Page 100 of Love on the Rocks
- One Week with the Greek
CALLIE
I’m opening a restaurant. Holy shit!
The butterflies in my stomach were in full flight now, batting their wings against my ribs. I pinched myself daily. I took a deep breath and stared out the window. It was a gray, drizzly summer day in London. The streets outside were bustling with people: Londoners on their way to work, tourists taking selfies in front of the double-decker buses. It was hard to believe that a few short weeks ago I was sipping frappé under the Mediterranean sun.
If it wasn’t for the dull, persistent ache in my chest when I thought of Nikos, I might have believed it had only been a dream.
Coming back to the real world had been a shock; I wasn’t prepared for the crowds or the noise or the frenetic energy of thecity. I almost wondered at first if I had caught the island curse. I still felt tethered to it by an invisible string. When I looked up into the sky, I found myself searching for the constellation Lyra, wondering if Nikos was looking at it too. But there was too much light pollution, too many clouds blocking out the stars, and eventually I gave up looking.
I’d put away my copy ofOne Week with the Greek, but occasionally my eyes would catch on the creased spine. And I wondered if I’d ever read it again without thinking of him.
I still thought of him constantly, so much in fact that I was even conjuring up visions of him here in London. Just this morning I spied a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair in the park. My breath caught and I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, he was gone.
It was silly to think he’d be here. With his agoraphobia, it was an impossible trip to make. And, after all, I had told him to forget me. I’d impulsively changed my phone number so he couldn’t call me, which I immediately regretted, but it was too late to get the number back
Why had he listened to me? It was so out of character for him. Usually, he preferred to thumb his nose at me, to do the opposite of what I asked of him. And hadn’t he learned anything fromOne Week with the Greek? If he had really done his research in romance novels, he’d know that he should show up on my doorstep and beg me to come back.
This wasn’t a romance novel though; it was real life. And in real life, even if you went tumbling deeply, madly in love with someone, it didn’t always work out.
I couldn’t have it all. I’d made the choice to focus on myself for once.
“Calista!” A tapping on the window brought me back to reality. Anne-Sophie Granger stood outside, a phone in one hand and a paper cup in the other. I opened the door for her.
“My God, you look gorgeous. All glowy and sun-kissed.” She gave me two cheek kisses. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Please.” I made space for her. She may have been superficial in a lot of ways, but she had proven to be stand-up loyalist where I was concerned. She was the reason I’d gotten the head chef position at the restaurant. I’d contacted her just days after coming back to London in full panic mode after checking my bank account. It was humiliating to admit to her that I no longer had a restaurant in Greece, but she’d been understanding.
“Oh, darling, I know already,” she’d said sympathetically. “Gazzer, that self-absorbed cunt, is trying to blacklist you. Gawd, I can’t believe I ever shagged him.”
“I didn’t realize you’d dated.”
“If you could call it that. Our families have known each other forever. I was desperate for Seth and ended up shagging the wrong brother!” She’d laughed. “Teenage mistake. Never had an orgasm. He was just absolutely lost down there.” I bit my cheek. It wasn’t a lie. I did feel like I’d done all the work in that department. She winked at me. “But I don’t have to tell you that. Anyway, listen, do you know Carys Llewellyn?”
Did I ever. She was one of the top female restaurateurs in London and she was slowly but surely building her own female foodie empire in the UK.
“She’s opening a small restaurant, and the chef is taking early maternity leave. She wants to hire another woman. Would you be interested?”
I’d dialed that number like my fingers were on fire. And now here we were, sitting together on the opening night of my new restaurant all thanks to Anne-Sophie. Even Liv had forgiven her.
“Can I see the menu?” she asked, and I turned the paper toward her, nervously biting my fingernail as she looked it over. “The dessert has a name! I love it!”
I hoped she would. It had come to me last night as I put the finishing touches on that dessert. I was struggling with it up until last night when I’d had a eureka moment with some bitter oranges.
The menu told a story—a bittersweet one—about the journey that had brought me here. I’d adapted the menu from what I’d prepared in Lyra because I needed to get it out of my system. It was a story that I had to tell. And the ending, like the dessert, was bittersweet.
I only wished I could have shared it with Nikos. But that boat had sailed.
* * *
“I can’t believe this is happening!” squealed Liv as she hugged me to her, as close as her stomach would allow, that is. We were in the front of the house following the last run-through with staff before our 7 p.m. opening. Liv had insisted on documenting it all with her new camera. “Look at this place. It’s soyou, Cal!”
This restaurant may have been small—sixty covers per service—but it was beautiful and feminine and, yes, veryme. When Carys had let me name it, I’d suggested Gypsy, an ode to Stevie Nicks of course, but it was also an aesthetic philosophy. From the décor to the food—everything represented a mingling of cultures and histories, a crossroads of all the things that had brought me here. We’d decorated the brick-walled interior with an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture, liberty prints, and enough fairy lights, plants, and candles to think you’d entered a magical kingdom. It was, in every way, the opposite of the simple white rectangle that Greystone had planned for Lyra.
It was too much. Way too much. And I loved it.
“Wait until everyone sees this place!” Olivia clapped her hands together. She and Jake had arrived that morning withLevi in tow. My parents had cut their European tour short to support me as well. They’d stopped by earlier in the afternoon to wish me luck, and my mom had taken a couple snapshots for the family newsletter.
