Out from Under You

by Sophie Swift

  I toss today’s mail onto the desk in the office and collapse into the chair. The large manilla envelope on top of the pile immediately catches my attention. The return address appears to be a legal firm in New York City.

  I rip it open and pull out a stack of paper, skimming the neatly typed cover letter.

  It’s an offer to buy the restaurant. Or rather the building that houses the restaurant.

  Apparently some hotshot real estate developer in the city wants to turn this land into a high-end retail center. It’s not the first offer of this nature that I’ve received since taking over the place. But I didn’t work this hard to see my mother’s dream turn into a day spa.

  I stuff the stack back into the envelope and push it aside.

  The rest of the mail is the usual assortment of bills, credit card offers, and coupons. But my body freezes when my eyes land on the small square envelope with familiar cursive handwriting waiting at the bottom of the pile.

  Just like the seven other letters of its kind, the envelope is addressed to me, care of the restaurant. And it’s postmarked from Italy.

  The letters started coming a month after my mom left. I never told my dad or Alex that she’s been writing to me. I always felt like the knowledge would be more damaging than beneficial. Plus, I figured if my mother wanted them to be in on this bizarre one-sided communication, she would have sent the letters to the house.

  But she didn’t.

  She always sent them here. Almost as though she knew my dad and Alex would rarely ever step foot in this place after she was gone.

  There is never a return address. Just a teasing postmark from somewhere in Italy. Like she wants me to know where she is, but not with enough specificity that I could come looking for her.

  Not that I would.

  Would I?

  The letters usually consist of the same thing: A rundown of all the wild adventures she’s having with Paolo, the former La Bella Vita bartender/love of her life/Italian earthquake that left my family with a gaping fault line down the middle, followed by a short heartfelt mention of how much she misses me.

  But it always seemed as though the selfishness of the first half canceled out the sincerity of the second.

  With shaking hands, I rip open the square envelope and unfold the thin, crisp paper, holding my breath as I read:

  Mia Natalia,

  I hope this letter finds you well and that the restaurant is still thriving. Have I told you how much it means to me that you’ve kept it going? Every time I sit down in an internet café here, I can’t help but smile when I search for La Bella Vita online and see that it’s still open.

  Italy is gorgeous this time of year. Paolo has a huge family and we’ve spent the summer hopping around the country, visiting all of his relatives. Home life here is very different than in the United States. Especially the family dinners. Everything is so jovial and celebratory. It feels like Christmas dinner every night.

  My grasp of the language is improving every day. Paolo is an excellent teacher. Last night I had my first dream in Italian! That’s supposed to be a good sign.

  But of course, I do miss you girls immensely.

  I understand if you’ll never be able to come to terms with my decision to leave. Please believe me when I tell you it had nothing to do with you, or your sister, or your father. I just know that this is the life I was meant to live.

  And I hope with all my heart that one day, you’ll, too, discover the life that you were meant to live. And when you do, I have only one piece of advice for you: Take it. Seize it. Don’t wait. Most people go through their entire lives not knowing what they truly want. It’s a sadness I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  So if you do know, if you even have a hint, don’t be afraid to chase after it. Don’t be afraid to fight for it.

  The choices that lead us to happiness are never the easiest ones or the least painful.

  But it’s the happiness that comes from these tough choices that makes the pain worth bearing.

  I love you.

  Mom

  I hear the security beep of the back door and I quickly stuff the page back in the envelope and hide it, along with the contract from the lawyer, in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, next to the rest of her letters.

  Who the hell is here at this time?

  The staff are not due in for hours.

  Curiously, I glance at the food delivery schedule tacked to the bulletin board behind me. We don’t have a drop-off scheduled until tomorrow. Unless someone changed the date and forgot to tell me.

  I walk out of the office and feel the heat instantly drain from my body when I see him.

  He looks tired and weary. Like he hasn’t slept in days.

  “I thought you left on the earliest train,” I say, my voice inflectionless.

  “I did.”

  I walk over to the range, remove the large sauce pot from the hook and place it on the burner. “Then what are you doing here?”

  He drops his overnight bag on the floor, like he has every intention of staying, and clears his throat. “I thought you might need some help.”

  “I already told you,” Lia says, not even bothering to hide her annoyance. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Maybe not,” I admit, offering a conciliatory smile, “but your sauce certainly does.”

  She snorts, offended. “What do you know about my sauce?”

  “I tasted it.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up questioningly as she grabs a heavy bottle of olive oil from atop the range and unscrews the lid.

  “You had some leftovers in the fridge.”

  I watch her wilt ever so slightly. “I bring those home for my dad at night. I usually end up throwing them away.”

  “Let me guess, people are sending food back. That’s why you’re in here every day, trying to figure out what’s wrong with the sauce.”

  I put it all together on the train.

  The low sales. The printed recipe. The bland leftovers.

  I can tell by her indignant expression that I’m right. But she doesn’t respond. I watch as she removes a slip of paper from her pocket, unfolds it and presses down on the seams with her palm to make it flat. A quick glance tells me it’s another recipe. For a tomato-based pasta sauce. She traces the first line of instructions with her finger and steps past me to the dishwashing area.

  Her proximity nearly makes me dizzy, the scent of her wafting into my nostrils and lingering long after she’s already returned with a measuring cup.

  She gives me a funny look. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I swallow and step into the small alcove between the stove and the prep counter. “So, about that sauce.”

  She sighs and pours olive oil from the tin into the measuring cup. “I told you. I don’t need your help.”

  She holds the cup up to the light, eyeing the fill line with precision.

  “You can’t do it like that.”

  She scowls at me, her lips appearing distorted behind the glass. “Do you have a better way of measuring olive oil?”

  I shake my head. “I mean, you can’t cook like that. Like it’s a computer program. Cooking is an art form. Like painting. Or sculpture. Or music. You’re trying to paint by numbers.”

  She bristles. “So are you telling me Mozart never read music?”

  “Mozart used to play blindfolded.”

  My comment seems to take her off guard and her angry mask falls for a fleeting moment. I decide to take advantage of her speechlessness and step closer. She leans back a little but doesn’t move away.

  “Let’s start with this.” I pick up the recipe she’s clearly printed off of some internet cooking site, crumple it, and toss it into the nearby trash can. “You don’t need it.”

  Lia opens her mouth to object but I cut her off. “You have to cook from here.” I extend my hand and place it on her chest, immediately realizing what a terrible idea that was. My hand feels like it’s been lit on fire. The blaze soars up my
arm, electrifying my poor, twisted heart, which has already missed so many beats since she came back into my life, I’m not sure it will withstand another setback.

  Her eyes slowly fall to my hand and I feel her pulse quicken beneath her T-shirt. For a long, hesitant moment, we stand like that, both too afraid to move. Too afraid to not move. Petrified of what either choice might mean.

  Being this close to her again is making me woozy. Numb. All my thoughts seem to fizzle and evaporate into the air that’s been scented by the sweet smell of her shampoo. It takes every ounce of strength in me not to bend down and inhale her long, chestnut brown hair. Not to rake the fabric of her T-shirt into my fingernails and pull her toward me, seizing her mouth with mine.

  The ferocious battle between my cautious brain and my rebellious muscles is making me bleary with frustration.

  I gnash my teeth together, commanding myself to get a grip.

  I pull my palm away, leaving an indentation in the fabric of her shirt. An imprint. Like a reminder of everything that is still unsaid between us.

  “What I mean is,” I begin, clearing the rusty anxiety from my throat, “you have to let yourself feel what you’re doing. You have to let your senses guide you.”

  She scoffs. “And who taught you that? Martha Stewart?”

  “Actually, it was your mother.”

  She falls quiet.

  So I keep talking. “If you just follow instructions, you’re not creating anything. You’re just parroting someone else’s creation. That’s what people are tasting. That’s what people are sending back. People want food that moves them.”

  Lia presses her lips together, considering what I’ve said, and then finally, she laughs.

  Not the reaction I was hoping for.

  “You give the people of Eastbrook way too much credit. This isn’t New York City. We don’t make love to our food here.”

  I concede a small smile. Maybe I went a little overboard with that last part. “Okay. Fine. But you can’t deny the fact that people aren’t liking what they’re eating here.”

  She blows a loose strand of hair from her face and crosses her arms over her chest. I take that as an agreement.

  “And when your mom was the chef, everyone loved the food, right?”

  “I followed her recipes to the letter,” she complains, getting worked up again. “I didn’t change a thing—”

  “That’s the problem,” I insist. “You didn’t make the recipes yours. Your mom never followed them to the letter. She just used them as a guideline.”

  Lia’s eyes narrow at me. “How do you know so much about my mother’s cooking?”

  “She used to let me help sometimes. Back in high school. I learned a lot in this kitchen.”

  “I don’t understand why you even cared.” Her tone is biting. “Didn’t you end up majoring in business or something?”

  I stare at my feet. “Actually, I was originally going to go to culinary school.”

  “You were?” She’s clearly surprised by this admission.

  I nod. “I got into the Culinary Institute of America in New York. But someone talked me into going to NYU to study business instead.”

  I don’t tell her who this mystery person is, but by the way she averts her gaze, I know she already knows.

  We’ve both been living under the reign of Alex Smart for long enough to recognize a fellow subject.

  But this is not a memory I feel like reliving right now. So before Lia has a chance to comment on my confession, I push myself in front of the stove. “Here. Let me show you what I mean.”

  “Grayson,” she protests. “You’re doing it again.”

  I light the burner under the large stock pot and pour in the pre-measured olive oil. “Doing what?” I ask innocently.

  “Trying to rescue me.”

  I laugh and shake my head, trying for relaxed with a hint of condescending.

  “I told you, I’m not rescuing you.” I turn and flash her a beatific smile. “I’m rescuing your sauce.”

  Damn it.

  Watching Grayson Walker cook is just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, he owns that kitchen. My kitchen. He struts around the place as though he was born to be there. Grabbing ingredients from the walk-in like it’s his own personal supermarket, chopping vegetables like an infomercial, and ordering me around like a damn kitchen maid from Downton Abbey.

  And even though I act completely annoyed and inconvenienced every time he tells me to grab a spice from the rack, or stir the pot to keep the sauté from burning, secretly I’m fucking loving it.

  His command of this room—and me—is so totally hot.

  I never thought I’d be one of those girls who enjoyed getting bossed around by a man. But then again, maybe I’ve just never been bossed around by the right man. The way Grayson does it—always with a smirk, sometimes even a wink—it drives me insane.

  He’s so confident in here. So relaxed. He tosses ingredients into that pot without even measuring or weighing them. He floats fresh herbs under his nose and closes his long thick lashes while he inhales. When he stirs, his arm muscles flex under the sleeve of his polo shirt.

  It’s like kitchen porn.

  I don’t know what he’s like at his investment bank on a normal day, but this is clearly his element. And seeing him in it is making me want to do things to him. Bad things. Things that would definitely violate every promise I’ve made to myself in the past forty-eight hours.

  I spend half the time trying to hide how much I’m enjoying playing kitchen wench, and the other half reprimanding myself for having such dirty thoughts about the chef.

  Not to mention the time and effort I spend holding myself back from just outright tackling him. Forcing him up against the prep table, shoving my tongue in his mouth, and letting him sauté me to a crisp.

  After the stock is done, Grayson grabs the bowl full of tomatoes that I just finished peeling and brings them over to the pot. I lean against the wall, trying to look disinterested, as I watch him scoop one into his large, muscular hand. He holds it over the pot and mercilessly crushes it between his bare fingers.

  Holy fuck. Is he kidding me with that?

  The juicy pulp oozes from his hand, dripping over his knuckles and into the pot below.

  Is this normal?

  Should I be this turned on by crushed tomatoes?

  “Um,” I begin, trying to hide the quiver in my voice and ignore the tingling between my thighs. “You know we have utensils to do that?”

  Grayson flicks me a wicked glance out of the corner of his eye. “This is much more satisfying.” He beckons me over with a nod. “Come here, try it.”

  “I...” I stammer. A hundred reasons why that is a terrible idea zip around my head like flies. “That’s okay.”

  But Grayson rolls his eyes. “Just come here. You’ll like it. It feels good.”

  I know I’ll like it, I want to scream. That’s why I shouldn’t do it.

  But I find myself moving toward him anyway. Without any permission from my brain. Without any consideration for my heart. Not to mention the humming space between my legs.

  He steps back, making room for me in front of the stove. Or more accurately, between him and the stove.

  I gulp in a courageous breath and squeeze into the narrow gap. Grayson seems unconcerned with our proximity.

  Both of his arms slide around me, trapping me inside them. He places a luscious peeled tomato into my palm and closes my fingers tightly around it, squeezing my hand with his.

  I nearly let out an involuntary gasp as pulpy fruit bursts against my skin, the juices flowing between my knuckles, dripping down my wrists. His hand grips mine tighter, pinching out every last drop. Then he pries my fist open, letting the mangled, shriveled tomato fall into the pot below.

  Oh God. This was a mistake.

  This shiver prickling every inch of my skin is a mistake. This moisture between my legs and heat shooting up my arm and sweet breath on my neck are huge fucki
ng mistakes.

  Grayson made his choice.

  And that choice was Alex.

  Not me.

  He made that perfectly clear on the beach last night when he waxed all remorseful about her magic spell. The memory makes me tense with anger.

  What am I doing here with him?

  Letting him envelop me like this. Letting his lips linger close to my neck. His hands wrap around mine.

  Don’t be an idiot, Lia!

  I feel the sudden urge to bolt. To run as far away from this place as I can.

  My heart can’t take another rejection from Grayson Walker. It’s been through enough in the past eight years. It needs a fucking break.

  Before I can change my mind, I swiftly duck under his arm and sprint across the kitchen, snatching a dish towel and wiping the juice from my hand.

  “You okay?” Grayson asks, grabbing another tomato.

  Is this his idea of a sick joke? He confesses his undying love for my sister, right after his fingers were inside me and his tongue was stroking me, and then he has the nerve to show up here unannounced, acting like we’re BFFs, claiming he just wants to help me with my sauce?

  If Danika were here right now she’d tell me to get the hell out of there as fast as I can, because clearly this man is evil. Diabolical. He plays with people’s emotions. He gets a kick out of watching me swoon and flail and flounder like a lovesick teenager.

  “I’m just great,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

  Grayson squeezes the tomato, seemingly oblivious to my rage. But this one doesn’t explode into the pot below. It explodes onto his pale yellow polo shirt. He jumps back, but it’s too late. A giant splotch of red blossoms out from his stomach.

  “Damn,” he swears and before I can offer to get him anything for it—soda water, a rag, an apron—the shirt comes flying over his head and I’m staring at his muscular bare chest and beautifully defined shoulders.

  He tosses the shirt onto the floor and grabs another tomato.