by Piper Lawson
I reach a door and hold it open with a sweep of my hand. "A restaurant."
“Thank you, master of the obvious.” Monty’s gaze runs down the counter of the open kitchen, the crisp linen napkins, the way everything in the simple space is arranged with an eye to care. As if the person designing it hoped someone might notice even if most didn’t. "I usually have a deli sandwich. Fine dining is wasted on me." But he follows me to a table in the back.
The chef greets us with a warm smile, and I introduce him to Monty. "He's our jury," I explain.
"What is this?" my friend asks as the chef brings out three plates.
One is a pulled pork sandwich with exotic-looking toppings. Another something in tempura. The third is chicken kebabs threaded with bright vegetables.
"Food-truck-style recipes. To go with this." I nod toward the ice-cold bottles of Hunter’s Cross the chef hands us. "Cheers."
We clink bottles and take a long drink, but my friend’s brows are pulled together. “I’m not following.”
"Hunter’s Cross fans aren't just college kids, and they want to engage with the product.” I think of the people I watched at my mom’s party. Some of my favorite moments were when someone new tried Cross and liked it. Men in seersucker suits, women in designer dresses, it didn’t matter. It was the shared human look of surprise and pleasure. The inevitable names of friends they thought they should share it with.
“I don't just want to give them beer,” I say. “I want to thrill them. Make them feel something. This is how we do it. The ones who want to cook can cook at home. Ones who don't can grab it here. We'll be supplying Hunter’s Cross to this restaurant. Exclusive blends for an exclusive partnership."
"How much will this cost?"
"Half of what it should if we do joint advertising." I take another sip of beer. Damn, that's good.
He takes a bite of the slider, and his brows shoot up. "This pork is un-fucking-believable.” He takes another bite, chewing and swallowing. “But we’d need a business plan. With actual numbers and dollars and human resources.”
“I’ll do it for the board meeting.”
Monty blows out a breath. “Logan. Don’t fuck with me if you don’t mean it.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Stop looking constipated. It’s an offense to the chef.”
“I’m not constipated. I just don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
I take in my best friend. The guy who’s honest and hardworking and gets shit done.
I shrug, glancing at my plate and shoveling the last bite onto my fork. “Maybe I want to see something through for once.”
The chef returns before my friend can respond. "Well? What does the jury say?"
"I like it," Monty admits.
The chef lets out a hoot, celebrating with the smug delight of someone who was never in doubt. Then he claps me on the back. "Twice in one day. Look forward to seeing you tonight for your special dinner."
"Special dinner?" Monty echoes.
I finish an out-of-this-world piece of chicken and nod. "It's Rory's birthday. We're not doing the food truck menu. This will be more traditional."
Monty sinks back in his chair. "Is there a wedding I haven't heard about?"
Light-headedness hits me. "Me and Kendall? We haven't talked about it.” I turn it over in my mind. “But someday… that could be a really fucking good idea."
Now I’m picturing it. Not the wedding, because although I love a good party, I don’t care much for institutional ceremony. Though her red hair would look damn beautiful against a white dress.
I’m picturing having her around always. Getting up every morning knowing she’s mine and I’m hers.
Seeing her all weekend only cemented further how much I love having her in my life. I want to show her the world. Everywhere I’ve been, I want to experience it again with her because I know it’ll be better.
I want to see her get everything she wants, the things she’s so determined to create in her life. I want to help her check off her “Do Me” list. To cheer her on as she gets promoted at Daisy’s company, or wherever the hell she chooses to work. I want to be the one to congratulate her at the end of an amazing week, to hold her at the end of a shitty one.
“What about the kid?” Monty asks.
A smile tugs at my face. “Rory’s so passionate. You'd get a kick out of him. He just needs a little encouragement. To know someone sees him.”
“It doesn’t worry you that you’d be taking on two for one?”
I frown. “Monty. We sell shit for a living. You should know two for one is always a steal.”
He shakes his head.
At the end of the meal, I try to pay, but the chef pushes away my card. "The start of a partnership," he insists.
"Fine. But tonight I'm paying."
"Full price," he agrees.
When we’re done, I drop Monty back at his office, then return to mine.
Now, I know what all the papers are around the space. Looking at them gives me a headache, but there’s some pride in knowing they’re my fucking papers.
I’ll put in a few hours of work, then go home and get changed for the big dinner tonight. Thinking of it eases the tension in my chest a few degrees but can’t dispel it entirely.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down.
Nellie: Been thinking about the terms of our bet.
"We missed you at poker last week,” he answers in a lazy drawl when I call him.
"I was busy.”
“You’re always busy lately.” He sounds grumpy about it.
“What's with the text?” I demand as I go through my closet to pick a shirt for tonight.
"I thought about your situation, and I'm willing to offer you a deal. Private game. You win, I let you out of this bet. You lose, the terms stand.”
My hands still on a hanger. "Why would you do that?”
"Because I’ve been thinking about our friendship and decided I don’t like seeing you working so hard. Makes for dull poker games when you don’t show. Last thing we need is another Monty.”
I can see how Nellie’d think that. I’ve been available for crazy shit for the last decade, and suddenly I’ve got other stuff going on.
It’s not unprecedented for one of us to forgive a bet, but I didn’t think he’d do it on this. If he does, this solves everything.
I step out of the closet, my heart hammering. "When?"
"Tonight."
"Can't," I say automatically.
"It's a one-night-only deal, Hunter."
I turn it over. I could tell him this is an important night because of plans I put in place weeks ago, but that's not going to help. "I have somewhere to be for dinner."
"Then before dinner."
His words tempt me. If I win, I won't have to tell my grandmother about wagering her company. I can take ownership with grace and credibility. Not go out in shame.
"I'll meet you at the Charlotte in an hour."
"Lay ‘em down, Hunter."
I drop my cards on the table. "Flush."
Since I got here, I’ve had a good feeling. This is the first shining possibility of hope in the ocean of mess since I made the bet in the first place. Even Janie seems to be smiling at me.
Nellie started off down, helped in part by his drinking. I've been having a sip every hand just to keep him company, but he's further along. I've steadily eaten away at his pile of chips, and he's down to a quarter of what he had.
I can finish him off in a few more hands. All of this will be solved.
I lean in, ready to rake in my chips.
"Not so fast. Full house. Queens and eights."
The cards stare up at me. My stomach drops as I watch Nellie sweep the tokens across the board with greedy hands.
"I'm not going down so easy." He cackles. "You thought you'd do me in fast, huh? No way."
Something triggers in my brain, and I look around the windowless room. "Wait. What time is it?"
"Eight."
&n
bsp; I shoot straight up. "Fuck."
I go for my phone in the corner. It's policy that we check them at the door, part of the reason for our guys’ nights to start with.
There're two messages and a missed call from Kendall asking if I’m okay.
"I have to go," I say to Nellie.
"What about the bet?"
Shit. "I guess it fucking stands."
25
“May I refill your wine?” the waiter asks, his white shirt hovering over the linen-covered table.
I force a smile. “Sure. Thank you.”
The restaurant Logan chose is amazing, and Rory’s having a great time.
When we were seated, there wasn’t a menu on the table. I was about to ask why when the chef came over and sat down next to my son, introducing himself. Rory’s eyes were huge before the chef began offering up options the kitchen could make, not to mention when they started bringing out small plates, one after another, of things I’ve never seen or eaten.
But I can’t enjoy it because I’m worried about Logan. He was supposed to be here more than an hour ago.
He didn’t say anything today that would’ve suggested he might be late. Plus, he’s the one who organized this entire evening. He knew how much it would mean to Rory.
I can’t imagine any reason he wouldn’t be here, especially without a call or text.
Which is why on the inside, I’m a mess, picturing his sports car in a twisted wreck of metal or him unconscious in the hospital after some freak brewery accident.
Maybe I should call Monty.
It can wait until we get out of here. I don’t want to worry Rory.
I force myself to hide the concern as I talk with my son.
“Have you thought more about the talent show? I got the list of other performers. There are all kinds of acts. Magicians. Jugglers. Singers. You’re a great singer.”
“Know what’s great?” he asks, solemn-eyed.
“What?”
“This squid ink pasta. Mom, it’s black.” He takes another bite, eyes closed in ecstasy. “It’s like everything in this restaurant could be ‘Which of these things is not like the other?’” Rory chews thoughtfully. “Except I guess they’re all the same because they’re all amazing.”
I try to stay in the moment with him, because I’m thrilled he’s thrilled, but I can’t forget that the man who made it all possible isn’t here.
Our waiter keeps topping off my glass even though I’m sipping slowly.
I duck into the hallway, a watchful eye on my son while I hit Logan’s number.
No answer—for the second time. I hang up and return as the chef comes over, starting another conversation with my son about pastries and soufflé.
He cuts a look to me, concerned. “Mr. Hunter hasn’t arrived?”
“No, he hasn’t.” I force a smile. “I think we’re going to have to wrap up dinner and get the bill.”
“But mom! Dessert,” Rory chides.
I swallow. I can’t imagine what this meal is going to cost.
But his hopeful face has me nodding. “Okay.” I glance at the chef. “Maybe you could ask our waiter to bring the bill too?”
“I’ll send him over.”
The waiter appears with a crème brûlée my son digs into, inhaling delightedly as he breaks the sugary surface on top.
The man leans in. “Miss Sullivan, the check will be taken care of.”
“But Logan’s not here. I need to pay you,” I insist.
“It’s fine.” His smile makes me feel worse, not better. Especially when Rory looks up at him.
“Can we take one home for Logan?”
I don’t have the heart to say no.
We’ve finished the dessert and are getting ready to go, the takeout box containing a second dessert, when Rory looks past me. “Logan!”
I spin in my seat to face the door where Logan’s striding through the curtain.
Relief hits me in a wave, my stomach unknotting a degree at a time when I see he’s in one piece.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, regret on his face.
I rise to go to him but pull back when I smell cigars and beer.
“Happy birthday, Rory. I got something for you.” He reaches in his pocket. “And I left it at home.” His gaze lands on my dress. “You look great. Both of you.”
Rory’s wearing a button-down shirt I got him because he wanted to match Logan.
But Logan’s wearing a T-shirt and bomber jacket, which, though he can pull it off, seems casual for this place. The Logan I know likes dressing up.
“Dinner was so good, Logan!” Rory gushes. “I can’t believe you missed it.”
“Yeah. Me either.” Logan smiles, but it’s tight.
Rory goes to use the bathroom, and I turn to Logan. He closes the distance between us. “Peach…”
"Are you drunk?" Even in the strappy sandals I bought for tonight, I have to lift my chin to look him in the eye.
Logan stills. "I had one beer with Nellie.”
He was with Nellie.
“How was dinner?”
I turn it over. There are so many answers to that question and I try to settle on one.
“I didn’t expect this, Logan. Any of this.” I gesture around the restaurant. “But, I don’t understand why you arranged everything and then didn’t show up. What were you doing?”
His handsome face clouds with guilt. “We were playing poker.”
My throat works, and I rub my neck as if I can ease it.
It wasn’t life or death. Logan’s fine. He didn’t make it to dinner because he was playing a game with someone who barely qualifies as a friend.
I force myself to hold his gaze even though I want to look away. I should be grateful Rory wasn’t more disappointed that Logan was late, that he didn’t notice Logan’s smell. But my stomach turns.
I wanted to believe Logan could be the kind of man we need in our lives. The kind who’s reliable, who puts other people ahead of himself. But whatever happened tonight, I’m not sure that’s possible.
Blake used to slip into our lives when it was convenient for him, even when we were under the same roof. He still does, oblivious to the wants and needs of others.
Logan sees people. He’s so in tune with them. The fact that he’d do this to Rory, to us, makes my chest ache.
"What are we doing here, Logan?” I whisper. “You and me, I mean."
Logan’s jaw tics. "Something great. We're a good team. Rory too."
"I don't think that's a good idea." I collect my sweater and wrap it around myself, looking up when I feel Logan’s hands on my arms.
“Why not?” The urgency in his voice has me bristling.
“Logan, I know our life isn’t the easiest to slip into, but I think Rory’s incredible. And the way we live, it works for us.”
“Kendall—”
I shake my head. “The thing is, you can’t half-ass it. You can’t be on board one day and pass the next. You can’t show up with a smile and a credit card and make it all okay. There are no days off in my life. And I can’t afford to be with someone who doesn’t understand that.” I take a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t understand that.”
Blake never did, and that taught me a lot. I was hoping Logan would be different. I wanted it so desperately. I don’t think I realized how much until this moment. Until my whole body hurt with the realization that I was wrong about what we could be.
His brows knit together, a dark slash on his face in the twinkling half light of the restaurant. “I understand, and I’d do anything to show you that. But not everyone’s going to be as perfect as you are.”
My stomach drops like a stone. “I’m not perfect.”
“But you want to be. You want to be the perfect mom and the perfect professional and the perfect daughter. And you try so hard it breaks you, and it hurts me to watch.”
My chest squeezes, and I fight the urge to argue with him.
I want to
grab my son, run out of here, and bury myself in bed and cry for being so stupid. For letting myself get set up to be let down again.
For making a mistake even bigger than last time.
Logan’s gaze works over mine as his thumbs stroke my arms. “Peach, come on. I want this to work with us. All of us. But I’m human. I’m going to screw up sometimes.”
“It’s okay.”
“Yeah?” Hope enters his voice.
I nod, feeling lost. “It’s okay for you to do what you want. That’s your right.” I take a slow breath that makes my chest burn. “Logan, what we’ve had, it’s been great. But I don't think it’s a good idea to keep seeing each other after the project concludes.”
He curses. “No. No, Kendall—hey.” His expression softens, and I look over my shoulder to see Rory coming out of the bathroom. Logan bends down to his level.
“Pasta met your expectations?”
“Best ever,” my son says. “We saved you dessert.” He passes Logan the box from the table.
“Why thank you.” Logan’s smile almost looks natural, but I know he’s forcing it. That he wants to argue, but he’s putting on a face for Rory. “Nine’s going to be bomb, I promise.”
“Logan, you should come over! Mom’ll let me stay up late if you’re there.”
I feel as though my heart’s nailed to the table in front of us, and every word from Rory’s mouth, from Logan’s, drives the spikes in deeper.
Logan meets my gaze. “Rain check, Rory. I’m going to enjoy my dessert and let you guys finish your night.”
Rory says goodbye, and as we start out the door, I look back through the window to see Logan standing over the table, arms folded as he stares down at the pieces of my heart.
26
If there's one thing I'm good at, it's sleeping. When my head hits the pillow, I’m out.
But last night, I tossed and turned and got up and stared into the light of the fridge before returning to bed.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Kendall’s face.
The relief when she spotted me across the restaurant and realized I wasn’t bleeding in a ditch.