“Yep,” I say. “We’re good.”
Andre checks both of our expressions, then nods.
“So maybe we should show her the one,” Tony says.
“The two-floor?” Andre says.
Tony nods.
“What’s ‘the one’?” I ask.
“The one that I know you’ll love,” Tony says, confidently.
I check my watch quickly and shoot him back a pained look.
“Is it far, though? I have to start a shift in, like, thirty minutes.”
Tony smiles a little knowingly.
“Oh, that’s not a problem. See, the reason I thought you wouldn’t want to visit this place is that it’s pretty close to Knife. A couple of blocks away.”
“Ah…”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Andre asks, looking between us like a third wheel who’s out of the loop.
I take a moment to purse my lips, then answer. “No. That’s not a problem at all.”
We bundle into the car and after another quick ride pull up outside of the property, a two-story corner building set in a larger complex of boutique shops. It’s boarded up with plywood currently, torn gig posters hastily stuck to them, and the junction it points to is busy with people, cafes and bookshops and antique stores sharing the other corners and giving the surroundings a local color and vibrancy that was absent at all the other locations.
“This would all be glass, of course,” Andre says as we step out of the car toward the skeleton of a building. “All the way up.”
“Uh-huh,” I nod. I can see it already.
He unlocks the place and we step inside to a decently sized area, the second floor a loft space that runs around the edge, a wide, spiral staircase with ornate railings twisting up to the platform.
“Let me tell you,” Andre says again, as he goes into real estate mode, “this place is hot. And by hot I mean that I’ve already had nearly a dozen offers for it. An art curator from NYC wants to make this a gallery, a bunch of brands want to make this a retail clothing store, and you’re not the only restauranteurs who’ve been here either. Do you know Sylvain Thibault?”
“Of course. Sure,” Tony and I chorus.
“Well this was going to be his American flagship—but I guess he got sidetracked. Once the windows go in there’s gonna be a lot of natural light. Great place to people watch—especially on the second floor—if you like that kinda vibe. And all the Indian laurels on this street make for a decent amount of privacy out front, which will likely appeal to any celebrity clientele. Anyway,” Andre says, pointing at a large window that separates the back of the building, “this could be easily converted into an open window to the kitchen area—or just knocked down altogether if you really want to meld the spaces.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, lost in thought, imagining what we could do here.
“I’m not gonna lie,” Andre says. “This place is expensive. If you guys wanna use this place it’s gonna have to be a hell of a business.”
“Of course. Show her the back,” Tony says keenly. “The outside.”
“This way,” Andre says, striding away. He unlocks double doors set at the end of a small passage, and pushes them open for us to walk through. The studio-sized space a tangle of overgrown weeds, car junk, a moss-clogged fountain and dumped, weathered furniture.
“It’s a mess right now,” he says, as we step out onto the rocky space, an ivy-covered brick wall on one side and a window to the kitchen on the other. “Looks smaller than it actually is, due to all this trash, but you could use this for storage or…I don’t know. Use your imagination a little and you could even make this a little outside dining area—with a lot of work, of course.”
I stand there, frozen for a moment, taking it all in as the two men cast their gazes on me again, waiting tensely for a verdict. I’m overwhelmed. The morning sun is shining through some tree branches overhead, casting soft, dappled light all around me. I can smell the ocean not too far away, the air is cool, and birds are chirping nearby.
“Well?” Tony says. “Willow, what do you think? It’s great, right? ...Willow? ... Are you crying?”
I cover my mouth with my hand, but it can’t stop the built-up emotion that threatens to explode in wet tears from my eyes.
“This is it…” I say, voice shaking and slow from overpowering sensations. “This is my restaurant…I’m here…I’m really here.”
Tony looks quickly at Andre, then back at me before shouting out and grasping me in a tight bear hug. Andre laughs and comes to join us, until the two men are smothering me in a sandwich of fine fabrics and cologne. Squeezing me so hard I can barely breathe, though I don’t care anymore—because I’m already in heaven.
The shift I put in after I sign the contract for Andre is probably the most difficult one I’ve ever done. I cut my finger chopping shallots, almost ruin a filet, and take twice as long to plate the dishes as I usually do. For the next few days I can’t think of anything but color schemes, kitchen layouts, renovating that back garden—all the things I said I would do if I ever owned a place, the mental recipes I’ve spent my life concocting.
The excitement and nerves swirl inside of me like a perpetual hurricane, keeping me awake at night and daydreaming all day, every fiber, every pore of my body entirely taken over by the task of making this fantasy become a reality. The future stretching out ahead of me now like some magical, winding path that I want to run down.
It’s almost enough to make me feel better about Cole. Almost.
At first I avoid him, citing a lack of sleep, feeling overwhelmed at work, a few personal tasks I have to take care of. Hoping that maybe, given enough time, I’ll somehow figure out what to do about us. It helps that Cole spends the next couple of days handling business in Vegas, which is a relief for me, though I still feel waves of guilt slam into me every time we exchange flirty texts late at night.
Eventually, however, sordid text messages aren’t enough to keep that kind of appetite satiated, and I arrive home one day to find Cole standing by his Maserati outside my apartment. He grins when he sees me, opening his arms wide, and I feel a different emotion flooding me when I fall into his embrace. It’s so much harder to ignore what I feel for him when his body’s pressed up against mine. I almost feel like throwing all my dreams away just so I can spend a little longer in those arms, so I can spend an entire month wallowing in bed being engulfed by that physical charisma.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” I say, finally pulling back.
Cole pulls my chin toward him and steals a kiss that I can feel he’s been thinking about since we last parted. It steals the unsettled tension from my body, the stress of my work shift, the twist of reconciling my dilemma, and softens me until I feel like I could fall into him forever.
“I missed you,” he says softly, once we part.