Page 169 of With a Cherry On Top

“Are we still on for later?”

“Yes, of course. Beatrice thinks I’m going to Bonnie’s. I’ve got a whole four hours clear.”

Great. Or . . . notgreat, but I’ll take it.

“I better go in. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Yeah. I’m . . .”

“Stop saying you’re sorry.”

“Okay. But I am.”

“It’s been noted.” This is probably the worst time to bring it up, but her “I love you” has been ringing in my mind since last night, so I say, “We got...kind of brutally interrupted yesterday, huh? But about what you said?—”

“We can talk about it some other time.”

I pause. Is she scared I won’t say it back? Hell, maybe she’s scared I will too. “Charlotte, I...”

“Call me after, please?”

She hangs up before I can protest again, so I make my way inside, then knock on the office door, my heart hammering so hard it shakes my ribs.

I’m about to get fired. Ian has no other choice, I get that. But I still wish I could avoid the inevitable. It reminds me of being a kid, hiding in the cabinet under the sink after I’d fucked up, hoping Mom wouldn’t find me.

There’s no cabinet big enough to hide this mess, though.

“Come in.”

I push open the door and my stomach knots. Ian sits behind his desk, fingers laced together over his mouth, and beside him, Shane stands stiff, his glare sharp enough to slice through bone.

“Hello. Should I wait, or?—”

“No,” Ian says. “Shane was just on his way out.”

Shane doesn’t move. He’s staring me down like he’s got plenty of things to say, and I know him well enough to be thankful that Ian’s my boss and not him.

I swallow, keeping my eyes on the floor, waiting for the hit that might come—not physical, but something just as brutal.

“Yo, Mr. Asshole,” Ian says.

With a deliberate click of his tongue, Shane walks past me. It’s only when the door shuts behind him that I breathe again.

“Sit.”

I settle on the chair across from Ian. My hands are cold, but my skin burns hot. I’m a kid, curled up in that cabinet, waiting for my mother’s footsteps, for the inevitable fallout of whatever I’d done wrong. Only this time, it’s worse. This time, there’s no amount of apologies that will fix it.

He watches me in silence, his elbows braced on the desk. “So, Aaron...Explain to me why Amelie makes me drop everything and drive all the way from Mayfield on a Friday night to make sure your first dinner service went well, and I find you screwing her sister in her kitchen.”

I press the heel of my hand to my temple. “I’m sorry, Ian. Mortified, actually. I wasn’t aware of the relationship between Amelie and Charlotte until a few hours before you found us, and?—”

“Oh, okay,” he cuts in, his voice a blade, his blue eyes cold as ice. “Let’s talk about that.”

The muscles in my throat tighten.

“Would you have stopped if you’d known?”

I blink, caught off guard. “What—what do you mean?”

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