Chapter 6
Unfortunately, not living with my parents and their escapades doesn’t mean I’m still not up at the crack of dawn.
There are too many ideas floating around in my dreams, paired with the quiet morning kitchen time I get if I go into the restaurant early, to keep me sleeping past about five a.m. But at least I’m waking up to silence and not high jinks.
Although, I’m not exactly alone. The thought of August curled up in a bed just down the hall, her lithe curves wrapped in the covers with that blond hair spilling everywhere? Yeah, doesn’t do much to lessen the hardness of my morning wood as I flop onto my back, the mattress groaning.
Walking in to her almost beating me with her curling iron was not on my bingo card for last night. After getting off a particularly grueling dinner shift with a table who requested me to jump through so many cooking hoops, I almost told the staff to ask them to leave; I was dead tired—sleeping on my feet. The only thing I wanted to do was face-plant into a pillow and not wake up until the sun rose.
So, to get an eyeful of the gorgeous woman I flirted with just hours earlier? Yeah, it threw me the fuck off. She was so adorable and understatedly sexy in her lounge clothes, not to mention she was definitely not wearing a bra. The image of the imprint of her nipples in that threadbare tee is still tattooed on my brain.
And the way those hazel eyes filled with disappointment and something else, almost like a resigned bitterness, when I told her that Alana had promised me her old house made something inside my chest flip. There is a lot more to August Percy than she shows to the world, and I think it would probably take a crowbar and some axes to get that box open.
I didn’t have time for that, nor was she staying, nor was I in any condition to discuss the arrangement going forward last night since I was basically a zombie chef who had worked way too long. Had I been a little short with her? Probably. But it wasn’t like we were friends or even know each other that well. I had no obligation to small talk or catch up, especially at midnight.
If I hadn’t gone to bed, I would have been tempted to pry away some of the concrete surrounding her thoughts, and that wouldn’t serve either of us. So, instead, I shut myself in here.
But now? Now I’m wondering if she is up too. Is she an early riser, or is she more of a night owl? Or maybe a bit of both, like myself. Does August like to eat breakfast or opt for coffee only? God, I hope she has a big appetite because anyone who doesn’t start their day with fluffy waffles or an out-of-this-world omelet is just sad to me.
Does August like to workout before the sun rises, or does she like to quietly take in the morning with the newspaper? What will she do today, and why is she here in the first place? All these thoughts run through my head now that we are in such close proximity. After finding her sleeping on Warren’s couch last night and now having her as my short-lived roommate, a curiosity about her has ignited and won’t be put out.
She’s been gone for four years and is now mysteriously back, and is staying in this house for what reason?
Not that I’ll ask her any of these or mention it to my family. As soon as we figure this little living snafu out, she’ll be out of my direct line of sight and, therefore, out of mind. I don’t have time for anything besides the restaurant, and I’m sure my family would be all too happy to remedy whatever problem brought her back here. After all, they’re always eager to jump to August’s aid, much to my annoyance. My family is much more compliant when it comes to providing any support the girl sleeping across the hall needs. When I need something? It’s like pulling teeth compared to what they’ll do for her.
My jealousy propels me from the bed, wanting to end this line of thought and get my day started.
There is only one other person I’ll allow to share my kitchen space while I’m creating and brainstorming, and she’s already at Hope Pizza when I arrive about fifteen minutes after getting out of bed.
Nonna is up to her elbows in sugar and flour, throwing dough against one of my stainless-steel worktables like the pro she is.
“Good morning.” I smack a kiss on her cheek as I pass.
“Your father didn’t like that pasta dish you put on the menu this week. Said it was too fancy for the customers.” Nonna doesn’t take even one second to sugarcoat me, per her usual bluntness.
“Well, doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m the head chef now, and it’s my menu.” My mood instantly sours.
“But your father worked for this town and restaurant for years, so you might want to listen to him. He knows what sells,” she says, not looking up as I hit the machine to brew a double espresso, which I’ll gulp back like a piping hot shot just as soon as it’s ready.
Because what sells is also how we make money. It’s how the kitchen stock is accounted for, how the market lists are curated, and how we stay even-keeled on our production and costs. To keep the restaurant in the green, we have to keep people coming in. To keep them coming in, we have to keep them eating food they love, that they’ll return to over and over again.
It’s the constant struggle I have here and what my elder relatives are always nagging me about. I’m used to working in kitchens where creativity trumps fiscal responsibility. Where waste is encouraged if it means a fabulous dish that will win awards. I come from a world where innovative menus are applauded, damn the prices and costs.
Being the head chef of my family-owned restaurant means I can’t just be that whacky, zany artist in the kitchen. I also have to weigh how the popularity of certain menu items will impact our bottom line, and I’ve never been a business or numbers guy. It pisses me off most days, especially since I’m trying to put my own spin on the next generation of Hope Pizza.
Every man in my family before me has had that shot, but it feels like my family, my father in particular, is trying to stifle mine.
“And yet, you’re just allowed to make whatever you want on whatever day of the week,” I grumble.
“Watch your tone with me, little one. I practically invented this place, and my footsteps are grooved into the floor much more than yours are,” Nonna scolds.
“Sorry.” I gulp back my espresso, the liquid burning as it goes down.
But finally, after a fitful sleep and the drama with August keeping me from truly resting, I feel a bit of energy flowing through my veins.
“You going to try that garlic tomato basil pasta again today?” Nonna eyes me from across the counter as I bring ingredients over to my station.
I nod, kind of wishing I was alone. I fucked up yesterday on the new iteration of tagliatelle I was trying to make to spice up an old dish on our menu. Nonna had been there to witness it, and one of the things that pissed me off the most was failing on a culinary level in front of anyone. I was an elite chef, one of the most up-and-coming in the country, if not the world, before returning to my roots. I should be able to make fucking pasta, and yet it had come out all lumpy and overcooked yesterday.
“Make sure to roll it out thinner,” she remarks.
“You’re awful chatty this morning.” I try to keep the bite out of my voice.
“God, you remind me of your great-grandfather so much. Your nonno was a calming presence in the kitchen, all affable and easygoing. But you? You’re all my father-in-law. Yeah, yeah, you try to play it off like you’re the carefree baby of the family, so goofy and arrogant in your chef’s coat. But I see it, my little one. That unchecked, intense determination under it all. That bite of venom you’ve got in you. Don’t let that steal your joy, Evan. My father was a wonderful man, but an angry one by the end.”
Nonna talks like she’s predicting my future when I’m just a twenty-something trying to cook my ass off because I love it. But something in her message rings true, even if I want to ignore it. That gross taste of bitterness, the tiny drip, drip, drip of frustration … someday, that’ll become a flood that drowns me or makes me snap.
Though I should address it, I all but swipe it out of my brain, focusing instead on the pasta. I slip into the zone I usually occupy when cooking, where nothing else exists. I knead, chop, add, season, laminate, cut, boil, and all the other techniques I picked up in school and during on-the-job training. I let my experiences in Italy’s Amalfi region cloud my brain of the incredible chefs I met there who put such care and precision into simple, authentic ingredients.
By the time the pasta is drying, I hear noise coming from down the hallway. Nonna and I aren’t alone anymore, and one look at the clock tells me that the rest of our family, plus some of our wait staff, is probably coming in for lunch.
Which means it’s time to confront my brother-in-law about how the hell he and Alana messed up so badly that I was faced with a braless August last night.
Not that I’m going to spill the beans that she was braless; that would probably get me in more trouble than it’s worth for hinting that I noticed.
“Warren, what the hell is going on with Alana’s place?” I rap my knuckles on the side of my brother-in-law’s office doorjamb.
His eyes are transfixed to the computer, probably with a spreadsheet pulled up on the screen. “Do you know that the branzino you ordered last month cost us half the quarter’s fish budget?”
“It was a popular dish, and we sold out of it. What’s the problem? I charged ten bucks more for that dish than I do our regular salmon one.” My voice is flippant and full of annoyance.
Not only am I tired of talking about what I’m doing wrong in the family business, but he ignored my original question.
“Well, now what are we supposed to do when Liam can’t get suppliers to come down on the price of our fish for the rest of the quarter?” Warren gripes, still not looking at me.
“I brought in extra revenue, so up the budget. That seems simple enough, even if I don’t have an accounting degree.” I roll my eyes.
Finally, my brother-in-law looks up at me. “That’s not how a business works, Evan. We stay financially solvent because we stay consistent. We predict and trend how our profits and margins are going to look for the coming months and years. That’s why Hope Pizza has been around so long.”
And I’m really fucking tired of everyone talking down to me like some idiot when I’m the one they begged to come back and take over.
Ignoring his business lesson, I press on with my roommate issue. “Why would you tell August it was okay to stay at Alana’s old place when Alana told me the exact same thing?”
Concern washes over his face. “Wait, what? Where is August?”
God, his precious August. Warren has always cared way more about her than he ever has about me, and it chaps my ass for some reason. Probably just that old jealousy again.
“I don’t know. I’m not her keeper. But I did come face-to-face with her at midnight last night while trying to go to sleep. She was unpacking at the old house, and said you told her she could stay there as long as she likes? What the hell? Alana told me the same thing yesterday.”
“That makes no sense. I talked to Alana about it and she never said a thing. Jeez, this whole newborn phase is sucking the life out of us.” He wipes a hand over his exhausted expression.
I soften a little. “I figured that’s what it was. But what are we going to do now?”
Because yeah, I could go back to my childhood home, but I don’t want to.
“Why can’t you just keep living with Mom and Dad until you get a place?” He uses my parent’s monikers like they’re his own now.
Shifting uncomfortably, I fill him in. “I keep hearing them through the walls.”
He bites out a laugh. “Oh, Jesus. Well, I guess that wouldn’t be the greatest situation.”
“It’s not a situation because I refuse to put myself in it.” I glare at him as he continues to laugh. “I thought staying at your old house would be the perfect solution until I found somewhere I actually wanted to live, but now August is there. How long is she here for? Doesn’t she have her mom’s house or something?”
Vaguely, I remember him mentioning, or maybe it was a customer, that the matriarchal Percy died a few weeks ago. I’d never even encountered August’s mother in all the time I lived in Hope Crest, and after her daughter left, I feel like no one ever made a peep about her.
Warren slices a look at me that could cut me in half. Okay, noted, no talking about August’s mother.
“That’s not an option for her either, so no. Out of the two of you, you have a bunch of places to stay and this is her only option. So you should just leave the house for her. I’m not sure how long she’ll be here, might not be that long, and then you can have it temporarily if you want …”
He’s leaving something out, and it feels like what he’s not saying will piss me off more.
“What? What is it?” I challenge him.
“Or you could just grow up and find your own place? Searching for a house or a rental is a bit of leg work, but you could do it.” Sometimes, I think Warren is the only one in this family who doesn’t cut me slack for being the baby.
Certain times, I love that. Except sometimes, I fucking loathe it.
“I just need a place to rest my head, that’s it. I’m not ready for the commitment of buying a property.” Plus, that would mean I really am staying in Hope Crest, when, in reality, I haven’t fully committed to that idea either.
Not that I’d ever voice that.
He purses his lips. “Well, I’ll have to talk to her. I don’t really know what the solution is, but I’ll talk to August. You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“You and Alana are the ones who screwed up,” I remind him as I walk out of his office.
“Be prepared for her to still want to stay there. And if you’re roommates, you better believe I’m keeping a close fucking eye on you!”
Warren curses down the hall, which is a rare occurrence in itself. But his words hit me in the back like a ton of bricks.
Being temporary roommates with August? Yeah, not really what I saw coming.
Still, a part of me is curious what that would be like.