I almost clapped a hand over my mouth in disbelief. Rouge Bis was widely considered the most romantic place in Boston, so it was comical to find out that it was owned by the least romantic man in New England.
“Wait, how do you know that I’m a cook?” I frowned.
“Maria mentioned you keep making a mess in her kitchen. Plus, I noticed the fridge’s full of stuff that’s not just condiments. That’s a first in the Brennan household. Also, there’s the newspaper.” He nodded toward the island where he’d sipped coffee. “You highlighted a job as a cafeteria cook in the local schools. So, yeah, you’re not really keeping a low profile about it. Look, I’m sure you can give us a hand at the restaurant. You should probably ask Troy about it.”
“I doubt he’d be too happy to have me around.”
“He’s not there all that much.” Brock’s tone held a hint satisfaction, almost like he, too, couldn’t stand the presence of my husband. “If he’s game, I promise I’ll make it work. Instead of wandering, find yourself again, Sparrow. I’ll help if I can.”
I looked down, biting back my smile and fighting the butterflies that took flight in my stomach in full force.
Is he playing me?
Is he genuine?
Am I an idiot for feeling grateful?
“Okay,” I finally said, looking up to meet his eyes. “I’ll ask him. Thank you.”
“Sure thing. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Have a good day, Brock,” I said as he headed for the door.
“You too, sweetheart.”
THAT NIGHT, I crawled to bed with a headache as oppressive as the thunderstorm outside pelting the windows with rain. Summertime my ass. It was like the lack of sunshine mimicked my feelings.
Brock’s words looped in my head all day, and I tried to think of ways to convince Troy to let me work at his restaurant. It was the first time in the last two weeks I was feeling a little hopeful.
Ever since he’d taken me from Pops, I felt like I was handcuffed and locked inside a brakeless car, rolling downhill at the speed of light.
Working in a kitchen was something I’d dreamed about ever since I was in middle school and watched Ratatouille. Pops gave me the DVD for Christmas and I played it so many times over, I remembered every single sentence. I’d worked my butt off, taking every class and course I could afford, to make it happen.
Now I was close. So close. The only thing standing between me and fulfillment was him.
Food. I loved making it. Loved watching people enjoy the fruits of my labor as I served my dad and his buddies with a hearty meal. They’d sit there with their shirts open, undershirts beneath, their white-haired chests and bellies poking out against the small wooden table in our kitchen and shovel in my food. Be it Irish stew, homemade pasta with fresh sauce, or just my famous blueberry pancakes. Cooking and baking made me feel like someone, and someone was better than being the no one I was growing up to be.
Everyone was known as something. The pretty one, the athlete, the nerd, the bitch, the accountant or the mobster. I was known as the one with no mom, and I wanted to reinvent myself as the girl who could make mean blueberry pancakes. The chef.
I waited for Brennan in bed for what felt like a decade. The clock ticked, painfully and almost deliberately slow, as my thoughts swirled in circles.
Will he be his usual, asshole self?
Will he surprise me and agree?
Is this even a good idea, to work for my fake-husband?
I heard the door open and slam shut at around two a.m. downstairs. Brennan’s place barely had any furniture, and so the echo carried all the way to the second floor. At first, I waited patiently in bed, but when fifteen minutes turned into thirty I hopped to my feet. My long hair flowed over my shoulders, tickling the small of my back as I climbed down the stairs. By the time I was in the dimly lit foyer, I started tiptoeing. I always treaded lightly around this man.
Brennan had his back to me, scanning the view overlooking the city skyline from his high-rise penthouse, and downing a tumbler of whiskey in big gulps. The scent of the alcohol was like my past slapping me in the face, and memories of my dad passed out on our couch punched me in the stomach.
Only difference was Troy’s alcohol didn’t smell of hardship, of Bushmills and sour sweat.
I stood there silently, trying to think of what to say or do. His dark suit, pressed and new looking, masked the obvious realities of his line of work. There was a dangerous buzz around him. He sometimes radiated it. Tonight, I suspected, was a bad night to ask for a favor. Something in the air around him felt wrong. Stormy, like the weather outside. The apartment was stark and chilly, but his body poured angry heat in waves. My stomach tightened as I contemplated whether I should just turn around and go back to bed. I could always ask him for a favor when he was in a better mood.
“You’re up late.” He crushed some ice between his teeth, making me shudder. His voice was gruff and thorny.
Like all sociopaths, I suspected my husband was emotionally impotent. From the week we’ve lived together, I knew that he rarely showed any feelings, and when he did, they were usually on the detached and disinterested spectrum.
“I waited for you,” I answered, a little surprised that he’d heard me.
He turned around, inspecting me with his piercing eyes like he was trying to see beneath my words. His jaw stiffened. So did his fist around the whiskey glass.
“You look…upset,” I whispered.
“Am I usually the jolly kind?” he mocked.