“Are you ready for this?”
“I mean, no,” I told him honestly. “I don’t even own a helmet, let alone a bike. I’m the least ready person on the planet.”
His laugh rippled through me, pulling shivers with it. “I got you a bike. And a helmet.” He eyed the messy bun that had taken me the better part of the morning to construct. “Although, you might have to change up your hairstyle. Sorry if that’s a problem.”
I shook my head. “It’s no problem.” Apparently, I was willing to do anything for this guy.
How did one recognize true love? By the female’s willingness to redo her hair.
Just kidding. This wasn’t true love. It was way too early for that!
I ignored the protests from all the different emotions and organs inside me. This wasn’t love. Not that it wouldn’t be soon. But we weren’t there yet.
Ahem.
“I’ll be right back,” I told him.
“I packed a picnic too,” he said to my back. “I know this cool spot by a lake. I thought we could take a break for lunch there.”
His suggestion had me turning around again. “You cooked?”
He shrugged, self-conscious. “Don’t get your expectations up. I just thought… I don’t know, I’m already making you go on a ride with me. I didn’t want you to go hungry.”
The puddle on the ground? Yeah, that was where I just melted.
Out loud I managed a cool, “O-okay. That sounds good.”
* * *
Two hours later, I collapsed on the blanket he’d laid out at a serene spot near the lake he’d mentioned. It was every perfect thing he’d promised it would be. This was maybe the most tranquil place I had ever been in my life. I didn’t even know it existed this close to Durham. Or on planet earth in general.
We’d been riding for a long time. Vann was a total expert on a bicycle, while I trailed behind him and tried not to crash into a tree.
I had wrongly assumed that because I could survive spin class, I could ride a bike. Through a forest. Also, there was that saying, “Like riding a bike,” which implied that once you learned how to ride a bike, you never forgot.
What a bunch of bullshit!
First of all, I didn’t ever remember bike riding being this hard. Ever. Especially not when I was a kid. And I used to ride my bike everywhere. Like all over. I was a total pro between the ages of six and thirteen.
Fast forward fifteen years and I learned the hard way how advanced brakes had gotten. Also, how sharp pedals were.
And not to be crass, but this seat wasn’t nearly as nice as the design I’d rocked in elementary. My vintage childhood banana-seat beauty was an entirely different species than what Vann had me on today.
It was like the difference between a shark and a minnow.
And I was learning the hard way how to ride a shark.
But we’d had fun. He’d pulled over a few times to show me some pretty spots in the dense forest or help me figure out things on my bike. Like the gear shifts. And how not to kill myself every time I tapped on the handlebar brakes.
And that didn’t even touch how hard of a workout this was. I was just over here huffing and puffing while he casually pulled out our lunch and spread it over the blanket.
I discreetly checked out his head and body, looking for any signs of sweat. There weren’t any. This man was officially an alien.
Oh, good Lord, I didn’t even want to know what I looked like to him. My hair had been matted down by the helmet I’d abandoned as soon as we’d stopped riding. My makeup was testing the limits of waterproof and physics and the general rules of the universe. And I was very concerned I smelled bad.
I knew what I looked like after spin class. It was amazing he hadn’t assumed I was a grizzly bear come to take his lunch.
Or did that only happen in Yogi Bear cartoons?
“This place is breathtaking,” I panted, pretending not to pant and that I wasn’t out of breath at all.
He nodded, but his attention stayed fixed on what his hands were doing. “I found it a few years ago. I come back often.”
“By yourself?” Fishing much, Dillon? I resisted the urge to slap my hand over my eyes.
He laughed at my lame attempt to get former dating information out of him. “Mostly. I find I do my best thinking here.” He nodded toward where we’d parked our bikes. “And on one of those.”
“How’d you get into cycling? Or was it something you’ve always done?”
He handed me a plate that was so healthy and organized I couldn’t help but smile.
“Don’t judge me,” he added quickly.
“For what?”
He heard the strained tone of my voice and laughed. “You chefs have a serious chip on your shoulder when it comes to eating healthy.”
“Not true!”
“Kale chips are delicious. I promise.”
“And the sandwich? Or… sandwich-like-thing?”
“It’s a chicken salad lettuce wrap. I used Greek yogurt and sriracha. I promise it’s good.”
He also had orange slices—because this was Vann after all. Oranges were obviously his favorite. And a salad with stone fruit and nuts on it.
He went to a lot of work to get this all together. I was truly impressed. “This looks amazing. Seriously.”
He smiled and I could see him visibly relax. “Uh… the cycling? I started working in a bike shop when I was in high school. The guy I worked for was obsessed with bikes. I mean, he was also this gruff asshole. But he taught me how to respect the ride and take care of my equipment. He showed me how it could be an escape. And a therapist. And a friend.”
I liked the way he talked about bikes. It was exactly how I felt about food. An escape and a therapist and a friend. It was there to take me away from my thoughts and life and the humdrum reality I’d boxed myself into. And it also listened to all my problems, let me pour into it my frustration and fear and the thousand other emotions I felt on a daily basis. And it was definitely a friend. The constant listener in my life. The always understanding, never judgmental, unconditional love I wanted so desperately.
“I get that,” I told him, real emotion lowering my tone. “You just knew you wanted to own a shop then? Like from that moment?”
He shook his head. “Not quite. I thought about college for a bit. Took some business classes and what not. But I don’t know, it just wasn’t for me. I’m not a… traditional learner. I hate school. I hate tests. I hate homework. I wanted to do something that I could see results in immediately. Opening my own business eventually became that thing. As I got more and more responsibility at the bike shop, I saw that it could be profitable if it was managed right. I decided to open something and be the successful owner I wanted to be.”
“That’s so cool.”
He smiled around a bite of his chicken salad lettuce wrap. “Cool. Also, hard. It’s been a long road to get where I am today.”
“You mean, doing well?”
“I mean, climbing out of the red.” His gaze grew distant, thoughtful. “It’s taken a minute to get where I’m at. I didn’t always know what I was doing.”
I hummed in agreement. “Being a grown-up is hard.”
He looked at me, a plate of food on his lap, completely clad in spandex, his cheeks a little red from the exertion of riding and sun and wind. He was all testosterone and chiseled masculinity. There was nothing struggling about him now. He had it all figured out.
He was all that was man.
And looking at me now, the way he was, made me feel completely, one-hundred-percent, female.
I wiggled a little at his open assessment, shoving my mouth full of kale chips and following it with a long chug of water. “I mean, there’s a lot going on,” I added, trying to pull myself out of this hole I’d unwillingly walked into. “Bills and business. And… making your own dental appointments.”
He finally smiled, erasing the building tension with that one expression. “I’ve always had to make my own
dental appointments.”
“Oh?”
Nodding, he set his plate to the side and laid down on his side, with his head propped in his hand. “Yup. My dad couldn’t remember stuff like that. He also didn’t care about any of it. I realized quickly that if I wanted good teeth, I was going to have to solve that problem myself.”
“How old were you when you made your first dental appointment?”
He thought about it for a minute and then said. “Uh, seven maybe? And I’ve been on a strict every six months schedule ever since.”
“You’re kidding.”
He smiled, flashing perfectly straight and white teeth. “I never joke about the dentist.”
I threw a kale chip at him. He caught it in his gleaming chompers. “I never had to do that kind of stuff for myself. I mean, I wasn’t always rich. I don’t want you to get that idea. When my mom wasn’t with my dad, we were super poor. Like showering in truck stop bathrooms and splitting Top Ramen for every meal. But my dad was in charge of my healthcare, so I never had to worry about braces or checkups or anything.”
“I can’t decide which childhood I’d rather have,” he murmured, a frown replacing that blinding smile. “Sounds like we both had it kind of rough.”
I laid down on my side next to him. “I think that’s how most childhoods are. You know? If your parents didn’t totally mess you up, were you even a kid?”
He laughed and I loved the way it made me feel bubbly and happy and so totally removed from those dark memories.
“Maybe it’s not always your parents though. Sometimes it’s your circumstances,” he suggested.
“And sometimes it’s other kids. What I’m saying is there isn’t a way to get out of it unscathed. The only path to adulthood is trial by fire.”
“And then it’s just more fire.”
We reclined on the blanket at the same time, as if we’d had the same thought. Our shoulders bumped into each other as we watched the clouds drift across a bright blue sky. The summer breeze cooled my skin and lifted the rogue hairs across my forehead.
I turned my head and looked at him. He did the same thing. The sky was in his eyes. “Something happened to me.” The words were out of my mouth before I’d fully decided to say them. “It’s what turned me into a runner. Or, uh, the person I am today. It made me want to run. I just… I get scared. And I run away before things can get real.”
His fingertips drifted down my forearm until he found my hand. He wove our fingers together as he searched my face.
My body had stiffened, the itch in my feet that was, even now, whispering to run.
“Is that why the night of the rehearsal dinner was not okay?”
I nodded. “It bothered me that I couldn’t remember. That I would put myself in a situation like that when I was so far gone. And then I just assumed that you were the kind of guy that would…” I shook my head, unable to even say words about Vann that would suggest he was anything but incredible. And trustworthy.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His hand squeezed mine and I knew this was a safe space. I knew he would take my confession and treat me with grace and kindness. I knew I could tell Vann anything. At this moment, I knew that. But I still couldn’t get the words out.
They had lodged themselves in my throat and calcified over time. They were fossils by now. Still real. Still damaging. Still slicing my trachea wide open. But I could not speak them.
“I find that I can’t actually say the words yet,” I whispered, finding it hard to even get that much of a confession out.
His brows drew down in a deeper frown. “I’m here for you, Dillon. Whenever you want to say them, I’m here to listen. You won’t shock me. You won’t scare me off. Whatever happened, I am here to help you carry the burden.”
I realized then that he hadn’t put all of the pieces together. And I shouldn’t have expected him to. Just because the answer was so clear to me, didn’t mean anyone else would assume it about me. But I felt hope in his promises.
He’d stayed this long. Maybe he could hear the truth and trust me like I was learning to trust him.
“Thank you,” I told him, tears wetting my eyes.
“Come here.” He pulled me into a hug right there on the blanket, in our sideways position. Our legs intertwined automatically, and we wrapped each other up in the tightest hug—spandex to spandex.
We stayed like that for an hour. Just hugging. Just feeling warmth from each other and reassurance and the promise of something yet to come.
It was the most perfect afternoon of my life.
Twenty
Reopening weekend! And it felt so good.
Bianca was officially launched with our new vibe. Molly had helped come up with a gorgeous tagline—casual French for the modern American. And we’d run a ridiculously successful internet campaign thanks to her freaking genius marketing super skills.
We’d even revamped the interior of the dining room to reflect a brighter, sunnier, more brunch-like mood. Flowers were refreshed. Dishes were replaced. I’d even convinced Ezra to go with a lighter, smaller-pronged set of silverware.
I’d reached out to Killian’s bartender friend, Will English at Craft, for some French breakfast cocktails and was super impressed with his help. This morning we were serving our version of a French 75, champagne and gin and a splash of orange juice. We’d added a toothpick with a strawberry, lime wedge, and agave syrup drizzle. We were calling it the Breakfast 75. We also had a pomegranate and champagne sparkling thingy that was perfectly refreshing. They were both delicious. I’d had ample samples this week.
Just to be sure—obviously.
We also had traditional mimosas and Bloody Marys.
Because now wasn’t the time to get snobby. We were trying to get people inside the restaurant. If they wanted tomato juice and vodka with whole strips of bacon and a cheeseburger slider on a stick, who was I to turn them down?
If they were willing to pay $17.99 a pop, more power to them.
Our final menu was something I considered a work of art. The whole kitchen staff had pitched in to make this brunch a shining star in a section of Durham that had no breakfast options.
Of course, my dreams included total and complete world domination. But I would start with this neighborhood and work my way out.
We had an eggs benedict station, that included protein and vegetarian options like smoked salmon, fried green tomatoes, and crispy, peppered pork belly. Our croque madame had been perfected with jalapeno raspberry jam, hickory smoked bacon, rich and creamy camembert and crispy kale chips—that idea I’d gotten from Vann’s picnic.
But hey, those crunchy little suckers really worked. And I loved the salty component they brought.
There were so many other mouthwatering items on the list as well. Enough that we hoped nobody would be able to decide their first time sitting down and then they’d note at least three other things they wanted to try. They’d mark this restaurant in their heads with a gold star and the memory that they wanted to come back and try x, y and z.
And maybe, if we were super lucky, they’d give us a glowing review on Yelp.
Or Google.
That was possibly wishful thinking. But after being here for months, I hoped for something other than the demise of my very short-lived career.
“Three tables so far,” Julia, one of my most reliable servers, said as she breezed into the kitchen. “But they seem excited about the menu change.”
My stomach squeezed with nerves. Three? That was hardly enough to justify the time change. “That’s good.” Because it was, I reminded myself. “We have to start somewhere. At least there are people out there.”
She nodded with a tight-lipped smile. “Good point, Chef.”
I tried not to smile at her. Clearly this girl was terrified of me. Which meant I was doing part of my job right!
My impulse was to rip off my toque, throw it on the ground and do a happy dance right on top of it. But I kept my cool.
At least for now.
“Good work out there, Jules. We can save the sign-spinning for later in the morning.” Her jaw unhinged and I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m kidding.”
She hurried from the kitchen.
“You’re in a good mood this morning,” Blaze noted while we all watched the printer, waiting for the first order to appear.
Shrugging off the giddiness that had followed me all week, I told him, “I’m excited to see how this goes. I’ve got a good feeling.”
“I do too,” he agreed. “I think this is going to change Bianca’s reputation for good.”
I beamed at his unexpected compliment and then remembered he would be giving me a final answer later today if he was going to leave Bianca or stay as sous.
He’d told me he’d get me through opening weekend before he moved on. But now it was opening weekend and my hopes that he would change his mind were slowly dwindling. He hadn’t said anything since our initial conversation.
And there had been a day he had mysteriously asked off last week. I’d tried to casually pry, but he’d been a locked box. And when I had asked the rest of the staff in his absence, they hadn’t given me any useful information.
So here we were. Hours away from his final decision. And I was a tight ball of nerves.
This was terrible planning on my part. I should have scheduled the meeting a year from now. But definitely not on the day we launched Bianca’s new menu. During our first brunch.
One day I would get my life together. Probably not any day soon. But one day.
One. Day.
“We should talk,” I blurted, unable to hold back my morbid curiosity any longer. And honestly, I was starting to question my mental sanity and if I could even make it that long. I was basically bubbling over, waiting to see how today went, waiting to see if this would work or if we’d fail before we ever really started… waiting for him to give me his answer.
Honestly, I was about three seconds away from just firing him, so I didn’t have to try to survive when he quit. Also I needed to get rid of some of this intense adrenaline. We were at critical levels.
Opposites Attract: The complete box set Page 116