Page 86 of Maybe We Can Fake It

What am I saying? I mean, yes, of course I want them to leave. That will mean my life can finally go back to normal. It’s just that after knowing how content I feel when Travis puts his arm around me, pretending to be my boyfriend, my normal life doesn’t have the same appeal as it did before.

Oh fuck, I’ve really done a number on myself here, haven’t I?

But how was I supposed to know that being with Travis Reed for a couple weeks—even if it was all for show—would shake up my foundation so much that I’m not sure things will settle properly in his absence?

The chatter of more guests filtering into the lobby behind me reminds me that I’m at work and this is no place for a breakdown. So I veer quickly toward the kitchen for some coffee and make sure to put on a smile, because Addison can sense weakness.

She’s at one of the prep tables, and as soon as she sees me, she says, “The new help I hired start tomorrow.”

It takes me a beat to process her words, due to just giving myself emotional whiplash a few seconds ago. “Okay.”

“Is that a problem?” she snaps, making me freeze on my way to the coffee machine. “You said I have authority in hiring kitchen staff, didn’t you?”

“Uh.” I gape at her, desperately wishing I had coffee in my hand. “Yeah, you do. That’s totally fine. Good. It’s good, I mean. That you hired people. You need the help.”

She levels me with a glare that almost sends me cowering into the corner. “Are you saying I can’t handle running this kitchen myself? That I’m not talented enough to keep the guests happy?”

“What? No! It’s just that you needed—Well, you shouldn’t have to—”

Jesus, what kind of minefield did I step in here?

“People happen to like my cooking,” she says, waving a pair of tongs at me. “People liked my menu for years, but then they go and let some traitor change it up. And now people are suddenly so much happier with something else, and they act like they forget how they used to love my food?”

I’m entirely lost now, so I hold my hands up in a gesture of surrender. After a couple moments of awkward silence, Addison sighs heavily, which sounds like her own surrender. Then I catch her eyes flick toward her phone on the table.

I risk approaching her. “Is something wrong?”

It’s a dumb question. Something is obviously wrong. But unless it actually has to do with the inn, I don’t expect her to share with me.

“You caught me at a really bad time. I just read this,” she says, surprising me by sliding her phone my way. “And I’m sorry. That was super unprofessional of me.”

“You know we’re only professional here around the guests,” I half-joke, offering her a tentative smile. Then I glance down at the phone. There’s an article displayed on the screen, with a picture of a gorgeous, dark-haired woman wearing a white chef’s coat. I look back up at Addison questioningly.

“Go ahead,” she says.

So I pick up her phone and read the headline: “What Happens When a Rising Star in American Cuisine Takes Over an Already Well-Established Chicago Hot Spot?”

Trying not to grimace—because I’m already getting the picture—I keep reading.

CRAVE, a Chicago staple, has seen a rapid rise in popularity, brought about by the acquisition of its new head chef, famous social media influencer Raya Reynolds. Reynolds has taken the restaurant’s menu in an entirely new direction, and the Chicago foodies are absolutely here for it.

That’s as far as I get. I don’t need to read the rest to understand what’s going on here, so I slide back the phone.

“I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry you have to deal with this,” I tell Addison sincerely. “I’m sure it feels shitty.”

“Raya Reynolds is the woman my ex was having an affair with.”

“Holy crap.”

She stares forlornly at her phone like maybe somehow the device is to blame for what she’s gone through. “Well,oneof the women. Apparently, there were a bunch of others too, but she was with Raya for way longer than it should’ve taken me to catch on. Guess that’s what happens when you’re a workaholic.”

With a sense of outrage, I say, “Wait a second. Don’t you dare blame yourself for your wife cheating on you. That’s all on her.”

“No, I know that.” She turns and heads for the coffee machine, and I follow her over there, because while I want to listen and be here for her, I could still really use another jolt of caffeine. She pours a mug and hands it to me before pouring another for herself.

I smile at the gesture. “Thanks.”

“All I meant,” she continues, “is that I was always so busy with the restaurant. We both were. But if we’d spent any more time together outside of work, I probably would’ve realized soonerthat something wasn’t right. And to be honest, I think I threw myself into my work as much as I did because when we were home together, I wasn’t happy. I hadn’t been for quite a while, and maybe I was trying to avoid admitting it.”

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