Page 27 of A Better Place

“You interested in the restaurant business?”

“I am, actually. I haven’t really told anyone but Mom this, but I really want to be a chef. I just don’t know what it looks like yet.”

“Yeah? That’s awesome, kid!” James says, putting out his fist in Jack’s direction.

“I hope so,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Mom. Becoming a chef isn’t necessarily the manliest of careers.” He looks at James and mutters, “Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken. I know what you meant. And don’t worry about what anyone thinks. You do what makes you happy. I’d be glad to show you around, and then you can decide for yourself whether it’s something you want to pursue.”

“Cool,” Jack murmurs. “Five more minutes, Mom, okay? Then we can leave?”

“No problem, bud.” He walks back toward the speed bag and picks up where he left off, striking the bag with fast repetitions and incredible accuracy.

“He’s good,” James says, watching him.

“He is. He’s worked really hard to get where he is.” I had forgotten Tate was still standing here.

“It shows.”

“I’ll see you next week, okay, Carly?”

“Sounds good. Thanks for coming in today. Tell Claire thanks, also, for sharing you on your day off. I hope it wasn’t a problem.”

“Not a problem at all. I have no doubt she and the boys are taking a nap as we speak.”

“Good day for that,” I say, looking out at the gray skies.

“Seems to be. Might do the same when I get home. James, stop in next week. We’ll get you set up.”

“Thanks, man. Have a good weekend.”

“You too, and looking forward to having another restaurant in town. Maybe one we don’t feel the need to sanitize the tables before sitting down.”

“Ha! I’ll do my best.”

“Good deal. See you later.”

“See ya,” I put in.

As soon as he’s out of the building, James turns to me. “So, Tate?”

“Yes. Tate is on his way home to his wife and twin baby boys as we speak,” I tell him with my eyebrows raised.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything.” He raises his hands innocently.

“Right. It looked like you were about two seconds away from ripping his arm off.”

“And why would I want to do that?” he asks, a sly grin growing on his too-gorgeous face.

“Oh, I guess, maybe not. I don’t…”

“You’re right, Carly. I did.”

“Oh. But, why?” I ask breathlessly.

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