Chapter 10
Ten
“So what actually happened? How did you end up coming here with next to nothing?”
They had given up playing pool. Erielle wasn’t very good at it, though she looked cute as hell bending over the table, stretching out her long legs to get the right angle.
But her frustration at being unable to grasp it instantly was just making her more agitated.
So Sam bought her a beer and now he was sitting on the table, swinging his legs as she leaned against the wall, bottle cradled loosely in both hands.
For a minute, he didn’t think she’d answer him.
But then, “You don’t read the gossip columns?”
He took a swig from his bottle and just lifted his eyebrows at her.
She shifted her gaze away. “Well, as much as I hate admitting being stupid, I was stupid and put my trust in the wrong person. My trust and my cash.”
Sam let the silence stretch, waiting. “And, what? I mean, I know you had a falling out with your ex, but how did that affect your cash flow? I thought you had some successful restaurants.”
Her fingers tightened around the bottle’s neck.
She rolled it against her thigh, wiping off some of the condensation before answering.
“I had a successful restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen, but it wasn’t very big, and the waitlists were months long.
It was expensive to run, you know, because I tried to source everything as local as I could get it, so that makes it more expensive than if you buy in bulk, but I had a vision I was determined to fulfill.
Dylan convinced me to invest in a second location, so the wait times weren’t as terrible, and with the hopes that I’d be bringing in more money. ”
“But you’d also have more expenses.”
That dragged her gaze to him. Absolute misery flattened her blue eyes.
“Especially rent, because the location was in an area on the Upper East Side. He convinced me to let him take over the second location, which was larger and had a more exclusive clientele. I mean, I had important people coming to the Hell’s Kitchen location, too, but more celebrities were on the Upper East Side.
” She took a swallow of beer, then wandered back to the pool table.
Her hand drifted over the rack of balls, fingertips brushing them as if she needed something solid under her touch.
“Dylan’s a talented chef. He said he loved me, so it would seem he’d have my best interest at heart.
My success was his success, so I trusted him.
Well, to a point. I still managed the finances and the ordering, and I popped in at that location twice a week.
He got mad and accused me of checking up on him, but my name was on the place, so I should be able to go when I wanted. ”
“Damn right it was,” Sam muttered.
Her laugh was humorless. She rolled a ball forward, turned it so the number faced up, then another, until every one stared at her in neat rows.
“Then the reviews started tanking. Not terrible, but not glowing. My ego said, ‘Well, Dylan’s not me.’ He wanted to put his own spin on my recipes.
And then—suppliers started asking why I’d cut them off for the new place.
” Her hand stilled. She shoved the balls out of alignment with a rough flick, breaking her careful pattern.
“Turns out he was buying cheap, pocketing the difference. Told me he was saving for a West Coast expansion. But there was no account. Nothing I could see. When I pushed, he pushed back harder.”
Sam clenched the neck of his bottle, temper heating.
“I hired PIs. Took him to court.” She set her beer down with a hollow clink on the felt, palms flattening beside it. Her shoulders sagged. “But I couldn’t prove he stole a thing. And he was well-loved. Media darling, charming as hell. I was the control freak, trying to stifle his genius.”
“Where’s the money?” Sam’s voice came out low.
Her hands slipped from the table edge, curling into fists. “Never found it. Probably sitting pretty in an offshore account. Meanwhile I paid his legal fees and mine, and bled my own place dry. One razor-thin margin and—poof.” She snapped her fingers, sharp in the dim bar.
“I’m so sorry, Erielle.”
She didn’t respond to that, had probably heard it too many times. Or not enough times. “So this was my only option, and I’m lucky to have it. I did think there would be more money, you know, in the inheritance, but I probably don’t deserve it anyway, since I haven’t been back in a while.”
“What about your parents? They couldn’t help you out?”
She rolled her shoulders back. “I think they actually delighted in my downfall. I didn’t listen to them, didn’t choose a stable career, so I’m learning my lesson the hard way.”
No wonder she didn’t want to ask for help. She’d been raised by people who didn’t want to give it. “Some people should never be parents,” he growled.
She shot her gaze to his and, to his surprise, grinned. “That is the God’s honest truth. Anyway.” She started toward the bar. “Now you know the source of my shame. I’m sure you can find his side of the story online somewhere. He wasn’t quiet about what a bitch I was to him.”
Yup, he could see why she’d have trust issues too.
“I’m going to close up early. It doesn’t look like anyone else is coming in, and well, if they do, Louis can dock me.”
Message received. She’d said all she was going to say.
For tonight, anyway.
“Storm on the way. Should have let you lock up early.”
Sam looked up at the lightning flashing to the south of them, the wind bending the trees of the bayou, and hustled her to her car, jacket pulled up over his head, then followed her down the road to the house.
His headlights in her mirror were as steady as a promise.
The truck idled in the road until she was safely inside, then he flashed his lights in farewell and headed home.
Because she didn’t trust the power in the old place—wiring as ancient as the wallpaper—she carried a flashlight with her upstairs.
She’d never owned a home during a storm.
The thought struck her as odd as she paused halfway up, listening to the rattle of wind against the windows.
Owning meant responsibility, and responsibility meant worry.
She worried about the roof most of all—the shingles curling back, the leak that had already stained the attic ceiling.
She should go up, find a bucket, do something about it.
But the idea of entering that space alone…
her skin prickled just thinking about it.
Besides, she wasn’t even sure she had a bucket.
Truth was, she’d never really owned a home, full-stop. This didn’t feel like hers. Not yet. Changing anything felt like trespassing. Even tossing out the painting that hung by the front door felt like breaking some unspoken rule. She’d leave it another night.
She settled into her room, the flashlight beside her phone on the floor.
The air mattress wheezed beneath her weight.
Maybe, if the renters’ checks came on time, she’d finally get herself a real bed, something solid that didn’t shift every time she breathed.
For now, she scrolled her phone in the dim light, listening to the rain against the tin awning outside her window.
She delayed her usual shower. Her grandmother had always warned against bathing during a storm, said lightning could find its way through pipes and water, though Erielle never knew if it was true.
It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to be caught mid-rinse if the lights went out.
Better to wait. Better to curl up with her phone until either the storm passed or sleep claimed her.
“Erielle!”
Her grandmother’s voice jolted her awake. She shot upright, heart banging in her ribs, her ears straining against the sound of the storm.
The rain still battered the roof. The windows rattled with each gust of wind. Lightning flashed through the curtains, washing the room in flickers of white.
She hadn’t been asleep long—the storm hadn’t moved off, and the little blue glow of her phone charger still shone steadily in the outlet.
But the voice. She’d heard it. So close. So clear.
“Gigi?” Her own voice was barely a whisper.
Nothing answered.
It must have been a dream. A trick of exhaustion and nerves. Still, the hairs at the back of her neck prickled, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else had been in the room with her.
She swung her legs off the air mattress and padded barefoot across the creaking floorboards. At the window, she pulled the curtain aside. The bayou trees bent and thrashed, lightning cracked over the water, and thunder rolled like a drum. She wrapped her arms around herself.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass—pale face, wide eyes, hair tangled from sleep. And then?—
Over her shoulder, behind her—something else moved.
A shape. White. Human.
Her stomach dropped.
In the window’s reflection, the figure leaned close, and its mouth opened.
“Erielle.”