Page 25 of Hot Hearts
“What do you even want me to say to him?”
“You’ll do it?” Her smile returns. The screen of her phone lights up. If I can get them together, maybe they'll leave me alone. “Oh, he’s live now.” Sara quickly snatches her phone off the table. I start to get up, thinking I can slip out of here and block her. It was pointless to come here. Not sure what I thought I would get out of this.
Can’t a girl just have badass best girlfriends?
When I hear Felipe's voice play out over the speaker of her phone, I start to get up. That is until I hear Brooks's voice. What the hell?
“Why is Brooks with—” I snatch the phone from her hand. Sure enough, he is there.
What the hell is going on now?
Chapter Sixteen
BROOKS
For the first time since I opened The Plate, there are empty tables. I dismiss all the staff except Jess, who served as a maître d’ at a small Paris eatery to help pay for culinary school before she became a chef. She mans the front of the house for the few customers while I prepare everything from the prepped ingredients.
Slater sits in the kitchen alternating between watching me and checking the internet. I don’t need for her to tell me what they’re saying online. I can read it in the thin line her mouth forms and the tightness around her eyes. I can feel it in the chill of the kitchen and the quiet of the front of the house.
Savvier than I gave him credit for, Felipe Wilson was able to capture—and broadcast—my threats of harm to him. After I left, Wilson had continued his lies saying that he wasn’t able to catch it on camera, but I’d talked about how Slater was mine and that I wasn’t going to allow anyone else in her life. Rather than coming off as a protective boyfriend, Wilson made me out to be an unhinged misogynist who wanted to control Slater. People were in her comments telling her to leave me.
Those comments bothered me, but I didn’t say anything to Slater because she was upset enough.
When the last customer is served and the kitchen is spotless, I turn all the lights off and lead my girl upstairs.
“I guess threatening to kill someone is not the best form of advertising,” I joke as the lights to the kitchen come on when we enter.
A high-pitched giggle escapes and then abruptly turns to a sob. She stuffs a fist in her face. “God, I’m so sorry. What did I drag you into?”
“I didn’t realize you dragged me over to Wilson’s.”
“You know what I mean. You just wanted to get laid, and now your restaurant is ruined.”
“Ruined is a strong word.” I push in the dial to the gas stove and listen to the click click click as the gas ignites the burner. It’s a comforting sound. As the water and cinnamon stick heats in the sauce pan, I grab the maple syrup and herbal tea leaves from the cupboard. “And I’m happy to have gotten laid, as you put it, because you and I were meant to be together.”
“Are we? Because so far both our reputations have been ruined.”
“We’re in a downturn. I think Graham would say this is a buying opportunity.” I pour the cinnamon infused water over the loose tea to steep. Once it’s ready, I add the syrup ad top it with a squeeze of lemon.
“Is there a reputation stock market where we can buy good reviews and customers?”
“Probably.” I push the drink toward Slater. “Drink. It will make you feel better.”
“What about you?” she asks as she picks up the booze free hot toddy.
“Having my own comfort drink.” I pour myself a whiskey and tap my glass to hers. “To better times.”
Slater looks marginally better after a few sips. The hot drink has put color in her cheeks. She still looks defeated, slumped on the kitchen stool, her elbows on the counter and her hands cupping the mug. I lean back against the counter and cross my ankles.
I can’t even be mad about what Wilson said online after I’d left. Those were my sentiments. Slater belongs to me, and I’ll crush anyone that tries to come between us. I don’t know why that’s considered unhealthy.
I try to remember the other stuff I said, things he might have recorded but not released. As I’m running through our conversation, the image of his counter springs to mind. I tell Slater about it.
“I think he’s pretending to buy expensive wines and giving fake reviews for them,” I say. “There were bottles that cost five or ten grand. They were all empty.”
“And he had a funnel and tube?” she asks.
“Yes. Those wines are carried by the steakhouse where he works, so it would be easy for him to take the empties home with him, fill them with some kind of diluted grape juice, and then pretend to give reviews.”
