Breathe

by C. L. Matthews

  “What is it?” I eventually ask. I don’t want to know. There’s already so much on my plate. This will only worsen my mood.

  “Debra’sgone,” he says really fast, as if that’ll lessen the blow. It doesn’t. Debra’s the only chef we have at the hotel. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I have no one, and finding a stellar replacement is out of the question.

  “I-Is she okay?” The first thing that comes to mind is some horrible accident. She’s been with me for five years. It’s not like her to miss a day, let alone be gone indefinitely.

  “Oh, she’s fine. She fell in love and decided that was more important than working here. Which means we either have to shut down for a few days or you’re going to have to find a chef. Tonight.”

  How the hell am I supposed to get a trained, schooled, and professional chef on short notice?

  “Boss, did you hear me?”

  “No, what’d you say?”

  “I can call Daph. I’m sure she can find someone—”

  “No!” I practically yell. “She has too much going on. I’ll figure it out.” She’ll be dealing with Lo’s first appearance soon, so risking this kind of stress when Lo will be in charge could ruin the chances of her accepting.

  “But—”

  “I said no,” I bark. “I’ll be back in two days. I know what I need to do.”

  “But—”

  “Shut it, Erik. Calm down and trust the system.”

  “Oh-kay,” he mutters, his voice shaky.

  “The world won’t end if we are closed for a few days. Whatever happens will happen. But I have it handled.”

  I hang up before he can come up with other what-ifs that will only cause more stress than I’ve already got. Opening the email I had abandoned to answer the call, I click RSVP.

  Chapter Five

  Two Days Earlier

  Joey

  “Gray,” I nearly cry into the phone after she answers. “I-I need somewhere t-to go.” I’m not sure why I called her. Gray and I met in France two years ago when Dad married Marsha, and she was my first and only friend while I was out there. We haven’t spoken much since I came back to Hollow Ridge, and even then, it was a text here and there. The flood of tears won’t stop as they leave my eyes. My blurred vision isn’t safe while I drive over to the cove.

  The place where I met Wes is the last place I want to be. It has many memories and most are the best of my life, but one is now the worst. It’s only been a day since I caught him doing the deed. However, residing in my car in an abandoned parking lot, as sleep never took me, isn’t ideal. Since leaving, my mind has jumped all over, and I haven’t been able to concentrate since. One thing I know is that my dad won’t be happy, so I can’t call him crying. He’ll just make me feel worse and tell me, I told you so, Josey.

  “Come here!” she suggests as though we’re still in France. There’s no way my dad will help me afford a move there. Even a temporary trip is out of the question.

  “Really?” I cry. She never asks questions; she’s just inadvertently here for me. I don’t have enough saved for more than the flight, but the thought festers.

  “Of course, babe. I’m here for you. I’m staying in Hawthorn now,” she explains. She’s here and less than an hour away? We found each other by pure coincidence. I was in France, escaping Marsha. My dad felt bad when he dropped the ball and got married without telling me, so he sent me away for six months to detoxify my drama as he called it. Gray and I were at the same coffee shop every day. One day, she left the shop, and a car came straight for her. Gripping the little backpack on her shoulders, I tugged her away. Luckily, the straps didn’t snap. We’ve been friends ever since.

  “Wait, you’re in California?” She said Hawthorn, but she could mean any Hawthorn.

  “Yeah, Dad and I came back to visit family and check out the colleges. He wants me to go to Brookewood like him and Uncle Jase, but I’m not too sure. I have a while to decide if we’re moving back or staying in France with his family. I’m leaning toward croissantland, though. This place has so many memories...” She pauses. “...not a lot of good ones. It’s been months, and I’m really just not ready to see the faces of those I left behind.”

  What’s her story? We never really dived deep into it because she cared more about mine. All I know is that we love the same bands, and she’s around my age. That’s it.

  “Who’d you leave behind?” I ask, knowing there’s an answer that I’ll probably never get.

  “My past,” she stalls, not wanting to divulge any further. Fair enough. No one knows what I went through, not even her.

  “How long are you here for?” I deflect for her benefit.

  “For the summer, at least.”

  “Wow, small world,” I muse, entirely shocked that she’s so close.

  “It is. I’m originally from Hollow Ridge,” she explains.

  “This is crazy!” I practically squeal, feeling the sadness abate for a moment. “I’m from Hollow Ridge, too.”

  She gasps. “How have we never met in this small town?” I think of the tiny rich town I grew up in, the stuck-up brats that allowed their parents to pay for everything, and how I did everything to avoid contact with others. I’m not a people person. I’m barely a person sometimes. I’m driven and focused and the last thing I had time for was friends. That’s why I graduated early and went to college before everyone else. I did that. Succeeded.

  “How old are you?” I murmur, wondering how I missed that information. We always talked in the same way, and our references are in the same timeframe as though we were the same age. But now that I think about it, maybe she’s younger than me.

  “Seventeen,” she states.

  “Wow.” I laugh. “I’m nineteen.” It’s so crazy how a number defines a person, their past, their future, but doesn’t explain the truths hidden behind each year.

  “I’d have never guessed. So you were seventeen when we met?”

  “Yup, fresh out of my second semester of college.”

  “College?” she repeats thoughtfully. “That young?”

  “Yeah, it’s probably why we never met. Back in school, I’d been a completely driven youngster. I still am, but I’ve graduated and moved on. I have a Bachelor’s in Culinary Arts.”

  “Like my aunt,” she mutters softly as though she didn’t mean to.

  “Who’s your aunt?”

  “Oh, you’ve probably never heard of her. Loren Collins.”

  I think of the name, wondering if I’ve heard it. Then it dawns on me. “Oh. My. God.”

  “What?” she asks on a laugh, and I can imagine her now. Her stark black hair and melted silver eyes.

  “Loren Tanner! She was the top of the class in her day. She literally has a plaque in June’s classroom.”

  “Huh?”

  “June McTavish. She’s the culinary professor at Brighton. She told me I was the next Loren.”

  “Holy crap! You must be legendary then! Before she got pregnant and married Uncle Jase, she was the chef all the businesses wanted. Like Gorden Ramsey and Bobbie Flay.”

  “I hope to be that awesome when I’m her age,” I respond, thinking of how amazing it’d be to be wanted around the world.

  “Coming, Dad!” I hear her yell in the background before answering. “Maybe you will be, but I have to jet. I’ll text you my address, okay?”

  “Thank you, Gray... for everything.”

  “You saved my life once,” she teases. “I owe you a few.”

  But I didn’t want her to owe me anything. I didn’t want anyone to feel that way about me. When we hang up, I’m stuck in those feelings. Of being a burden. Do I bite the bullet and just ask Dad for money? Will he help me? Should I suck it up and go back to Wes?

  It’d be great if my mom was around. She’s missed so many things. She’d have been there for me through the worst part of my life, I’m sure of it. Gray texts me soon after with her address. And by the way, even though I owe you, I’d still want to hang out.
You’re pretty cool, J.

  The text has me smiling all the way to her place. I have the car I paid for after my dad took my money away, my bags, what little savings I had, and my dignity. But that’s it. I left my laptop, cooking utensils, and my fucking phone charger. Dammit.

  Yet I was aware enough to grab the stupid package. Smacking the steering wheel with my head, I pull over. I dig through my smaller duffel and find my purse and iPod. Thank fuck. Who I now worship. I plug it in the auxiliary and find my Rager playlist. Yes, I have a playlist for when I’m ready to ditch the fear of ugly jumpsuits. Which is right now. NF’s “WHY” rings out. Within seconds, the familiar instrumentals and bass fill my ears. I start singing and continue my drive.

  After what feels like no time at all, I pull up. The house I pull up to—correction—the mansion I pull up to is glorious. It’s absolutely massive, tall with a Grecian feel to it in brown and red, and mixes of orange with cobblestones like a Spanish Riviera home. I didn’t know Hawthorn had buildings this large. I’m surprised my parents didn’t come here instead. It’s less cliché than Hollow Ridge for sure.

  Standing outside is a tall man. He’s not looking at me, but I notice his hands resting in his pockets in a comfortable posture.

  With his face downcast and shoulders that any linebacker would beg for, he gives off a strong and intimidating presence. Tall—really fucking tall—and gorgeous as can be. He has the silkiest looking sandy blond hair. As though he’s paid millions of dollars to keep it shiny and wavy in that easy-going kind of way.

  A trimmed beard lines his stern jaw all the way to his stony gray eyes that suddenly hit me with a curious expression as I come to a full stop. Who is he? And why does he look like he’s the cover model of every GQ magazine ever?

  When I climb out of my car and try to handle my bags, a warm hand engulfs my elbow.

  “Allow me,” the deep voice says.

  Seriously! Who is this dude? And why is his voice French and dreamy? Warmth skates over my skin, giving me a different kind of shiver. My stomach does a weird floaty thing inside as I watch him grab my bags easily. Older men always catch my attention. It must be that I’m wired wrong. My eyes appreciate their graying temples and dad bods. But this man? There’s no dad bod. It’s just all bod.

  “Dad! Don’t go scaring her away!” Gray yells from the front entrance. My mouth hangs open as realization dawns on me. Shit. Gray’s dad is a DILF. He turns to me with the hottest smirk I’ve ever experienced.

  “She likes me, don’t you, ma coccinelle,” he muses happily. My ladybug. Heat creeps up on my cheeks, making my stomach flip. His accent is thick and dreamy, smoothing over me like a strong shot of whiskey. God, I need to get it together. It wasn’t more than a day ago that I caught Wes cheating on me. And this—hot dad with an amazing body—will never happen.

  “Dad! Good God, you’re going to make her faint. Stop it!” She’s hollering, but it’s with joy, as though this happens often, and she’s always after him for it. Well, if he calls just anyone his ladybug, they might be catching some fists.

  “I’m Francis,” he finally introduces himself when we’re at the landing. He smiles at me boyishly, a dimple poking through his scruffy cheek. That action alone makes me squirm, and I feel like an actual teenager—one adored. And to me, that makes this entire trip worth it.

  “Joey,” I reply, offering a hand. His teeth show when his grin widens. That’s when I notice he can’t shake my hand with all of my bags in his grasp. I have to keep myself from biting my lip to stop from smiling so much. It’s unlike me to feel this swoony. Is that even a word?

  “Ma coccinelle,” he teases with a larger than life grin. I cover my face because I’m not used to this kind of attention. The non-pervy kind that’s just friendly and sweet. It’s such a French thing. Even after six months in that country, I never got used to it. Americans always come off as sleazy when they flirt. Like Lucien.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  He sets my bags down and instead of grabbing my hand to shake, he pulls me into a hug and kisses both cheeks. I’m out of breath as he pulls away. Watching me with a flirtatious quirk to his lips, he leads me into the enormous foyer. “I’ve heard a lot about you. And how you saved mon lapin from an untimely accident.”

  I peer at Gray, giving her a thankful expression. She must really like me. No one likes me. I’m not really a people person, and I’m surprised she’s had a good impression from someone like me.

  The lost girl.

  One who never belongs.

  Bitter. Mean. Cruel.

  “Thank you for allowing me to stay,” I merely whisper, grabbing my throat in shame. Depending on others has never been my strong suit. It makes me feel weak, less, unworthy. The gratitude in my voice must show because, somehow, his smile widens even more.

  “Pas de problème,” he says.

  “Really, Dad. English. Jesus,” Gray complains with her signature eye roll. I’ve seen that a time or two. She bites her cheek as if she’s amused at the fact that her dad seems to have taken a liking for me.

  “My bad,” he grumbles. “I’ve only been to the States three times in the past seventeen years. It’s easy to go back to what I know.” As he explains, his accent goes in and out, as if he’s trying to correct himself with each word.

  It’s cute.

  We walk together, all while my eyes devour the inside of their home. The halls are filled with art that probably costs as much as my existence. Each one has hanging lights, each piece highlighted and expressed with care. The designs of the walls are filled with the kind of damask wallpaper that reminds me of Gothic historical homes. It’s beautiful and done well enough not to appear tacky. As he shows me around the ground floor, he explains every piece of art. Gray eventually becomes annoyed with his knack for details and leads me through the rest of the manor. She’s too excited to show me my guest room. In reality, this guest room is more of its own town with its own zip code. I’m from a wealthy politician family, but this house is something else.

  The room she leads me into is vast and wide. A massive poster bed rests in the center, taking up no room at all. It’s themed with ivory and blood-red crimson, each accent teased with gold. The bed could fit five people at least, and it only makes me want to sprawl across it and never leave. It’s beyond breathtaking in here. It’s too elegant and expensive, almost making me want to avoid touching anything in fear of ruining it.

  “So you think my dad is hot?” Gray questions, interrupting my incessant gawking.

  I stop in my tracks, my face flaming and my stomach churning. “What?” I squeak, my voice too high. She bursts out laughing, her face amused. When she bends, gripping her stomach, my shoulders relax.

  “Joking! Everyone has a thing for dear ole Dad. I swear, if he had me earlier on in life, he’d be less burly and more like a soft teddy bear.”

  “What do you mean? He can’t be older than forty. That means he had you at least at twenty...” I trail off, wondering how she’s never mentioned him. They seem extremely close. If my relationship with my father reflected theirs by even a little, I’d be at peace.

  Her face eventually drops the happiness. She shakes her head lightly, changing the subject. “I just mean, he’s never stressed because I’m awesome. So he looks like a young man instead of the old one he truly is.”

  I nod, not wanting to have her shut down on me but also wanting to know her story. We’ve never really done more than mundane chatting. This is... different. We’re friends—close even—just not in the way that mattered.

  “Get settled in, and Delia will have dinner prepared.”

  “This is so cool.”

  “What?”

  “You being royalty.”

  “How’d you—”

  “I wondered. French bodyguards, palace-like mansion, and your dad looks all regal. Makes sense and you just confirmed it.”

  “Please don’t treat me any differently,” she implores. “I didn’t even know until I w
ent to France.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re still that lame chick who drinks chai tea and calls it an energy boost.”

  She scrunches her face as if to say fair enough, making us both laugh before she leaves me to unpack and settle in.

  Chapter Six

  Two Days Earlier

  Joey

  Unlike my dad and step-monster, Gray’s dining room is welcoming and not stiff. The table isn’t huge like you’d expect. It’s quaint, enough to fit six people or so. Mine at home could fit twenty people easily. We all crowd at one end, sitting together with idle chatter. Gray’s debating schools, and Francis is trying to convince her to go to Brookewood. His argument is that they have a great teacher program.

  Gray wants to teach. She hasn’t decided on the subject, but it’s her dream to guide kids.

  “What do you think, Joey?”

  I’m in the middle of chewing a bite of salmon when he asks, shocking me. Swallowing down the bite, my throat feels dry. I grab my water glass, thinking over a proper response. My father would never invite me into a conversation like this, so being asked about it has me thrown off.

  “It’s not a woman’s job to make decisions, Josephine. That’s why you’ll marry one of the nine families. It’ll keep you in line and our family strong. Don’t you want to make me proud?”

  My face scrunches at the memory, and it must make Francis worry with how he reacts. Not even a second later, he’s wiping his mouth to make sure I’m okay. “Is it the salmon? Too hot? Not tangy enough? I can have Delia fix it right—”

  “No, no, it’s perfect!” I stop his worry, not wanting him to stress over something like a warmed home-cooked meal. “I’m just shocked that you care about my opinion enough to ask.”