by Ella Frank
“I know,” Priest said.
“Proud of yourself?”
“I am, yes. Some might say it’s just as shocking that you, the confirmed bachelor, wound up married.”
“Touché,” Logan said, and then chuckled. “Fate has it all worked out, I suppose.”
“Maybe so.”
“And as long as Robbie’s happy—”
“He is.”
Logan snorted. “Awfully confident.”
“I am.”
“Right,” Logan said, and glanced at the papers on Priest’s desk. “Then I’ll let you get back to your reading.”
“Appreciate it,” Priest said, but what he appreciated more than anything else was Logan leaving and shutting the door behind him.
When he was certain he was alone, Priest picked up the article on his desk and once again read the title. But his eyes kept coming back to: Killer of 19… Killer of 19… And his heart started to race. As sweat broke out on his brow, he crumpled the paper up into a ball and tossed it in the trash can behind him.
Fuck you, Jimmy, he thought, as he squeezed his eyes shut, more determined than ever to banish his father from his mind.
Logan was right—some people should be put down, and the monster that was Priest’s father was one of them. If he were smart, he’d go to the news and tell them what he knew and let someone else take care of it.
After all, Jimmy had never had any qualms about ending one’s life or using Priest to do it in the past. How would him being the middle man now be any different?
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Robbie unlocked the back door of The Popped Cherry and stepped inside the small foyer that connected the bar with Logan and Tate’s loft above.
He glanced up the stairs and wondered if Logan would be heading there tonight after his day at work, and couldn’t help but smile at the idea that he was about to spend the afternoon working with Logan’s significant other, while Logan was across town working with his—well, one of his, anyway. Julien was downtown at his restaurant.
Robbie hadn’t done much of anything today after he’d made sure that Julien was all right. But he had gotten in touch with his ma to see how his nonna was doing. From everything she’d told him, it sounded as though Nonna Cheryl was in high spirits but somewhat frustrated by her current condition.
That sounded just like her. She’d always been such an independent, strong-willed lady. It was one of the reasons Robbie had ended up the way he was. All that feisty Italian blood running through their family’s veins, Robbie knew, would help her hip’s recovery.
He’d also gone and done something that he was kind of—okay, really—starting to regret. He’d invited his mother and sisters to the opening of JULIEN. He wasn’t sure how exactly it had come up. But five minutes into the conversation and he’d been talking about how much he missed Nonna’s cooking, and then the words just started flying out of his mouth.
My new roommate is an amazing cook.
You might’ve heard of him, Julien Thornton? He’s famous.
He’s opening a new restaurant next month.
Would you like to come?
Kill. Me. Now, Robbie thought. On the plus side, he hadn’t blurted out the fact that he was falling head over heels for Julien—and his husband.
With a sigh, he pushed open the door to The Popped Cherry and stepped inside. He scanned the empty high tops and booths, searching out his boss, and when he didn’t immediately see him, Robbie turned in the direction of the bar.
A full-on smile hit his lips when he spotted the familiar head of curls in The Popped Cherry uniform, as Tate Morrison wrote something down on the clipboard in front of him.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Morr—I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchell,” Robbie said, as he came up to the counter opposite Tate, who had now straightened to his full height. “Oh, that’s weird. Right?”
Tate chuckled as leaned up against the bar and twirled the pen around his fingers. “It’s weird, that’s for sure. But in a good way.”
“Duh,” Robbie said, and rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s in a good way. You married Logan. How could that be bad?”
“True,” Tate said, and grinned, his teeth nice and bright against the extra-tanned complexion he was currently sporting.
He had the same olive tone that Julien had, and that suddenly got Robbie wondering if this was the same shade Julien’s skin would turn if they spent a week or two on an island.
“But let’s not tell him that. His head’s big enough as it is.”
“Don’t I know it,” Robbie said, and unbuckled his coat. “Did he tell you that I saw him the other day?” Tate was about to answer when Robbie paused in shrugging out of one of his sleeves and said, “What am I talking about? Of course he told you. But did he also tell you what a gigantic douche he was?”
Tate rubbed a hand over the dark stubble covering his chin and laughed. “He didn’t quite put it like that. But he did mention you two had an interesting chat.”
“Interesting my ass. He was a jerk.” Robbie shook his head and laid his coat over the bar top as he took a seat on one of the stools. “I’ve never seen him lose his brain quite that spectacularly.”
Tate shrugged. “Maybe you should take it as a compliment? Logan only loses his brain if he cares.”
“Yeah, well, I worked that out afterward. But wow, I thought he was going to punch Priest in the face.”
Tate crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Robbie with a look that wasn’t judgmental in any way, more curious, and before he could speak, Robbie said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I bet you don’t,” Tate said. “But before we get into that, do you want anything to drink?”
“I assume you mean something without alcohol in it?”
“Very funny.”
“Okay. A Coke? Oh, and while we’re chatting, do you think I’d be able to swap my shift next weekend? I have to go out of town for something important and I’m scheduled,” Robbie said, and kept his eye on Tate as he moved around behind the bar, grabbed a glass with ice, and filled it with one of the soda guns.
After he slid it across the counter, Robbie popped a straw in the fizzing drink and took a sip. The sweet flavor hit his tongue and he swallowed it down, and then he pushed the glass aside to look at Tate, who was now standing silently, watching him.
“Yeah, we can switch your shifts. Maybe Bianca can pick it up, or Alex. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I’m all right, but someone I know isn’t, and, uh, I want to be with them next weekend.”
Tate’s eyes narrowed on the word them, and Robbie wanted to kick himself in the ass. Way to go, Bianchi, on shoving your foot in your mouth. First asking about one person and then saying them. Ugh, I have to get better at this. But just as Robbie suspected, Tate didn’t push for details.
Robbie twirled the straw around in his glass, making the ice clink against the sides, and then let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, whatever you’re thinking, just say it. The silence is almost worse than Logan’s rant.”
Tate picked up the pen that he’d put down on the clipboard and clicked the end of it. Once. Then twice. And then he said something that had Robbie close to falling off his stool.
“I’m happy for you.”
Robbie was convinced his jaw must’ve hit the counter, because holy shit, that was the last thing he’d expected to come out of Tate’s mouth.
Like, the very last.
“Wait…what?”
“I’m happy for you,” Tate said again, and this time his lips pulled into a smug smile and he added, “I’m also happy for me. You’re finally obsessed with someone other than Logan.”
Robbie poked his tongue out and automatically flipped Tate off, making him laugh, and the booming sound reverberated off the walls as Tate’s grin lit up the room.
“Seriously, though,” Tate said, once he got himself under control, “I’m really happy for you. Everyone knew that you had it bad for Priest and Jul
ien, and while I’m not into the whole…you know…”
“Three-way?” Robbie said drolly. “Yeah, I know.”
“Right,” Tate said. “I know you aren’t bothered by it. So, I’m happy for you. It’s obvious you really care about them.”
Well, would you look at that, Robbie thought, as he sat there completely and utterly dumbstruck. Who would’ve ever thought that Tate would be the one to understand and offer a nonjudgmental point of view? Certainly not me. “Um, thanks?”
“Shocked?”
“‘Fucking floored’ is a more accurate term,” Robbie admitted. “Aren’t you going to give me a lecture about how they’re married and blah blah blah?”
“No.”
“That’s it?” Robbie said. “Just no?”
Tate shrugged and then slipped his hands into his pockets. “Do you want me to give you a lecture?”
“Hell no.”
“Then I’m not going to. Look,” Tate said as he ran a hand through his hair. “When I started dating Logan, everyone I knew had an opinion. And not very nice ones. They all tried to convince me that what I was feeling was wrong. Except for you.”
“That’s a little bit different,” Robbie pointed out, and Tate nodded.
“It is in some ways, but in others, not so much. Being gay was just as horrifying to the people I knew as an open relationship or marriage might be to others. But I soon learned that it doesn’t matter what others think. It matters what you and the person—or people, in this case—that you’re involved with think. Are you happy?”
Wow, Robbie thought, as he stared up at Tate and realized his face was starting to blur. “Yes. I’m very happy.”
“And there’s no weird jealousy? Logan said you seemed pretty adamant about that.”
Of course he did, Robbie thought, but nodded, finding it difficult to speak.
“Then I’m happy for you. Simple as that. You deserve to be happy, Robbie.”
Well, shit. There was no way Robbie was going to be able to stop the tears now, and as one escaped and fell down his cheek, he wiped it away and fanned his face. “Oh my God. You are totally making me ruin my eyeliner.”
Tate reached for one of the napkins on the bar and handed it over, and as Robbie dabbed at his cheeks, he said, “You know, it might’ve taken me a while, but I can so see why Logan loves you.”
“Gee, thanks. But for the record, I don’t tend to make him cry.”
“No,” Robbie said, shaking his head. “Not that. You’re a good man, Tate Mitchell. He told me that once.”
“Did he?”
Robbie took a sip of his drink and nodded. “The night you were training me here, he said, ‘Tate’s a good guy. The best I’ve ever met. He’s fair and honest, and if you ever fuck him over, you’ll have me to answer to.’” Tate’s eyes widened, and Robbie chuckled. “Hey, you’re right. He does lose his brain when he cares.”
“I guess he does.”
“But he’s right,” Robbie said as he hopped down off the stool. “I said the same thing to Julien just this morning. You’re one of the good ones.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you missed me,” Tate said as Robbie picked his coat up off the bar.
“Nah.” Robbie winked. “I’m just happy you gave me next weekend off.”
“Sure. But get your ass out the back and clock in. You don’t have tonight off. Logan’s going to be in later, and I want to leave a little early.”
“Fine, fine,” Robbie said, and headed in under the bar pass. “Give me five.”
“I’ll give you ten.”
“It’s good to have you back, boss,” Robbie said as he pushed through the back door and heard Tate call out behind him, “It’s good to be back.”
Chapter Eleven
CONFESSION
Keeping secrets is the only
way I’ve been able to stay free and…alive.
JULIEN PACED THE lobby of his restaurant as he waited for Gail Knight, the reporter from the Culinary Institute, to arrive. He’d been running around nonstop since he’d gotten there this morning, making sure the restaurant looked its best for the photographers he knew would accompany Gail, and as he took yet another look at his watch, he felt his blood pressure rise.
Five more minutes. Five more minutes and she’d be there, they’d do the interview, and that would be the end of that. Then everything could go back to normal. Well, as normal as things were right now.
Julien let out a deep breath, trying to center himself, and hoped like hell his usual breathing exercises would help. But as he shut his eyes and inhaled…then exhaled, he knew the likelihood that it would was slim to none.
He was struggling right now, trying to keep his shit together for what was about to happen. But that was easier said than done when your mind was elsewhere, and his most certainly was.
All day, he had been on his staff. Barking orders, complaining about everything he saw and tasted, and being more temperamental than usual, all under the guise of preparing for this afternoon’s spotlight. But he knew better, and so, he suspected, did Lise.
He was running. Or, at least, he was trying to outrun the memories that seemed to be inundating him whenever he stopped. Whenever he shut his eyes. Whenever there was a second of silence. And he knew why—he’d let her back in.
Julien swallowed around the lump in his throat and put a shaky hand up on the wall. Breathe, he told himself. In and out. Breathe…
This right here was exactly what Julien had been worried would happen when Robbie started asking questions about Jacquelyn. This crippling, soul-crushing metamorphosis that overtook his body without any fucking say from him.
He’d thought that maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time around if he opened up about her in a positive light. That if he started out with the good with Robbie, it would make things easier on them both when he got to the bad—but no. Last night was proof of that, and if he had to work himself to the bone to keep Jacquelyn’s lifeless image out of his head, then he would grind that bone to dust.
Julien checked the time again, and saw it was right on five. Gail should be there at any moment. Oui, think about that. Think about what you’re going to say to her and what questions she might ask.
This was the part he’d thought would eventually get easier when he first shot to stardom on Chef Master. The celebrity side of being on television, of winning a competition that went on to launch his career. He’d thought that the more he did interviews, the easier they would get, but non.
No matter how many he agreed to, written or televised, it never got any easier to talk about himself and yet keep silent about one of the biggest parts—his family. They were, and had always been, off-limits from the very beginning. He’d made sure of it after the first win he had on Chef Master with the infamous cheese soufflé.
That was the day he’d made sure his secrets would stay just that—a secret.
“JULIEN.”
AS HIS name registered with him, Julien looked up from the white ramekin sitting on the stainless-steel counter and stared over the heads of the other contestants to where Graham Boyd, the host of Chef Master, stood.
“If you could please bring your dish down to the front, I’d like to take a closer look at it.”
Julien’s heart skipped a beat, and then it kicked into gear and made his pulse race as he picked up the plate he’d displayed his meal on and carefully walked with it up to the front of the stage.
His workspace was third from the back, and as he walked past the one in front of him, he heard a fellow contestant—Brady Johnson—mutter something.
Julien stopped and glanced over at the blond quarterback from Crosby, Texas, who’d been nothing but a loudmouthed asshole from day one, and wanted to tell him that if he had something to say then he should speak the hell up.
But then Julien remembered why he was there, and the words a certain lawyer had said to him a couple of months ago: “Find something you love, or at least like better t
han yourself right now, and get your shit together. Once you do that, then come see me, and I’ll give you exactly what you’re asking for.” And Julien decided that Brady Johnson wasn’t worth him missing out on the sinful promise that Priest had made.
When Julien got to the front of the stage, the cameramen moved all around him and Graham, making sure they were in prime position for exactly the right shot, and Julien put his plate down on the black tablecloth and took a step back.
“Very nice, Julien,” Graham said as he reached out and turned it first to the left and then the right. “You’ve kept it simple but stylish. I’m impressed.”
“Je vous remercie,” Julien said, his French automatically slipping off his tongue, and Graham glanced up at him and smirked.
“Right, let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks.” Graham picked up a fork, but before he sank it into the fluffy top of the soufflé, he paused, all dramatic, and asked the question that would inadvertently land Julien—a quiet contender on the show so far—on the radar of everyone in America. “And who did you make your most ‘meaningful’ meal for tonight?”
As the words registered with him, Julien processed them and told himself to just lie.
Just open your mouth and lie that it’s for your mom or some other bullshit like that. But, of course, he wasn’t about making his life easier these days. In fact, he didn’t care much about his life at all.
“I’d rather not say.”
Graham raised his eyes from the golden top of what Julien knew was the best soufflé this man had ever eaten, and pinned him with a disbelieving look. “Excuse me?”
Julien clasped his hands behind his back and repeated, “I’d rather not say.”
A loud snort came from behind him where the other eighteen chefs waited, and Julien didn’t need to turn to know who it was—Brady, the attention whore.
Graham straightened and lowered his arm, the soufflé still untouched. “And what is your reasoning for that?”
Julien cleared his throat as one of the cameramen shifted to the left of him, and he knew that asshole was now zooming in.