about us? And about . . . you?”
“Are you ready for what will happen once you do?”
“Yes, Charlotte. I told you, I’ll face whatever consequences?—”
“You know what’s worse than falling short on your friend’s expectations?” I shake my head, and she steps closer. “Her falling short on yours.” She takes my hand in hers. “Are you sure you’re ready for that possibility?”
I’d be ready to bet my left ball on this. Amelie does not know. “I’m sure.”
After a long moment, she sets her eyes on me. “Okay. I’m in.”
I stare at her, searching for any trace of hesitation, any sign that she’s saying what she thinks I want to hear instead of what she truly feels. But there’s none. Just Charlotte, standing in front of me, her green eyes determined, her lips curved in the smallest, most heartbreaking smile.
She’s in.
“Really?” A rush of something too big to name swells inside my chest. I know fear is still whispering in her ear that none of this is real. That the second I face Amelie and Logan, the second I feel my entire life shift beneath my feet, I’ll regret this. I’ll regret her.
I’d like to reassure her, but she’s heard too many lies to believe me. I’ll just have to prove it to her instead.
She giggles. “Yes, really. I might have been playing with your job, but I’m not playing with this,” she says as she taps her finger on my chest.
“Good to know.” Her lips mold against mine like they belong there, and tapping her chest back, I say, “I’m not playing with this either.”
Another kiss. This time, a little longer. Her tongue just barely skims my bottom lip, and part of the stress inside me melts like sugar over heat. “I think I like fighting with you.”
“Oh, yeah.” My lips ghost over hers. “We should fight all the time.”
Her hands move lower, skimming down my chest, my stomach, until she finds the hard length straining against my jeans.
“Hmm...” I pull back, my breath uneven. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” When she presses her palm against me, I nearly lose my grip on sanity.
I chuckle, though it’s more of a groan, and wrap my fingers around her wrist. “Something really unhygienic, and in my case, unprofessional.”
“I think that ship sailed a while back, sailor.”
Yes, but Amelie’s kitchen? This place is sacred.
Yet as Charlotte’s fingers twitch under my grip, memories of the last time she touched me slam into my mind, and suddenly, every reason I have for resisting seems insignificant in comparison.
“You’ll get me in trouble, Charlotte,” I warn. “And there isn’t a closet to stick me into here.”
“The only place I want to stick you into is myself.”
Oh, boy. Does she mean what I think? That she wants to break her third rule? Sleep together?
She traces the shape of my jaw with her finger, her gaze meeting mine. “Rules are for suckers anyway, right?”
Yeah, I’m fucked.
“Charlotte,” I plead, my hands gripping her hips as I attempt to step back, but she follows, pressing herself against me. “We can’t. Not here .”
“Dinner is over and there’s no one besides us.”
“But there are cameras?—”