Page 41 of Banter & Blushes

When this vacation was over, I would go back to my office, my emails, my deadlines, and my lonely apartment. I would spend my evenings with takeout and a glass of wine while I pretended that everything was fine. I would convince myself that this was the life I’d chosen, and that was that. And yet... there was Luca.

“Exactly,” Maya said, crossing her arms with a satisfied grin. “You can’t go back to that, not after this.Not after him. You’re making a huge mistake, Beck. Just think about it.”

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. If I went back to my life without trying this—without giving Luca a real shot—what the hell was I actually going back to?

And that thought left me with a terrible, hollow feeling in my chest.

“Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, though it was obvious I was failing miserably. “Maybe... maybe I’ll just try to focus on the shopping for now.”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Good idea. But, seriously, you need to start thinking about what you actuallywantonce this vacation’s over. Because if you don’t, honey, you might just end up looking back and wondering what the heck you wereactuallydoing.”

I swallowed hard, trying not to let the lump in my throat completely betray me.

Yeah, Maya was right. What was I actually going back to?

THE ONE WHERE I FAILED AT MOVING ON

LUCA

After drowning myself in another night of whiskey, I knew I should’ve moved on. Ireallyknew it. Rebecca had made it clear that she didn’t want this—whatever “this” was. I was, apparently, too young, too “free-spirited,” toonot ready for commitment. All that, plus the age gap. If there was a bingo card for reasons this wasn’t going to work, I had already checked off every single square.

So, with all thatincredibly rationalknowledge in mind, I decided to try and distract myself. I threw myself into work. I focused on my restaurant. I spent more time in the kitchen than I had in months. I evenrearranged the spice rackbecause, apparently, that was the kind of thing I did when I was avoiding my feelings.

But it didn’t work. I wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all myself.

Every time I walked into the restaurant and saw the space where I had first cooked for Rebecca, I thought of her. Every time I made a dish she’d liked, I thought of her. Every time I saw a tomato, I thought of the way she looked at me when I added that extra pinch of basil to the sauce. Every. Single. Time.

So, when a gorgeous woman walked into my restaurant, I was determined.Thiswas going to be my distraction. Maybe if I could just charm her, get her to like me, I could finally move on from Rebecca. I didn’t want to—reallydidn’t want to—but I also couldn’t sit around and mope forever, right?I needed to put myself out there again. Be the confident, flirty, charming chef who didn’t get tied down by emotions.

She was tall, blonde, and...aggressivelyconfident. Like,overly confident. I swear, when she walked in, she practically strutted to the counter like she was on a runway.

"Table for one, please," she said, giving me a smile that was practicallyweaponized. The kind of smile that made you want to either run or buy her a drink immediately.

I smiled back, all professional-like. “Right this way.”

But as I led her to her table, my brain immediately went to its default setting ofRebecca. Of course. It was like the universe was sending me a giantscrew you.

I tried to shake it off and focus on the woman who was now sitting down, flipping her hair like she was in an ad for shampoo. I could do this. I could just... be a regular guy. I wasn’t a mess of emotions over Rebecca. No. I wasfine.

I walked over to take her drink order, only for her to look me dead in the eye and say, “So, do you always look this good in the kitchen, or is this just for me?”

Okay. I wasn’t great at flirting. In fact, I was terrible. But I had learned a thing or two. And I knew when someone was beingtoo much. So, naturally, I did what any rational, emotionally healthy guy would do—I started to panic.

“Well, you know,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though I wasdying inside, “I do try to maintain a professional level of attractiveness in the kitchen. It’s all part of the job.”

She giggled, leaning forward. “Oh, I can tell. You must have a lot of women swooning over you. I bet the ladies love you.”

I swear, I tried to keep my cool, but my mind was like,Nope, nope, nope. This wasn’t working. And it wasn’t because she wasn’t attractive. It was because my brain—myentire soul—was still stuck on Rebecca. And the more this woman flirted with me, the more irritated I got.

I felt my fists clench. Why was this bothering me so much?

She smiled even wider, leaning in a little too close now. “So, what’s your story? You, like, date your customers? Or are you one of those “commitment-phobes”?”

I let out a forced laugh, then Iaccidentallyknocked over a glass of water.

“Uh, sorry about that,” I said, quickly wiping it up, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I could’ve sworn the entire restaurant was watching.

She wasn’t deterred, though. If anything, she leaned even closer, as if determined to break through my personal space. “No problem, hot stuff,” she said, batting her eyelashes in a way that could have been classified aswarfareif you asked me.

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