Page 6 of Hot Hearts
Chapter Four
BROOKS
One Cup, Tea Cup is predictably busy. There’s only one table open, and that’s because it has a reserved sign on it. I had called in a favor. The owner, Carrie, had not wanted to help me until I told her I would be engaged in public groveling. She immediately changed her mind and asked if she could set up a live feed.
I think she was kidding.
She rushes toward me when I enter, a gleeful smile on her face.
“You don’t have to look so happy,” I grunt when she reaches me.
“No. I do. The mighty Brooks Neal is being felled today. If only Culinary School Carrie had known this would happen, she wouldn’t have felt so defeated back then.”
“I didn’t think I was that bad of a classmate.” You’d think I sabotaged one of her dishes by the glee she’s exhibiting over my situation.
“You were impossible. Your prep was always perfect. Your knife skills impeccable. Your dishes always turned out right evenwhen you took risks. The teacher thought that you could do no wrong.”
I stare at her blankly because these don’t seem like legitimate complaints. “You wanted me to burn the roux?”
“Yes, that would have made me feel better, but since your roux was always perfect, that’s why I’m so happy to host you today. Finally, Chef Brooks has a flaw.” She claps her hands together and then trots back to the counter before I can reply.
I don’t have a response anyway because I was the best chef there. I don’t feel like apologizing for that, unlike how I know I need to bend the knee for Slater. I sit down and rehearse what I’m going to say.I’m sorry I had you followed. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was. Genuinely, I thought you knew. I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were. I don’t spend that much time on the internet or social media. I never would’ve slept with you if I knew you were a critic—actually I can’t say that because it’s not true. I would have had her if she was a bride at the altar preparing to be with another man. I wanted her—still want her—that much. What’s also true is that now that we have slept together, she needs to move in with me. The plan is sound. I apologize and then explain how we navigate our future.
A commotion at the door grabs my attention. I catch a glimpse of Slater before she’s swallowed by a mob of people that rush her with their phones out. Everyone is in selfie mode. Some are even asking for autographs. At the counter, Carrie’s head swivels from Slater to me and then back to Slater. Somehow she makes the connection and starts laughing, folding in half.
Since Slater’s being mobbed, I get up and retrieve her. As I’m pushing people out of the way, I hear a few people say my name. Graham once was the internet main character of the day and said it sucked, but since I’m never on social media, I didn’t think it would bother me. Slater, on the other hand, makes a living off of being an internet celebrity. I hesitate when I reach her,wondering if being connected to me will hurt her reputation, but her eyes widen in relief at the sight of me. Her hand is around her stomach, protecting herself. Irritation rises in me. I throw my arm around her and sweep her out of the café.
Several people follow us. I start to turn around, to tell them off, but Slater tugs me back. “Don’t make it worse,” she says quietly. She puts on a smile and gives the gawkers a little wave. A kid with a camera steps toward us. I growl.
Slater slides a hand over my mouth. “Do you have a car?”
I nod and press the remote starter. The Mercedes purrs to life. As I’m pulling away from the curb, I ask, “That happen to you a lot?”
“More now, but it’s okay. I’m able to do what I do because of followers. If it weren’t for them, I’d be in a call center trying to get cable customers not to cancel their service.”
“Is that what you did before?”
“Yeah. It was terrible. We had these quotas and got rewards for how many people we convinced not to cancel their service, but it was hard, and people got mad at you, which they were perfectly right to do. I always remind myself of that whenever someone comes up to me in public and asks for a photo.”
“Not so different from the restaurant business. We are nothing without our diners.” We’re perfect for each other. I wonder if she sees that. “Where to?”
“Somewhere private but not completely private.”
Meaning not my house or hers. “How about The Plate? It’s not open yet, but there is staff around.”
“That’s fine.”
My restaurant is not far away, and I pull into the back parking lot only a few minutes later. Her hand falls to the door latch.
“Don’t touch it,” I bark. Confusion falls over her face. “It’s just a rule I have,” I say with what I hope is a softer tone. “Opening doors is my job.”
“It’s the 21st century,” she says as I help her out of the car.
“Dad would say good manners should exist in every generation, not just the first ones.” I notice her hand is around her stomach again. “You not feeling well?” I slap my palm over her forehead. She does feel hot.
“No, I’m fine.”
I turn us around toward the car, but she resists. I cock my head. “What’s the problem?”
