4 Men Of The House with correct Also By page

by Knight, Natalie

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 th
e 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 down 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.

  "I just had to see it for myself," he says, a smile parting his lips.

  I can't help but ball one hand into a fist. Who the fuck does he think he is?

  That arrogant bastard has the gall to come here and rub it all in my face?

  It's taking everything in me to not put my fist through his face right now.

  "See what?" I growl, taking a step closer. "Your handy work? It's unbelievable how quickly you moved. But I guess you had help, with Nicole and all. Did you two plan my restaurant's demise over cocktails? Or was it over lunch?"

  He looks at me, and there's a genuine surprise in his eyes.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he says.

  I laugh. "Oh come on—spare me the bullshit. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

  "It's true that I've never liked you," he says.

  "You've made that loud and clear."

  "And I think you're a cocky bastard, and I am glad you aren't triumphant with this place," he says. "But Nicole had nothing to do with it."

  "What?" Wait, is he telling me the truth?

  Have I misunderstood this situation? Is Nicole innocent?

  "It's true," he says, his lips still cracked in a smile. "She had nothing to do with it. I was the one who never liked you. And I've been genuine in the fact that I've never appreciated your style of cooking. You call it high-end cuisine, but I've seen it done better elsewhere. You cook without heart. It's like I can taste your cockiness through the food."

  I'm trying not to roll my eyes. I'm in no mood to get a lecture from this food critic slash asshole. Here I am, standing on the street corner, taping a closure notice to my dreams, and Percy's feeding me a line of bullshit.

  Percy continues, "Besides, your restaurant closing is well-deserved because you're an asshole for wanting to steal Nicole's grandmother's recipe."

  Those last words catch me off guard.

  "Wait, what did you just say?"

  "Oh, don't play it off like you don't know what I'm talking about," Percy says. "Even Nicole knows. She saw it with her own eyes."

  My heart leaps into my throat, and my head spins.

  The realization sinks in—so that's why Nicole has been acting so strange and is refusing to speak with me!

  I've got to act fast. I can't waste another minute.

  "Thanks, Percy," I say, patting him on the shoulder.

  He looks confused, like he wants to say something more, but shrugs it off and lets me walks away.

  I stride away from the restaurant and take out my cell phone. I have a few calls that I need to make.

  Maybe I still have time. Maybe it isn't time for me to lock my restaurant doors just yet.

  Nicole

  I'm zipping my purse and getting ready to leave when Kate shows up.

  "You have to see this," she says. She reaches into her own purse and pulls out a small envelope. She hands it to me.

  "What is it?" I say.

  "Just open it."

  Kate loves to keep me on edge sometimes, but I hate surprises.

  Still, I give in and break the seal and open the envelope.

  Inside there is a card the color of crème brûlée. The weight and texture of it in my hands tells me it was printed on high quality stationery. The paper almost feels like linen, the expensive kind. Its edges are lined in gold foil.

  The card starts with a quote and I read it out loud:

  "At one point in everyone's life, our inner fire goes out. If we are lucky, we find that fire ignited by an encounter with another human being whose flame shines as bright.

  “We should all be thankful for all the people who rekindle our inner spirit."

  That quote is followed by yet another one that reads:

  "The finest steel has had to go through the hottest fire."

  At the bottom of the quote, there's a gold-foiled image of a fire, the flames dancing at the edges of the card.

  "Who gave you this?" I say, handing the card back to her.

  "Turn it over," Kate says, refusing to take it back just yet.

  So I turn it over and read it out loud ag
ain:

  "Join us for a special evening at The Pearl on Park as we host our final dinner."

  I look up at Kate. "You have to be joking, right?"

  Why would she give me this? She knows how I feel. She knows how many pints of ice cream I've eaten my way to try and get over Palmer, and how my ass is now probably going to be wider than the state of Texas because of it.

  "I think we should go," she says.

  "Well, I was trying to leave when you showed up."

  She shakes her head. "I mean that I think we should accept the invite and go to Palmer's dinner," Kate says.

  "No way," I say, shaking my head in return. "I'm not going. There's nothing you can say to change my mind. I have to put my foot down because that would be like pouring salt into an open wound."

  "No it wouldn't, trust me," she says.

  "Remember that time you crashed a motorcycle and I met you at the emergency room and the doctors insisted they give you a shot right in the muscle of your ass—as an effective painkiller—and you resisted and tensed up so terribly that they had a hard time getting the needle in? I thought they were going to break that needle in your ass."

  "Thanks for the reminder… but what does that have to do with anything?" she asks.

  "I just mean that if I show up to Palmer's dinner, it will be like that—equally painful for me," I say.

  "Oh come on, that's a little dramatic," Kate says rolling her eyes.

  "Trust me, it's not. You've seen what a mess I've been over this."

  "You do have a point—the night I showed up to find you watching romantic comedy re-runs with wine stains all over your shirt I thought I was going to have to stage an intervention," she laughs.

  "Ha ha, very funny… go ahead and laugh now," I say with a smile, "but the next time you go through some messy break up, I'll be the one laughing."

  "You're over thinking this. Look at it this way," she says. "After what Palmer did to you, you should go there and watch him go down in flames. This isn't something you should miss. That's all I'm saying."

  Maybe she has a point.

  Palmer screwed me over, and it would be kind of satisfying to see him get what he deserves.