My mind replays all of the moments we shared this week, to see if anything was amiss. Was there something I didn't pay attention to? But the more I think about it, the more I think that all of the moments were perfect.
Like the other day—sharing one of the best steak recipes with her.
I stirred the chocolate sauce on the stove. The kitchen smelled amazing, and we were still standing there in an after-sex glow. I was shirtless, and she couldn't keep her eyes off of my body. I couldn't keep mine off of hers, either.
I mixed in heavy cream, dark chocolate, and chili pepper. To give it some kick, I said with a wink.
"And you're serving this on a steak?"
It's going to be mind blowing—just wait and see," I promised her with a smile.
"When I think of chocolate, I think of ice cream, or sundaes, or strawberries, or cake, or even truffles… but steak?" she said.
"Trust me."
"I do," she said.
The way she said that with the depth of her eyes, more than her words, made me know she meant it. And it also made me melt faster than the chocolate in that saucepan.
I continued to whisk the chocolate until it was thick and glossy like a silk robe. I added a splash more cream, and a sprig of rosemary to top it off.
"Perfect," I smiled. "Could you grab me that filet?"
She nodded, and brought me the perfectly caramelized steak.
"How did you get so good at cooking steaks?" she asked.
"That's a secret," I smiled.
She watched me as I drizzled the chocolate sauce over the fillet and carefully sliced off a piece.
"Here," I said. "Taste this."
She leaned in and carefully parted her lips. I brought the fork to her mouth, carefully placing it on her tongue with my free hand underneath it.
"Oh. My. God. That's good. Sinfully good, Palmer," she said, her face flushing—either from the heat of the chili pepper, or from me handfeeding her the amazing steak, I’m not sure.
I smiled at her reaction. "There's a hint of coffee in there too," I told her. "Can you taste it? It brings out the chocolate."
Her eyes rolled back in her head as she chewed.
"You are a culinary god," she said. "I'm dead serious."
My thoughts come back to the present.
That was one moment of many perfect moments. She called me a god. Everything was going so well.
But now? Now Nicole's colder than a freezer-burned drumstick.
I pick up my cell phone anddial her.
The phone rings and goes to voicemail.
Fuck. Now she's ignoring me.
What the fuck is going on?
I call her restaurant and Kate picks up.
"You've reached The Old Tale, how can I help you?"
"Hi, Kate—it's me, Palmer."
"What do you want?"
"I need to talk to Nicole and she isn't answering her phone," I say. "Is she there?"
There's a moment of silence.
"Please—I just need a quick word with her."
"Sorry, she isn't here," Kate says. "She left me running the restaurant today."
"Is she OK? I mean, she isn't answering her phone," I say. "She isn't returning my calls. I left countless messages, and it's driving me crazy because I have no idea what's wrong."
"Look, I'm going to be blunt with you," she says. "Nicole is through with you."
"What?" I say, unable to comprehend what she's saying.
But instead of clarifying, or saying anything further, Kate hangs up and the line goes dead.
Well, that wasn't helpful.
That gave me more questions than answers.
I look around the kitchen and pace back and forth. What is it, what is it… why is she so upset? Then I look down at my recipe notes. They're in an open notebook on the counter.
Did she see these notes when she was here?
I shake my head. No, I'm sure she didn't.
I walk over to the bar and pour myself a drink. I look across the kitchen, and then walk out into the dining room. To think—in no time, this place will be turned into God knows what. It will no longer be the culmination of all my hopes and dreams.
All of my goals will be gone down the drain.
I pour a second drink and feel my body start to relax.
At least I gave it everything I got, right? I can look myself in the mirror every morning and say I tried… and I guess that's more than most people can say.
I pour a third drink and gulp it down. Now the liquor is really starting to take effect and I feel a slow blurring of my thoughts at the edges of my mind. My body is completely relaxed at this point, and my mind doesn't have a filter.
With Nicole deserting me… and the restaurant closing… what do I have left in New York City?
Maybe it's best if I leave this place… this city… completely.
As soon as this thought enters my mind, it takes hold and solidifies itself as a real solution. It feels like the right thing to do.
Yes, I should leave.
There's nothing left for me here.
Nicole
I'm home wearing my favorite stretchy pants, a pint of chocolate ice cream in one hand, and an entire bottle of red wine in the other. And I've already eaten my way through half the pint of ice cream, and this bottle is my second of the night.
Don't judge.
Desperate times calls for… some indulgences.
I'm almost through that second bottle of wine, and I'm lying on the couch watching an old romantic comedy. It's called "When Harry Met Sally" and it's one of my favorites.
It doesn't matter how awful of a day I've had; when that movie comes on TV, I'm captivated and my mood is transformed. Literally, there is always at least one scene that will have me laughing.
Like when Meg Ryan's character, who plays Sally, does the famous fake orgasm scene in Katz Delicatessen. She just keeps telling Harry that all women fake orgasms and he can't believe that. He says no way, that can't be true, because he's been with countless women and they've all had orgasms.
But Sally just kind of smiles and insists he's wrong and that what he's saying is a typical guy thing to say, you know?
They go back and forth like this until Sally sort of puts her foot down and proves it to him by having a fake orgasm right there in the deli. In front of the other diners, the waitresses, everything.
I always get a kick out of that because she doesn't seem embarrassed... she just launches right in. And she does it so well and is so convincing that when a waitress walks by she famously says, "I'll have what she's having." And of course she totally wins Harry over… together with the rest of us.
It's a great scene. And you know why? Because it's an honest scene.
I know someone who could stand to learn a lot about honesty: Palmer.
I take another swig from the wine bottle and lie back down on the couch. My body is warm and loose, and I have the distinct underwater feeling that I get when I've had too much to drink.
I watch as Harry's character finally says, "I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."
That line always gets me.
I don't know if it's the excessive wine, or my hormones, or both, but now I'm crying. Literally crying.
I can't help it. I'm even sniffling a little. I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down low and use it to wipe my eyes.
I feel stupid for crying, but it's uncontrollable.
The movie poses the problem—does sex mess everything up? Like can a man and a woman be friends without letting sex get in the way of things?
I sigh. What if I never slept with Palmer?
How would things be different, if at all?
Why couldn't I have just kept things professional?
Instead, I let down my guard. I was so stupid. I made myself vulnerable.
I was too available… even getting out of bed to see
him in the middle of the night, and look what happened? What the hell was I thinking that night?
I was used. Plain and simple.
And the worst thing about it is that I was blind to it all. I didn't even recognize what was happening.
Just then, I hear a knock on the door. My head feels like it weighs a ton and is lodged in a fish bowl, but when I open the door, I play it off like I haven't been drinking a thing. But the person at the door is Kate, and she's not buying it. She knows me too well.
"Uh, oh… how many bottles of red have you had tonight?" she says in a mocking tone.
"None," I lie, and then backpedal. "Ok, well… maybe one."
Kate looks around my living room and spies both bottles.
"You mean two?"
"OK, fine, so sue me… I've had two, but I've also had a rough week so cut me some slack," I say.
Kate laughs. "Not this movie again," she says, looking over my shoulder and directly at the TV. “This must be the millionth time you've seen it, right?”
"Not a million," I laugh. "But OK … maybe nine hundred and ninety nine thousand."
"Sounds about right."
"Did everything go OK at the restaurant today?" I ask.
"Went great," she says, "But I did get a phone call?"
"A phone call?"
"Palmer called looking for you," she says. "He sounded pretty desperate."
Hearing his name makes me cry all over again. I try to hide it by looking away. I don't want Kate to see me like this, but nothing gets past Kate.
"Come here, babe," she says, putting one arm around me. "It's OK. Everything's gonna be fine."
"I'm so stupid," I mumble into her shoulder. "So, so stupid."
"Don't say that," she says, brushing the hair away from my face with her fingers. "You're one of the smartest people I know. I wish I had a quarter of your drive and determination."
"But look at me," I sob. "I'm a mess. I feel for a man who was the enemy, and he used me. I honestly believed me had something special. I believed we were falling for each other."
"Look at me," Kate says, pulling my face close to hers. "Forget about Palmer. There are plenty of fish in the sea."
Palmer
“You were telling the truth,” the blonde girl cries out, her jaw hanging open as she takes in the luxurious dining area of The Pearl on Park. “You really are Palmer!”
“That’s right,” I tell her casually, taking off my jacket and throwing it over one of the empty tables. I knock down a vase of flowers, but I couldn’t care less; this ship is already going down, so what do some flowers matter?
As far as I’m concerned, the whole place could go down in flames.
Hell, I might even be the one setting a match to it.
“Where are you going, Palmer?” The girl asks me, closing the distance between me and trying to kiss me. I guess now that she believes I’m Palmer, the oh-so-fucking-famous-chef, that she won’t grow tired of using my name.
I sidestep her fast, and then make my way toward the bar. I step inside the service area, and then grab a bottle of a 35-year-old Yamazaki whiskey. The whole bottle costs more than thirty thousand dollars, but I don’t give a shit; I need a fucking drink right now.
Well, I need another drink.
I’ve spent the whole night trying to drown myself in beer and cheap liquor, trying to forget all about The Pearl on Park, Nicole, and what must be my impending death sentence.
A failing restaurant, a girl on the run, and a fucking brain tumor—yeah, my life’s perfect right now. Even Pollock’s paintings aren’t as messy as my life has become.
“Oh, I don’t like whiskey,” the girl tells me, and I instantly regret bringing her here. What the hell was I thinking? Sure, she looked fine from a distance—firm breasts, curves that seemed like a perfect fit for my hands, and a smile easy enough for me to know she’d be down for some fun.
But that’s not all there is to a woman. Not after Nicole.
“Can you fix me a Sex on the Beach?” she asks me, looking at me as if she expected me to put down my bottle of whisky and get started on her fucking cocktail.
“Here,” I mutter, grabbing a beer from under the counter and slamming it down in front of her. I do it so fast that foam starts rising up the neck of the bottle, and she jumps back from the counter to avoid spilling some on her dress.
“I didn’t ask for a beer,” she continues, her tone of voice now telling me she’s getting slightly annoyed at me. Not annoyed enough to leave, it seems.
“Well, that’s what you’re getting tonight.”
Without even looking back at her, I start pouring the Yamazaki into a glass, watching as the amber liquid splashes on top of two ice cubes. I let it flow from the bottle onto the glass until I’m sure there’s almost five thousand dollars of whisky on top of the ice, and only then do I put the cap back on the bottle.
“It’s true what they say about you,” she says, leaning against the counter in such a way that I can see nothing but her cleavage.
“And what’s that?”
“You really are an asshole,” she replies, giggling as if she had just told me the funniest joke in the universe.
“A rich asshole, mind you,” I shrug, waving my free hand at the empty restaurant. “I guess being rich balances out all the rest, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe it does,” she laughs, going around the counter and biting down on her bottom lip.
“Amanda, I -”
“My name’s not Amanda,” she tells me, taking one more step toward me.
“Listen, Anna.”
“It’s not Anna either,” she continues, placing one hand on my chest and allowing it to slide down to my belt.
“Look, whatever the fuck your name is, I’m not interested,” I find myself saying.
And, fuck, I can’t believe I’ve said it. This is a first for me. She was about go down on her knees and here I am, refusing a pretty woman’s lips just because I’m feeling down.
“Then why did you bring me here?” she snaps at me.
“I have no fucking idea.”
I’m guessing she didn’t like my honesty, pursing her lips, she steals the glass of whisky from my hands and throws its content at my face.
I stand frozen in place as five-thousand dollars worth of whiskey drips down my hair and face, and then I watch her snatch her purse from the counter and storm out of the restaurant, slamming the door behind her.
Good fucking riddance.
Alone again, I turn my attention back to the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter.
“Hey, ol’ friend,” I whisper to the bottle as I pour some more inside my now empty glass. “Now that we kicked out Amanda—or whatever the fuck her name was—I guess we can enjoy each other’s company, huh?”
Without even blinking, I throw my head back and down the whisky in one single gulp. Then, as the fire goes down my throat, lightning seems to take over my mind. The memories come fast, and they come hard.
Cooking with Nicole in here.
Having her cook for me at her apartment.
Having lunch with her family.
Her curves, the warmth of her skin.
Her smile.
What the fuck am I doing here, talking to a bottle of a whisky like an alcoholic jackass?
I love her.
If there’s one thing I’m sure of in my life—however long it may be—is that I fucking love Nicole.
Leaving the bottle forgotten on the counter, I grab my jacket from the table and put it on. Then, I grab my helmet and put it on as I race out of the restaurant, my heart beating at a thousand miles per hour.
I can’t even think straight as I hop on my bike and make my way toward her apartment, hell-bent on kicking down her door and taking her into my arms, the one place where she belongs.
Forget about money, fame, and restaurants.
Nicole’s the only thing I care about.
I park my bike just around the block, and I’m about to make my way d
own the street as I see a cab stop in front of her apartment building. I stare at it through the visor of my tinted helmet, and I feel my heart shrinking inside my chest as I recognize the guy getting out the cab.
Percy fucking Whitman.
What is he doing in Nicole’s apartment building? I watch him enter the building, and then I just sit there on my bike, my pulse quickening. I see dark spots taking over the corner of my eyes, and I grit my teeth to try and regain some focus.
Nicole knows Percy, which means she was aware of the war he was waging against me. But it doesn’t make any sense, unless... unless Nicole’s behind Percy.
Unless she wanted to see The Pearl on Park close its doors for good.
Palmer
"Where would you like these tables placed?" a man says.
"Load them into the truck," I say. "Everything goes."
"Roger that."
I watch as every last piece of furniture, every utensil, every steel cooking tool is hauled out of the building. They're going to be auctioned off, the money used to pay back my investors.
I watch as my dream is dismantled, piece-by-piece. The Pearl on Park… a one-time dream, is now a painful reminder of my failure.
But it's over, and I'm ready to close these doors for good. I'm ready to finally let this all go and put it behind me.
I walk outside and tape an announcement to the door. It reads:
"Closure notice: The Pearl on Park is now closing its doors until further notice. We apologize for the closure. The building will be under new ownership. We thank each and every one of you for your loyal support."
I stand back and look at the notice. I could've had someone else do it, but this restaurant was my dream. If someone has to bury it, it'll be me.
It seems like the right thing to do, anyways.
"You're finally admitting defeat," a voice says.
I swing my body to see who it is, and my pulse increases. It's the last person on earth who I wanted to see.
It's Percy Whitman.
"What do you want?" I ask.
It's an unseasonably cold day in New York, and he's wearing a black coat that sits in start contract to his pale skin. He has both hands shoved into his pockets and he's rocking on his heels. The wind lifts the edges of his thin, pale hair.
The Marriage Mistake_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 153