Chapter 44 Oranges
Oranges
Poppy
Fable’s opening day feels like Christmas morning.
Well, if Christmas morning involved lots of running around, yelling, and frantic last-minute scrambling with purveyors.
Jack must still be feeling bad about the pop-up because he lets me into the kitchen without fuss to help with prep. There’s
no opportunity to talk alone, not with Hazel, Owen, and Herman working furiously alongside us, but I feel at peace all the
same; the work banishes the hamster-wheel of distraction my brain loves to run on. My chest swells with pride as I prep mushrooms
for the pasta filling; Jack can’t find anything to fault about my technique. He nods approvingly, hand tugging on my braid,
as he passes by on his way to the walk-in.
I wipe my hands on my apron, pass the mushrooms to Owen, then get to work on carrots.
It’s been seven days since Kiara and I got brunch. Seven days of putting the finishing touches on the restaurant, tweaking
menu items, and soaking up every second of Jack’s attention. Seven days of wondering how the hell to approach him about keeping
Fable. Every time I nearly bring it up, something else gets in the way. It’s been too easy to put it off; to promise myself
I’ll force the issue next time we’re alone.
But when we’re alone, we’re mostly in bed, and I haven’t wanted to spoil that time together, either.
Instead, I want to hear the stories—or non-stories—behind every one of Jack’s tattoos.
I want to be his willing subject as he catalogues every inch of my body, answering whatever random questions come into his head.
The future comes into our conversations again, first a trickle, then a torrent: Have I been to Sardinia?
Would I try uni from his favorite restaurant in Tokyo?
Maybe we could eat our way across France, Spain, Portugal.
It’s hitting me, how I really am learning him better and deeper than anyone I’ve ever known.
It hurts to even think about ruining that closeness.
My phone buzzes. I put down the knife I’m using, opening Julia’s text with the hand not covered in carrot juice.
Julia: Poppy!! We are SO excited for later!!
Julia: We are about to drive to the airport with Mom and Dad
Julia: Caroline can’t wait to see you
Julia: And neither can I, obviously <333
Her texts hang alone, unanswered, as I stare at them.
I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but it jangles my nerves. If I fall on my face tonight, Mom and Dad will just have
to look at Julia across the table to be reminded of their other, better daughter.
I waver so long on my reply, Jack asks me why I’m slow on the carrots.
Me: Thanks, you too <3
Our early morning passes by in a blur. Owen wants to go over the plating plan one more time.
Hazel triple-checks the appetizer menu, which Jack reworked in a frenzy two days ago.
The bar gets a restock. I freshen the dining room with flowers and go over the ordering system for the seven hundredth time.
The food prep feels endless, both mindless and requiring intense concentration.
Jack seems in command amid the laundry list of things we have to do, knowing when to delegate and when to handle something himself, but it gives me a pit in my stomach.
I don’t want to see him behind again, later.
Or maybe it’s the fact my family is on a plane, heading to what has become my safe haven.
Finally, I notice Jack step into the alleyway alone. I nearly lunge after him, heedless of how it looks to Owen.
“Need to make out that badly?” he calls.
I slam the door behind me in answer.
Jack is leaning against the building, reading something on his phone. He looks up as I approach, eyes squinted against the
sun. He’s using a plastic container as a water cup, which makes me smile; we have an entire bar stocked with glasses, after
all.
“Nervous?” he says.
“I can barely feel my fingertips.”
“Didn’t nick a nerve, I hope.”
I roll my eyes. He takes a sip of water, smiling around the rim of the container, and passes it to me.
“How is your finger?” I ask. He cut it yesterday, the knife slipping on a potato, of all things.
“I’ve tackled service through worse.” He lets his gaze trail down my body with undisguised interest. “If I can handle what
we did last night—”
“You had a lot of help,” I interrupt, knowing there are two bright spots on my cheeks. “I still don’t understand how I managed
to lose my vibrator on a houseboat.”
It had been lost for so long, I nearly forgot I brought it with me. And then Jack found it mixed up with his clothes, somehow,
and we tested it out to see if it still worked.
Repeatedly.
“I like help.” He trails his fingertips over my jaw. “Especially when it makes you scream that loudly, sweetheart.”
I catch his hand against my cheek, turning my head to press a kiss to the center of his palm. “Is that a burn?”
“Just a small one.”
I examine the angry red spot on his wrist with care. “What happened?”
“Oil splatter.”
I brush my lips against it. He breathes in once, sharply, and drags me into a proper kiss. We were just sampling the duck
dish—a poor attempt at lunch—so his lips taste like salt and plum, plus a hint of ginger. I lean into it, eyes sliding shut,
warm from the sunlight and the anchor of his arms.
“Hey,” I say softly, once our lips part. My heart jackrabbits as I meet his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”
His mouth quirks upward. “Funny. I need to talk to you, too.”
“What is it?”
“A couple guys in property development reached out to me.”
“Right,” I say slowly. “And?”
“They’re interested in buying the restaurant, and they’re willing to pay above market value so I don’t go to anyone else.”
For a second, I think he’s joking. But he doesn’t start laughing. He looks like he does when he’s offering me a bite of something
new: pleased with himself, yet a little hesitant.
“What?” I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron.
“It’s a good offer.” He jerks his fingers through his hair. “Anyone would be a fool to turn it down.”
I had planned on approaching this with tact, but fuck that. I cross my arms, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. “I don’t think
you should sell it at all. You—we—should stay.”
“You’re joking.”
“You weren’t,” I snap.
“This place isn’t mine to keep.”
“But it’s yours to sell?”
He breathes out through his nose. “I don’t belong here.”
“Do you even believe that anymore?” I told myself I wouldn’t get emotional, but I can’t help it. “Or is it just easier than
admitting this really is where you—”
“What happened to working with your father? The Winfield Group?”
“I changed my mind.” I tilt my head to the side. “See how easy that is?”
“We’re behind.” He tries to go inside, but I hold the door shut. “Poppy, come on.”
“Why are you so scared of letting yourself be happy?”
“I never said I wasn’t happy.”
“It’s pretty clear that you aren’t.”
He glares at me, eyes half-golden in the sunlight. I stare back, heart thudding. The last time we were in this alleyway, we
faced off just like this.
And sometime after that, everything changed.
I’ve let him get closer than any man has before. I’ve let myself be me, fully and utterly. I wonder if he’s meant anything
he’s whispered to me in bed since the pop-up, or if they’re just flimsy wishes.
“We can’t stay out here,” he says eventually. “We have too much to do inside. We can’t have a repeat of the pop-up.”
“Jack, come on. Sal left this place to you for a reason. Don’t throw it away just because you’re scared.” I move in, cupping
his jaw with both hands. “I want to do this with you.”
“What’s this?”
“The restaurant. All of it.” Another, deeper confession lingers in my throat, but I swallow it. Even pushing has its limits.
“Why go back to someone else’s kitchen when you can keep your own?”
Slowly, he removes my hands from his face. “I left before the adoption hearing.”
“What adoption hearing?”
“Sal wanted to adopt me. As an adult, I mean. I was eighteen, but after three years of fostering . . .”
“I didn’t know that.”
He laughs once, shortly. “Yeah, well. He wanted me to stay in Florida for culinary school, too. And come back to the restaurant
when I graduated.”
“To run it with him?”
“I didn’t trust it. I didn’t want to stay here.” His voice cracks. “We got into it so bad, he called me a coward. And I told him I never asked him to be my fucking dad. The end. I packed up my shit and left the next day, after he took Ki to a horseback riding competition in Gainesville.”
My heart sinks. That must have been the argument Kiara overheard. I’d forgotten all about it in the chaos of the pop-up.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” I say hesitantly. “We all say things we regret. I’m sure he loved—”
“Stop,” he says shortly.
“Don’t think about him, then. Think about you. Think about what this place could become.”
His body is as taut as a bowstring. When I try to hug him, he stands stiffly, neither a rejection nor encouragement.
“Please,” I whisper. I reach up, kissing his wiry cheek. “Promise me you’ll think about it. Imagine what we could do together.”
He sucks in a breath. The tightness in his body eases, just slightly, but enough that I notice. He kisses me on the lips,
hard and quick. His hand finds my braid and gives it a loving pull.
“Let’s see how tonight goes first.”