Touchstone

by Karen Stivali

  Touchstone

  The World of True North

  Karen Stivali

  Copyright © 2021 by Karen Stivali

  All rights reserved.

  This book was inspired by the True North Series written by Sarina Bowen. It is an original work that is published by Heart Eyes Press LLC.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Phoebe

  2. phoebe

  3. Sam

  4. Sam

  5. phoebe

  6. Sam

  7. Phoebe

  8. Sam

  9. Phoebe

  10. Sam

  11. Phoebe

  12. Sam

  13. Phoebe

  14. Sam

  15. Phoebe

  16. Sam

  17. Phoebe

  18. Sam

  19. Phoebe

  20. sam

  21. Phoebe

  22. sam

  23. Phoebe

  24. Sam

  25. Phoebe

  26. Sam

  27. Phoebe

  28. Sam

  29. Phoebe

  30. Phoebe

  31. Phoebe

  32. Sam

  33. Phoebe

  34. Sam

  35. Phoebe

  36. Sam

  37. Phoebe

  38. Sam

  39. Phoebe

  40. Sam

  41. Phoebe

  You Will Also Enjoy…

  1

  Phoebe

  Please don’t let him propose.

  I’d been wanting to try the new steakhouse on Fifth Avenue since it opened a year ago, but as I rushed down the final blocks, already late, all I felt was dread. Saturday night reservations were impossible to come by, almost exclusively reserved for wealthy regulars or tourists who knew to book in advance. That meant Drew had pulled some strings to get us a table. And, as The New York Times had pointed out in its most recent list of top-ten romantic restaurants in the city, it was the newest hot spot for proposals.

  Please don’t let that be what Drew is thinking.

  My stomach flipped as I waited for the light to change, and I checked my phone. Shit. I was officially really late—and I was never late. Ever. Drew was probably pissed. Pissed enough to not propose? Let’s hope.

  I bounced on my toes, no easy feat in heels, but the nervous energy had to work its way out somehow. The conversation with Drew replayed in my mind. “Hey, I’m getting back into town earlier than I expected so let’s meet for dinner. I got us a table at Ember.”

  The way he’d brought it up hadn’t sounded romantic. But then, nothing Drew said ever sounded romantic. That was part of why I liked him. Neither of us needed or wanted all the mushy stuff, the hearts and flowers, the moonlight strolls. We’d both wanted the same thing from the time we met five years ago: to open up a hot new restaurant in Manhattan. We’d worked together all this time to make that happen, and our dream was finally months from coming true.

  But I didn’t want to marry him. I didn’t want to marry anyone.

  I let the throng of pedestrians propel me across the street, careful not to get my heel caught in the metal grate as I hopped over it and onto the curb. There it was—the sign with the distinctive logo that Drew and I had taken inspiration from when we’d designed the one for our own restaurant. Surely this would just be a nice night out, celebrating the fact that our launch was so close to happening.

  My palms were sweating, and I wiped them on my dress, glad that it was black and wouldn’t show any damp streaks, then grabbed the shiny brass door handle. The interior looked just as it did in the magazine spreads—dark wood polished to a high shine, giving it that old-school steakhouse feel, but with sleek tables and chairs to kick it into the twenty-first century. The host nodded when I gave my name and quickly ushered me to our table, which was small and elegant, with two votives in heavy square glass holders and a single calla lily in a matching rectangular vase. It was also quite possibly dead center in the middle of the restaurant. The overhead lighting seemed to shine a spotlight directly on us. Like we were the main act on some tiny stage.

  “You okay?” Drew asked as the host held out my chair, and I slid into it.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t realize how long it would take to get here.”

  It was an odd thing to say, and I knew it. He’d managed to get here on time coming from JFK, but I couldn’t make it from our apartment ten blocks away?

  “I ordered for us. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I did mind. My whole life had revolved around menu planning for the past year, and I loved studying menus and choosing my meals. Before I could answer, the waiter arrived with a platter of oysters nestled in crushed ice with a flight of sauces. I suddenly didn’t mind quite as much. I loved oysters. But a nagging voice in my brain reminded me that people tended to order them for sexy times, and sexy times followed proposals, and...my stomach flipped again.

  A different waiter arrived with two Negronis—gin, sweet vermouth, Campari, and an orange twist. Drew couldn’t cook to save his life, but he did know how to order. He raised an oyster shell, as did I, and we clinked them together—a habit we’d started before we’d even begun dating—and I rolled the briny mouthful on my tongue before swallowing. The sip of Negroni, bitter yet sweet, cut through the buttery finish for a moment of perfection.

  My nerves settled. A little. Maybe I was just stressed and fatigued from my nonstop schedule. Maybe this was just a nice dinner out. We worked our way through the oysters, pausing only to critique the various sauces, and I let the cocktail smooth out more of my frayed edges. A pleasant buzz enveloped me as I nibbled one of the flatbreads from the bread basket. “That was delicious.”

  Drew ran nervous fingers through his short, dark hair. “Glad you liked it.”

  “What’s our main course?”

  “I preordered the Tomahawk steak.”

  “Mmmm.” Their signature dish had been getting rave reviews, and he knew I’d been dying to try it.

  The waiter cleared the platter and dutifully scraped our table to clear any stray crumbs.

  As he left, I noticed Drew staring at me, and the buzz from moments earlier evaporated. My heart thudded. No.

  “Phoebe.” He reached for my hand.

  Oh, dear god, no.

  “I was going to tell you this on the phone.”

  Wait, what? No one proposes on the phone, do they? That’s good. Right? So why does he look worried?

  “There’s someone else.”

  His fingers gripped mine, but I could barely feel them. “What?”

  “It’s been going on for a while now. We met when you were down south...”

  I’d done a month-long trek through the Carolinas, Georgia, and New Orleans, scouting up-and-coming chefs and local specialty items. In January. It was now June.

  “I’m sorry, what’s been going on for six months?”

  “Her name is Samantha. Her father owns the Shivari group of hotels.”

  “Wait, the guy who invested?”

  The guilt on his face made me squirm. He nodded. “He sent Samantha to negotiate, and one thing led to another. I’m sorry, Phoebs. I am. But I’m in love.”

  Oddly enough, relief swept over me. I mean, sure, this was unexpected, but one thing Drew and I weren’t was madly in love, and I honestly didn’t begrudge him happiness. This was for the best. He could get the happily-ever-after he wanted. We’d always been better as business partners than—

  “We’re getting married. And...” He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles in
a way that made me brace myself. “She’s taking over your part of the restaurant.”

  My buzz disappeared completely, along with any warm, fuzzy feelings I’d been having about him finding true love. Rage replaced them, bubbling up from deep inside me and threatening to spill out all over the pristine table. “Excuse me?”

  “It just makes sense. She’s not comfortable with us working together, given our history, and her father—”

  So much adrenaline pumped through me I was hearing colors. The sound of Drew’s voice mixed red and orange in a way that swirled through me like fire. “I’ve spent years working on this fucking business. You can’t just cut me out.”

  Drew couldn’t meet my gaze. “Actually, we can. You and I never had a formal contract. His lawyers—”

  His lawyers. Fucking hell. His uber-wealthy future father-in-law’s high-powered lawyers had already taken care of this. They’d taken care of screwing me out of the restaurant I’d breathed and slept and sweated over, screwing me out of my debut as a Manhattan executive chef, screwing me out of the menu I’d spent over a year honing. My mind raced. Oh my god. Our apartment is in Drew’s name. He’d lived there before we got together. How could I have been so stupid as to let this happen?

  I tugged my hand out of his grasp and clasped my fingers together under the table. Stay calm. Don’t make a scene. My mother makes scenes, and I will not be like my mother...

  And that was when it hit me. That was why we were at a very public place, at a very public table. So there was no chance of me making a scene.

  “Why tell me all this here?” I wanted to hear him admit it.

  “Well, I was going to suggest the NoMad, but I wasn’t sure you’d appreciate the pun.”

  “Fuck you.” I muttered the words, even though they’d been screaming in my brain on a loop for the last several minutes.

  “What?”

  I closed my eyes, hearing the blood rushing past my ears. Lightheaded.

  Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

  “Come on, Phoebs, talk to me. You know this is what’s best for both of us. I’m sorry it had to be like this, but I really believe—”

  Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.

  “—we’ll both be happier in the long run. Please say something.”

  Before I could stop them, the words rolled from my brain onto my tongue and out of my mouth. “Fuck you!”

  My voice was louder than I intended, and I wanted to try to tone it down, but I was no longer in control. I’d floated somewhere outside my body, watching myself and only catching snippets of what I spewed at him.

  “Five years...fucking asshole...all this time...the business...while I’m traveling, you’re...you thief! You disgust me...this was our project, not just yours...”

  People were staring at us. I could feel their eyes like tiny beams of heat.

  I hated scenes. Hated them. In an instant I’d become a kid again, watching my mother shriek at her latest boyfriend and throw his clothes out the window as the neighbors enjoyed the show. The familiar heat of humiliation crawled up my neck and flooded my cheeks. I gripped the table hard enough that my nails dented the unfinished wood of the underside. Taking a deep breath seemed impossible, as if I were underwater, or under an elephant, but I forced a slow inhale. Grace. I could exit this with some amount of grace and dignity if I just focused.

  “Fine, Drew. You win. I’ll have my things out of the apartment by tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure you can find somewhere else to stay for the night.”

  There. A modest request. The proper amount of strength and control. I pushed my chair back and slowly rose, suddenly knowing what the bomb squad must feel like, because I was acutely aware I could explode with the slightest wrong movement.

  Drew’s eyes were full of pity—the very last thing I wanted to see—and for a split second I thought maybe we could negotiate some sort of truce where we could still be business partners. He cleared his throat. “I’ll need your set of keys to the restaurant. Now.”

  I’d thought I was as upset as I could get. I was wrong. My hands shook uncontrollably, but I managed to take all three keys off my keychain and slam them down on the table hard enough to turn heads again.

  Our waiter arrived with a flourish, seemingly unaware that the couple at Table 12 was at DEFCON 1. “Your Tomahawk steak.”

  He held out the gigantic platter with the dinosaur-bone-sized steak. It smelled heavenly. “Would you like me to carve—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “That won’t be necessary, Robert. The steak is coming with me.”

  He clearly didn’t understand what I meant until I fisted the steak’s cleanly frenched bone and hoisted the enormous slab of meat so fast he nearly fumbled the serving dish.

  What do you do when you’re full of Negroni, oysters, and rage, and you’re holding two hundred dollars’ worth of perfectly cooked meat? You square your shoulders and walk out.

  The rest of the night passed in a blur, and before I knew it, sun was streaming through the windows and I was surrounded by boxes.

  I should be sad.

  That would be the normal reaction to your boyfriend of five years dumping you for another woman. I should’ve been heartbroken. In tears. Devastated.

  But I wasn’t. I even knew why. Sure, Drew and I had been perfect on paper. And I knew the saying “good on paper bad in bed”—but that hadn’t been the issue either. I mean, we weren’t Fourth of July fireworks, but we’d sparked. It just hadn’t been love. We’d been...comfortable. Practical. Safe.

  That was what killed me. I hadn’t just known that passion and excitement had to be sacrificed to get comfortable, practical, and safe, I’d counted on it. Trusted it. I’d consciously made that choice, because I’d seen what happened when passion and “love” blew up in your face. My mother was the poster child for those disasters, and I’d been the first witness to every explosion.

  I wanted no part of that. To me, practical and safe sounded wonderful. So wonderful they’d turned me stupid. Because when I’d gone into business with my safe and practical boyfriend, I’d trusted him. It never occurred to me he’d screw me out of the deal. That’s why I hadn’t bothered to get anything in writing.

  Yet there I was. No boyfriend. No job. Enough self-loathing-fueled adrenaline that I’d packed up my half of the apartment in one all-nighter. And no coffee because the coffee maker was mine, and I had no idea which box I’d shoved it into in a fit of bubble-wrapped rage.

  But the rage had dissipated somewhere between shredding my new business cards and separating my books from his. All I was left with was hurt. Drew might not have been the love of my life—if such a thing even existed—but he had been my best friend. “Had been” being the operative words in that sentence.

  I scanned the room to see if I’d forgotten anything and felt tears welling. No. No no no. Crying never helped anything.

  Fuck it. I needed to get out of this apartment. Some air would do me good. Air, coffee, and a bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel—the New York City cure to any shitty night.

  Sometime around midnight, full of pricey steak and Drew’s best bottle of bourbon, I’d traded my dress in for my favorite concert T-shirt—Weezer, from the summer I’d interned in Boston—and a pair of pajama pants.

  This morning I was in no mood to change, so I shoved my feet into black Converse low-tops, grabbed my phone from the charger and my tiny dress purse from the night before, and headed out.

  My favorite deli was less than two blocks away and I gave no fucks if anyone saw me looking disheveled.

  The line was out the door but moved quickly. I fidgeted with my phone but didn’t want to check it—a very odd feeling, as I normally lived on my phone. I’d turned it off the minute I got home last night, certain Drew would send messages. I hadn’t wanted to deal with them.

  Once inside the deli, I made my way to the counter, and one of the griddle cooks caught my eye.

  “The usual?” he asked.

  “Yup.”<
br />
  He gave me a smile that told me he’d summed up my mood by my outfit. I pulled out my ATM card and handed it to Jimmy, the grandfatherly owner. “On the house, doll. You had a rough night.”

  Okay, I didn’t look my best, but this was fucking Manhattan. On any given day, you could see people walking down the street in anything from a ball gown to a thong. I glanced down to make sure I hadn’t left the house without pants. Nope. Jammies with black cats in sunglasses, just like I thought.

  I stepped aside, waiting for my name to be called so I could get my food and go. A murmur seemed to be moving through the crowd. Everyone was on their phones, looking up at me and smirking.

  Had I missed some major news story in my twelve hours offline?

  I turned on my phone and watched as the screen lit up. I nearly dropped it when nonstop notifications made it sound like a pinball machine about to tilt. What the hell? How many messages had Drew left me?

  As I watched the notices continue to load, my phone rang. My phone never rang. Nobody called anyone anymore. I was getting ready to reject the call, thinking it must be spam, when I saw the name. Audrey Shipley. That was funny. I’d been thinking of her when I’d put on my T-shirt—we’d gone to the concert together. That was the summer we’d become friends. Two culinary students on the loose in Boston. I hadn’t heard from her in weeks.

  I clicked Answer. “Hey, how’s my favorite new mommy?”

  “Oh my god, Phoebe. Thank god. Are you okay?”