“Close, shaving my legs.”
He chuckles. “Come over, please. I promise it will be worth taking time away from shaving your legs.”
“I don’t know . . . I really treasure that time.”
He pulls me into a hug and presses his lips to the side of my head. The rippling muscles beneath his thin shirt press against me and quicken my pulse. “It will be worth it. We’re worth it.”
And with that final dagger to the heart, I nod and agree to meet him for dinner.
Who was I kidding? My need for this man was going to win one way or another. I’m just surprised I was able to put up this much of a fight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EVE
The door flies open, and Reid heaves a sigh of relief. “Ten minutes late—way to make a guy sweat.”
Laughing, I step into his houseboat and take my shoes off right before he pulls me into his arms. “Sorry, Eric wanted to go over a few things before I took off.”
“I thought you weren’t going to show. I was about to drown my sorrows in some lobster bisque.”
I pull away and look up at him. “Lobster bisque? I thought the Lighthouse Restaurant was the only place in town allowed to make that.”
“Don’t tell anyone.” He winks. “Plus mine is better.” He moves into the kitchen, and I selfishly take in his tight backside—that perfect, denim-wrapped butt. I stare at it for a few seconds before my eyes scan upward to the narrow cut of his hips and the breadth of his shoulders, where his traps stand out, even beneath his shirt. There’s no doubt this man is one hot chef, and the way he hovers over his steaming pot as he takes a quick sip of his meal only makes him hotter.
“You really think yours is better? Those are big words, Knightly.”
“Well, I have to bring in the big guns if I’m going to win you back.”
“So your strategy is lobster bisque? You know the Lighthouse Restaurant’s is my favorite. Do you really think you can compete?”
“I do.” He reaches behind him and brings his shirt up and over his head before tossing it to the ground and facing me, topless and in all his beautiful, muscular glory.
I cross my arms over my chest and give him a slow once-over until I land on his cocky grin. “Nice try, but it’s not about who serves it; it’s about the taste.” I take a seat at the table, unfold my napkin, and set it on my lap. I pick up my spoon and look him square in the eyes. “Your muscles will not alter my opinion.”
“Damn.” He laughs. “Tough critic.”
“Don’t try to woo me with your body. Woo me with your talent.”
This time he’s the one who gives me a once-over. “Pretty sure I’ve wooed you with my talent many times.”
I give him an eye roll as he sets a bowl of soup in front of me. The smell alone is turning my stomach on, but the plating is also spectacular—not a drop of soup outside its bowl, a splash of green garnish to light up the dish, and a swirl of deep-orange sauce that blends beautifully with the creamy yellow of the bisque. This man may very well be the death of me, and this soup . . . my gravestone.
“Cheesy lobster bisque with some homemade ciabatta and honey butter.”
Seriously, the guy made his own butter.
“How on earth did you get this all done?”
“Magic, babe.” He winks. “I’m magic in the kitchen.”
He’s magic other places too, but to prevent any ego inflation, I keep my mouth shut and dip my spoon in the soup. I blow on it a few times and take my first taste.
Damn. It.
Don’t close your eyes. I know it’s good, but don’t close your eyes.
Crap. I can’t help it. My eyes close, and I savor the flavors as they bounce around my taste buds. Creamy, buttery, a hint of garlic, and all that cheese flavor. I really do think I’ve gone to heaven.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know what I’ll see across the table from me. Reid Knightly with a more-than-satisfied smile on his face, knowing very well that he just won the lobster bisque challenge. One spoonful, that’s all it took.
“I won’t gloat, don’t worry. You can open your eyes.”
Slowly, I part my eyelids to find Reid leaning back in his chair, looking as confident as I’ve ever seen him.
“You don’t have to say it—it’s written all over your face,” he adds, arm draped over the back of his chair, his sculpted chest on full display.
“You don’t have to be so arrogant about it.” I take another spoonful, because I need another spoonful. It’s so freaking good.
“Not arrogant, just pleased. And now that I won your taste buds over with my lobster bisque, I need to win back your heart. I can trust that you’re open to hearing me out?”
“This lobster bisque might have helped you a little. Proceed with your groveling.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him before he sits back up in his chair and starts eating along with me. He butters two pieces of bread and hands me one right before taking a large bite. His jaw works up and down, chewing, until he swallows, and for some reason I’m both fascinated and shamelessly turned on by his mouth. Maybe because I know exactly what that mouth can do, and it’s been far too long since I’ve experienced it.
“Groveling, huh? Do I need to get on my knees?”
“Maybe later, if you’re lucky.”
His brows rise, and that smile grows even wider—just as there’s a knock on his door.
Groaning, he says, “Brig is coming over for some bisque. I told him I’d save some as a thank-you for his help. He’s going to be annoying about us having dinner together, so just ignore him.” Raising his voice, he calls out, “Come in, dickhead.”
The door opens, and my spoon is halfway to my mouth when Eric walks onto the houseboat. He frowns, confused; his eyes first land on a shirtless Reid, and then they slide over to me. Pure rage flashes through Eric’s gaze in a matter of seconds.
Oh crap.
Reid stands from his chair and puts his hands out. “Eric, let me—”
But before Reid can explain, Eric is charging him, cocking his arm back, and landing his fist right on his eye. Reid’s body careens backward into the table, spilling lobster bisque all over the floor and chairs.
“What the fuck did I tell you?” Eric yells.
“Eric!” I scream, scared and confused at the same time. “What are you doing?”
He spins toward me, the veins in his neck popping, his fists clenching at his sides. “This doesn’t concern you, Eve, so I suggest you leave.” He turns back to Reid as he’s picking himself up, lobster bisque and butter stuck to his backside. “I told you to end it with her.”
“And I did!” Reid shouts back.
Excuse me? Eric told Reid to end things? When did he even know that Reid and I were in a relationship?
“Then what the fuck is this?” Eric gestures at our ruined dinner.
Chest puffed, eye starting to swell, Reid says, “I decided I wanted to win her back.”
“You motherfucker.” Eric charges Reid again, but I step between them, pushing my hand against Eric’s chest before he can land another blow.
“Eric, stop. What do you think you’re doing?”
“I knew it,” he seethes through his teeth. “I saw all the warning signs but chose to ignore them. The glances you would give her, the times I would walk in on you two talking, and all the guilty looks. You two have been fucking behind my back, haven’t you?”
“Have you lost your mind?” I ask as I feel Reid’s bare chest come up behind me.
“What if we have? Would it have changed anything about the restaurant? Would it have made a difference? No, because I, unlike you, know how to separate the two.”
“Fuck. You,” Eric spits. “You know, I actually came here to talk to you, to make up for all our grievances in the past. I wanted to have an honest conversation with you, to start a new chapter before we open tomorrow. But you haven’t changed since Boston. You’re just as selfish as before. Never taking the blame, just pl
acing it on others.”
“I took the blame!” Reid shouts. “I took the fucking blame for what happened. I punished myself for years, and it wasn’t until Eve that I actually started to forgive myself and try to start over. Don’t tell me I didn’t take the blame, because I wore that failure like a goddamn belt every damn day of my life.”
“And yet you’re making the same mistakes that I did.” Eric shakes his head and stalks to the front door, throwing it open. “Here’s to Knight and Port—let’s hope it doesn’t sink like Bar 79.”
With that, he storms out into the night, the door slamming behind him, leaving me alone with Reid.
Shaken, angry, and hurt, I turn toward Reid. He reaches for me, but instead of falling into his grasp, I take a step back.
“Eve—”
I hold my hand up, a cold surge of anger gripping me. “Did you break up with me because Eric told you to?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“It’s not. It’s a yes or no answer. Did you break up with me because Eric told you to?”
“Eve, listen.” He reaches for me again, but I take another step back and slide on my shoes.
“Yes or no, Reid.”
He drags his hand over his face, his frustration clear. “Just let me explain.”
“Yes. Or. No,” I grind out.
“Yes, okay.” He throws his hands out. “But there was more to the decision.”
“I don’t care if there was more. You let someone else decide your future rather than making the decision yourself. We were good, Reid, and you threw that away because what? Because Eric scared you? Brought up his past and Janelle? Wasn’t I different? Wasn’t what we had different?”
“Yes.” Desperation laces his voice. “But I was a fucking idiot, okay? I was scared and didn’t want to screw anything up again.”
“So you chose the restaurant over me instead of fighting for what we had?”
“No, I mean, it seems like that, but—”
“Forget it.” I open the front door, ready to run away, and collide with a brick wall. Glancing up, I see Brig’s startled face.
“Whoa, sorry about . . . man, what the hell happened in here? Did you have wild sex? On my lobster bisque? Dude, I don’t want your sex juices in my soup.”
“Shut the fuck up, man,” Reid snaps as I push past Brig. “Eve, wait.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Come prepared to cook your ass off.”
I leave as a confused Brig calls after me to have a good night.
I stride away, fuming. He chose Knight and Port over me—that realization cuts deeper than I ever thought possible. But even worse, he gave up on us. And my brother, getting in the way? He’d better be ready because we’re about to have a little talk.
Too bad he’s not there when I get home, leaving me to stew in my own thoughts.
What a perfect way to spend the night before our opening.
CHAPTER THIRTY
REID
This is a goddamn disaster.
At least that’s what Eric keeps saying as he stomps around the kitchen, handing out orders and practically pulling his hair out.
To say the tension is thick right now is an understatement.
I spent all last night not only texting Eve but also trying to get Eric to come back and talk things over before we opened. All I got was radio silence, though, until he showed up at Knight and Port, put on a big smile with the rest of us as we opened the doors, and then started cooking.
We’re three hours into the soft opening, and we’ve already run out of supplies for three of our dishes. The local lager from the brewery down the road is out, and we’re almost tapped out on two other microbrews. We have about six bottles of wine left, the waitstaff has fucked up three orders, and there is a line out the door that shows no sign of dissipating. To top it all off, I have one and a half eyes due to the swelling from Eric’s punch.
It’s kind of a disaster.
“Where the fuck are the eggs?” Eric whisper-shouts to the staff. “Don’t tell me we’re out of eggs.” Just as he asks, a new wave of orders comes rushing in on the printer, announcing that there’s no end in sight. I don’t think we were prepared for this level of activity, and it’s showing.
“Here,” Alex, one of the sous-chefs, says, bringing Eric a carton of eggs.
I tried telling him a few times to chill, but every time I said anything, he just got more irritated. I stopped trying to handle him an hour ago and have stuck to what I do best: cooking.
Eve has popped into the kitchen a few times, looking frantic, delivering some plates herself and helping out wherever she can, even at the bar, but she hasn’t spared a glance in my direction. Last time she came in, I stared for far too long and burned one of the baked bean sandwiches.
My head is not in it tonight, and it’s one of the reasons I keep making mistakes, those little mistakes that add up to a subpar experience, like at the Lighthouse Restaurant. Missed salt here, bread on the grill for a little too long, caramel sauce not quite buttery enough. I’m producing, but it’s not food I’m particularly proud of, and I know why: my entire world has been tilted on its axis.
Eric isn’t talking to me.
Eve won’t look at me.
And every time my dad checks in to see how things are going, I can feel his dream slowly slip from my fingers.
“Did you hear?” Alex asks, stepping up next to me with a bundle of veggies in his arms. “Terryn Bowers, the Foodie Fangirl, and Sir Wine-a-Lot were here.”
My spatula pauses midflip at the mention of the three top food bloggers in the New England area. They were here? In Knight and Port? Eating our food?
Oh. Fuck.
I’m about to question Alex when Eric appears beside me. “What did you just say?” he asks.
“Uh . . .” Alex looks terrified. “Eve got the three best bloggers to review us for the soft opening.”
“And she didn’t fucking tell us? What did they order?”
Alex swallows hard. “I . . . I’m not sure.”
“Dude, lay off,” I say, pressing my hand to Eric’s rapidly rising and falling chest. “Alex is just the messenger.”
Eric swats my hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Before I can reply, he heads back to his grill and tends to his food, his presence like a ball of tension, while all of our new employees scramble around, trying to make sure they don’t piss off the temperamental bosses.
Fucking great.
For the first time in five hours, I let out a long, pent-up breath and lean against the wall of the kitchen.
Holy fuck. That was a shit show.
Everyone is gone, staff and patrons, Eric is over by the grill, making himself something to eat, and I’m resisting the urge to walk up behind him and return the punch he landed on me last night.
He was a prick the entire night. He made the working environment unbearable and snapped at everyone who tried to help—even snapped at my dad once. Yeah, the entire night was stressful, and I don’t think it was our best work, but it didn’t call for this level of rage.
Knowing I need to confront him, I push off the wall and start to unbutton my chef jacket. “Congratulations on being the epitome of an asshole tonight,” I say.
“Point that finger right back at yourself,” he says, his back still turned to me. “You hold the title for asshole.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Flipping the grill off, he faces me, arms crossed over his chest. “How do you think tonight went, Reid? Do you think it was a success? Because from my point of view it was a complete disaster.”
“Yeah, you made that crystal clear,” I shoot back.
“Because we were ill prepared. You fucked up so many times, burned so many dishes, that we ran out of food.” Eve chooses this moment to step into the kitchen, but that doesn’t stop Eric from shooting off, “We ran out of drinks, the waitstaff confused dishes, our ceiling fans stopped working at one point for G
od knows what reason, and we didn’t have a quick enough turnaround, which meant that the line stretched out the door and down the street. And why do you think all those things happened?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Because you two”—he gestures to me and Eve—“decided to distract each other rather than preparing for tonight. Sneaking behind my back, making me look like a goddamn fool.” He rips off his chef jacket and tosses it to the ground. “We could have been so much goddamn better than this, but you chose sex over the restaurant.”
“You’re way off base,” I say, stepping forward. “I did what you asked me to do—I broke up with Eve, and it fucking hurt—but I listened because I didn’t want to fuck up the restaurant or our friendship, if you could call it that. Despite how much it hurt, I powered through and put together this restaurant—”
“Tonight was a joke. You’re telling me you weren’t distracted? That your head was fully in Knight and Port?” He turns to Eve. “And can you tell me you did everything you could to make this night a success? If you were more on top of things, Eve, you would have told us about the bloggers, we wouldn’t have run out of food, we—”
“I put my heart and soul into this night,” she cuts in, eyes blazing. “I brought the bloggers in and didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make you nervous.”
“And this is where experience comes in,” Eric says. “If you actually had some experience in a five-star restaurant, you would know to always tell the chef who’s at the tables. Always.”
“Hold the fuck on—” I start, but Eve steps in front of me, chin up, anger pouring off of her.
“Excuse me? Are you saying that I shouldn’t have this job? That I haven’t worked my ass off to get where I am?”
“I’m not saying you haven’t worked your ass off—I know what you’ve sacrificed,” Eric replies, the edge in his voice softening slightly. “What I’m saying is, you don’t have the experience, nor do you apparently have the ability to multitask with Reid between your legs.”
And like a firecracker, I explode. In an instant, I’m on Eric, plowing into him, slamming him onto his back, and cocking my arm. I’m about to deliver one hell of a punch when my arm is restrained, and I’m yanked off Eric, my dad’s voice bellowing through the entire restaurant.
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