Chapter 12 #2
Her steps falter. “But not enough that he won’t throw money at us?”
“Precisely.”
The restaurant buzzes with trendy couples and affluent families.
My vision adjusts to the dim, romantic lighting while relaxed electronic beats pump in the background.
Despite the bustle, the atmosphere remains calm.
With the ample space between tables and gold accents shimmering against gray concrete furniture, I immediately know Daisy’s instincts were spot-on.
This is the type of establishment any of my art acquaintances would love, so we’re in the right place.
The host asks Daisy if we can meet Mr. Chef in the kitchen, since the night ended up unexpectedly busy.
The request seems odd to me, but Daisy leads me to the back of the house like she knows the way by heart.
I follow her, mesmerized by the moth tattoo on her back.
Its wings flex with her every movement, and below it, the slinky material of the dress waterfalls down her backside.
Walking through the swinging doors pulls me out of my trance. A gust of warmth knocks into me as I take in the frantic scene. Pans sizzle, someone shouts a string of numbers, and plates clink against a stainless-steel work surface.
To prepare for tonight, I spent the day researching everything I could about Alex—every news piece, blog, and social media post. He’s held positions in restaurants since he legally could, studied in France, and worked his way up from a line cook here in Southern California.
The guy’s talented—now with five restaurants in the region.
A tinge of jealousy strikes when I consider my recent career setbacks.
He seems to have it so much more together.
I recognize Alex from a photo. He uses tweezers to situate some greens on top of a scoop of ice cream with the precision of an open-heart surgeon.
Once the wiry herb has found its rightful place, Alex’s eyes shoot right to Daisy.
“My Daisy Flower,” he says, grinning as if it’s the cleverest nickname in the world.
Alex marches toward Daisy and wraps her in a bear hug. “Missed you. Guess this was worth the drive, huh?”
Her mouth falls open in shock.
“Aw, I’m only teasing you.” He play-pushes her shoulder. “Bad joke. And you,” he says, turning to me. “You’re Max.”
“Nice to—” I hold out my hand, which he crushes with a tight embrace.
“Pleasure’s mine, my man. Daisy told me all about you.”
“Oh?” I manage, peering over at her. “Like what?”
“Everything. And can I say, it’s an honor.”
He releases his grip, and I would love to ask him what everything means—and why Daisy never told me anything about him.
“Chef,” a young woman approaches, a bowl of soup in one hand, a small tasting spoon in the other. “I think I added too much salt.”
Alex transforms into Gordon Ramsay in an instant. He dips the utensil into the yellow liquid, tries it, and smacks his lips. The woman observes him, her hands clenched as she awaits his response.
“A little,” he says. “Vinegar, a fourth of a teaspoon at a time.” He turns back to us. “Sorry about tonight. I got some outstanding produce at the farmers’ market this morning, so I wanted to push out some new seasonal dishes.”
“It’s fine,” Daisy says, smiling too big. “Did you, uh, read over our email?”
“Yeah, a museum. Great idea.”
Daisy tips her chin at me. “It was all Max.”
“Genius.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it like a lemon. I wish I could wriggle out of his grip. “Unfortunately, we can’t do any more donations this quarter.”
Daisy’s shoulders sink, and I curb my disappointment. We came out this way, and Daisy’s gotten all stressed, only for him to turn us down in two minutes flat.
“Chef.” A different, equally frazzled member of the kitchen staff approaches Alex. “We’re low on the special. Should we hold it in case the level three reservation at eight wants it?”
“Hold it,” he says with a curt nod.
“Hold the peach and burrata,” they announce to the room.
“We’ll get out of your hair,” I say, grabbing Daisy by the elbow.
“No, I love the idea.” He grabs both our shoulders so we’re huddled up like teammates. “We can’t make a donation, but what about hosting a fundraiser?”
“That’s…” Daisy pauses, and I half shrug, half nod, mostly because I’m an idiot for not having suggested that.
“We’d host,” Alex says, “provide food, drinks. You could run a silent auction. We did that last week for the local library.”
“Would that work?” Daisy looks at me, her gaze steady and trusting. My chest expands, knowing how much she values my input and experience, and I don’t want to let her down.
And damn it, a fundraiser is a brilliant idea. I’d been so focused on donations that I hadn’t thought of it.
“Sounds great,” I say. “It’ll be a big help.”
“Chef,” says yet another kitchen worker.
“Gimme a sec,” Alex replies, his finger in the air. “So,” he says to us, “our calendar’s full until mid-August, but we have a few spots right before summer ends.”
“It’s close,” I admit. “But we could work with that.” For a free venue, food, and drinks, we’ll have to.
He tells me to shoot him an email, shakes my hand, and draws Daisy in for another too-long hug. When we finally get in the car, I adjust the mirrors three times and pick some music for the ride back. The single-lane highway stretches into the night as the glow of the city behind us dims.
“Let me guess,” Daisy says, slicing through the silence. “You didn’t like him.”
“I did.” My pitch climbs half an octave, and even I hear the overcompensating. I don’t know what to make of him, and I clocked how Daisy’s entire demeanor changed around him. She’s ordinarily confident and brazen, not shy.
“Everyone in the area knows him. There are very few people here who haven’t been to one of his restaurants.” She sighs and tucks a leg underneath her in the passenger seat. “And, unlike me, Alex is amazing at running a business.”
“What are you talking about?” I refuse to let her fall into a pit of self-deprecation. “You’re amazing at running a business.”
“You’re biased.”
“But I’m right.”
She shifts her weight. Despite the dark, I catch the sheen of her thighs where her dress has ridden up. I imagine running my palm along her leg and sinking my fingers into her skin with a gentle squeeze.
“My accountant would disagree.” She lets out a breathy laugh.
“How The Mirage does financially isn’t a measure of its worth, or yours.
It’s perfect.” I swallow and lighten up on my steering-wheel death grip.
Daisy doesn’t give herself enough credit.
“I’m not doubting his restaurateur genius.
He’s successful, and you were right to suggest him.
It just…I honestly don’t get how a guy like him would ever break up with you.
I don’t care how many restaurants he has or how much money he makes,” I grumble, worked up over the evening.
“He didn’t even bother to sit down and have a proper chat with us. ”
“Well, so, you and I never—I didn’t talk about relationship stuff on our calls, but Alex didn’t break up with me. I broke up with him.”
I assumed he had called things off because she’d been on edge all day, but my view of everything shifts. She wasn’t begging some douchebag who’d dumped her because she was harboring feelings—she was swallowing her pride for the sake of my crazy idea.
“That…shit, that’s awkward.”
“We were both busy. Half the time we saw each other, one or the other of us was squeezing in work, just like tonight. And the distance…the drive’s not that bad, but whenever we were together, I felt far away from him.
I told him I didn’t feel like it was worth continuing to drive forty minutes to see each other during the week. ”
“Brutal.” I catch her eyes in one of the streetlights we pass.
“Yeah,” she says, a laugh slipping out of her. “But better than you having to ask your parents, right?” She smiles as if she’s happy with her choice, and guilt weighs heavily on my chest. She didn’t go to Alex tonight for the pop-up—she went for me.
“I’ll call them tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll care, but I could—”
“What?” Confusion flashes on her face. “No. Your mom and dad…your relationship with them is fucked up. I need you to at least stick around a few months and see this through, but they’d probably drive you crazy enough to want to leave.”
“You’re saying you want me to stay?” I grin, but my heart pounds against my ribcage—because where did that question come from?
And more than that: what if she says yes?
“I don’t want you to hate it here,” she replies, not exactly answering me. “You should enjoy your time back in Harlow.”
We’re doing this until the end of summer, and then that job at Tate might open up in the fall. Daisy is just being gracious and making the next couple of months more pleasant.
“Well, thank you,” I say as I turn into the rutted driveway to the casita. “I’ll make sure to thank Alex, too. He was cool.”
She hums in agreement. “We met in a grief support group. I wasn’t exactly the most fun person for a while, and even though he’d lost his best friend, he was there for me. He’s a good guy.”
My throat tightens. I wanted to be there for her.
Daisy had mentioned her counseling and talked about her grief with me, but she said she couldn’t handle me flying out for the funeral—probably with all the people and chaos.
As much as that crushed me, at least we started talking again, even if it was only through recorded messages.
They made me feel closer to her, but I’m stupid for thinking they were enough.
She needed someone, and I should have come back sooner.
I park and stare at her over the center console, memorizing her in the moonlight.
Daisy’s pupils trace an invisible line from my cheeks to my nose and my lips—until a pair of headlights trails across the windshield, snapping us out of the moment.
She exits the car, tossing a “Good night, Max,” over her shoulder without looking back.
I whisper my own good night to her, or maybe just to myself.