“Tony, hold on. Did they say anything about the actual budget? Finances? Are we talking a taco stand or a two-story eatery here? I mean, what’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” Tony says, sounding a little offended now that I’m bringing down his high. “I told you, these guys have so much money they don’t even need to think about it.”
“Did they actually show us any money? Apart from some rumor you heard from a bartender, they could be con men.”
Tony takes a second to speak again, but I can almost hear his frustration with me in the silence.
“Am I crazy? Or do I get the impression that you aren’t absolutely ecstatic with the prospect of having your own place in Los Angeles? Am I an idiot for thinking you’d actually be happy at this news? This is your dream! Our dream. And it’s finally coming true!”
“I know,” I say, trying hard to sound as enthusiastic as Tony and only making it more obvious I’m not. “I guess it’s just…a lot to take in.”
“Is this about your last restaurant? That’s in the past, Willow. You made some mistakes, yes—but that just means there’s less chance you’ll make them again. Look, I get that it was demoralizing, and traumatic, and humiliating, and probably left you feeling like you were jilted at the altar, or like—”
“Alright, alright,” I interrupt.
“—but this is your chance to rise from the ashes like a phoenix in a chef’s apron! You should be happy you’re getting this second bite of the cherry!”
“I am happy—or, I will be happy if it actually turns out that way. I just want something more to go on than a promise and a time frame. I’ve only spoken to these guys for twenty minutes. Am I supposed to quit my job and start getting my hopes up based on that? One of us needs to keep our head on straight.”
Tony sighs. “Ok, you want something more concrete? We’re going to check out some locations the day after tomorrow. Let’s see if you’re li’l miss cynical then.”
I let out an apologetic huff as I slump back onto the bed.
“I can’t—not the day after tomorrow, anyway.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me you can’t throw a sick day at work.”
“I’m going to Vegas with Cole. He wants me to help him with his new place.”
This time I can sense Tony’s brain working hard in the silence.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re ditching me for the handsome celebrity. Giving up your lifelong dreams for a hunk with good credit. Straight men are right: You women are awful.”
I laugh and pick my cinnamon bun back up.
“You would do exactly the same thing—and be twice as resolute about it.”
“I know. It’s just the jealousy talking. How long are you gone for?”
“Just a few days. In the meantime, text me pictures if you end up going to look at the locations. When I get back we should all sit together and talk it through. If these guys are for real—and I repeat: If—then I’ll be just as excited as you are.”
“Ok, Spud. I’ll see you when you get back from your romantic getaway. Just don’t get married at some drive-thru chapel while you’re there—not if he wants a prenup, anyway.”
“And that’s my cue to say goodbye…”
“Ok, honey. I’ll send you the pictures. Then you’ve got some groveling to do, missy.”
13
Cole
Willow’s kinda quiet when I pick her up and drive to the airport, as if she’s trying to restrain the natural spark that usually makes her blush and bluster in the same sentence. That mixture of self-assured but genuinely warm that I’m starting to think I’m addicted to, replaced by a more formal, clipped kind of tone. I wonder if she’s afraid of flying, if I should have just driven us all the way to Vegas instead.
“You nervous?” I say, as the airport looms at the end of the highway.
“No. Not at all,” she says, smiling quickly before looking back at the road.
I can tell something’s on her mind. Something she doesn’t want to talk about. I wonder if it’s apprehension over where things are going with us, or simple work/life stress. For now, I’ll give her some space to think. I’ve got something I’m holding back myself.
I park the car and we wheel our bags into the airport, Willow a little taken aback by the fact that I bought us first-class tickets. Over the course of the hour or so flight she opens up a little, relaxes a little, and the shy smiles and sharp comebacks make me start to relish her proximity. Her skinny black jeans brushing against my leg and the elegant chasm of her cleavage that it takes all my willpower not to be caught looking at starts to twist at my groin, as if she’s got a hand there, gripping me with the tight magnetism of her beauty.
While my mind starts running wild with enough ideas to fill an entire erotica section, I keep the talk as focused on the business at hand as possible. There will be time for play later, I tell myself.
Once we land in Vegas one of the staff members that Martin’s just hired meets us outside baggage claim to take us to the new place.
In the back of the car Willow asks, “Do you have a name for this new restaurant?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Though Martin suggested ‘Fork,’ and it was such a terrible idea that I haven’t been able to shake it.”
She laughs and turns back to look out the window, as if rewarding me for making her laugh by exposing the perfect line of her neck.
‘Fork’ is coming along nicely, and when we arrive I take Willow on a little tour.
“The place is incredible,” she coos, as we pass by the kitchen, where the chefs are cursing and cooking up a storm. “It might even turn out better than Knife.”
“The fittings are all in,” I say, sweeping a hand across the kitchen. “Pretty much all that’s left is cosmetic. Painting, decorating. Colors, materials—that kind of thing.” I gesture for her to return to the main seating area. “I actually wanted to get your opinion about some of that too.”
Willow turns to me, the look on her face that same one she gets when she’s about to offer an opinion, but instead she stops herself, settling for a simple, functional smile instead.
“Sure,” she says.
“First though, let’s eat. If you’re up for a tour of the menu now?”
“Oh hell yes. A man after my own heart,” she teases.
We move back to the main area to sit side-by-side at the large round table in the center—the only table that isn’t stacked up against the wall or covered in linen. I pop open a bottle of sparkling water and pour a full glass for each of us.
“So…” Willow says, looking around her as the raucous sound of the chefs’ shouting increases, “how is this going to work, exactly?”
“The kitchen will prepare every single item on the menu for us,” I say, pulling out my leather-bound notebook and Montblanc pen. “Just the way it would be served to a customer. Course by course. You’ll try a bite of each and then tell me what you think. Whatever it is. Don’t hold back.”
Willow nods confidently.