Page 59 of The Lovers
“Cilantro, black beans, serrano peppers?” he lists.
“I can’t be certain of the exact ingredients,” I say. Zoe steps away again, walking back through the archway that leads into the kitchen. “But you should come out and try to turn this situation around.” I don’t want to be a dick, but this is his mistake—he needs to find a fix.
Zoe is back. “The kitchen staff I spoke with thinks they have everything he needs to redo the empanadas.”
“Javier,” I say, elevating my voice through the door. My tone is firm. “There’s still time to fix this if you get cracking.”
There are a few beats of quiet in which, with an extraclose lean, I can ascertain that Javier is moving around inside, likely searching for beans. Then there’s the click of the lock and the twist of the door handle to reveal the disheveled-haired, red-rimmed-eyed Javier. He’s a young entrepreneur whose family owns a well-known restaurant in West Hollywood. He’s trying to make a name for himself, so a screwup on a big wedding account with an influencer like Millie would understandably freak him out.
“We have less than six hours until the cocktail hour,” I say, as we all walk back over to the main kitchen area. The chef has given him a small space near the back door to work.
“Chef Dorian has agreed to allot room in the oven for up to three pans,” Zoe says, setting two bags of black beans on the counter space. “And they have a pressure cooker for these.”
I make a mental note to send Chef Dorian a flowerarrangement. Her reputation for being a team player wasn’t a fallacy, but this is really above and beyond.
Javier begins setting out his needed ingredients from the kitchen’s supplies, and I let out a deep exhale of relief. It took every ounce of my training—all my impeccably honed willpower and self-control—to focus on the crisis when I could still taste Kit’s tongue. I want to get back to her. Not solely to hook up, but definitely hoping that’s still in the cards. I have to internally snarl at my own use of a term with such a literal meaning in our case.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least moderately nervous she’s going to pull the same disappearing act as she did that summer after high school if I ask her what this whole heavy petting, steamy kissing thing means for us when we get back to LA. Hell, I’m half expecting her to play down any connection here at Celestial Sands.
The second one might be for the best, actually, considering my brooding ex-girlfriend is on-site and trying to get me alone so she can mindfuck me into taking her back.
I motion for Zoe to follow me out of the kitchen. We’re standing in the main dining room of the restaurant, where some of the extended family are enjoying lunch. Fortunately, the mothers are both still at the spa. I had Zoe schedule them lunch inside the facility as a precaution. Those two roaming the grounds unattended presents too many unknown variables, the mental flexibility for which I do not possess right now.
“Update on the fathers?” I ask Zoe, as we walk through the dining room to the courtyard. The sun shoots through the bright, multicolored lanterns hanging from the pergola that shades the area, casting Zoe in a rainbow of color.
“Still golfing. We sent a lunch cart out to the ninth hole, so myguess is they won’t return until their barbershop cleanup.” The groom’s party, including both fathers and the two Connecticut uncles who flew in for the rehearsal to play ushers, are all getting a classically masculine (barf) treatment at the barber before tonight’s events. Their version of a spa day.
“Bless the golf course gods for keeping them occupied,” I say, steepling my fingers in mock prayer.
“They are the laziest of the gods, so I am told. Glad they came through,” she deadpans. I let out an exhausted but genuine laugh. My mind is already moving away from wedding checkups and trailing back through the paths of Celestial Sands to Kit’s Airstream trailer. “I’m totally rank after no sleep and bachelor wrangling. I have to go freshen up.”
“Of course, boss,” she says.
“I’m not your boss, Zoe. You work for Love, Always, not me.”
Something like disappointment slinks through her giant, dark eyes. It’s gone in a heartbeat, but I notice it, and I feel like I am inadvertently the one responsible for it.
I turn to leave the courtyard, planning to meander toward Homebase before DMing Kit to find out where she’s landed. Just thinking the words brings the fresh memory back up in my head, sending shoots of heat through my body—my cheeks, my chest, between my legs.
As I pass in front of Homebase, I see the bridal party returning to Millie’s bungalow after their morning of brunching. Right on schedule, as I would expect from the impeccable Millie Morgan. Millie waves me over as she unlocks her door, letting the other women funnel in around her. Piper, unsurprisingly, lingers outside to listen in.
“I know I have you to thank for getting the boys there in onepiece,” she says, and then restates, her nose scrunching, playful, “Mostly one piece.”
“I have some ideas about how to remedy the Cash Kim forehead situation.”
“He suggested I let him wear his trucker hat.” She raises her brows in ahell noface.
“Oh God no.” I laugh. “I was thinking strategic hairstyling plus a little concealer.”
“Much better,” Millie says. Her eyes drift to the hovering Piper. “Come on, sis, we have slippers and a plush robe waiting at the spa.”
Piper feigns a smile. “Just need to steal Julia away for a quick sec.” She winks, indicating thesecshe needs is for some sort of supersecret wedding special and not another attempt to reel me back into her clutches.
“Okay, but make it snappy,” Millie says, her tone playful. She moves inside the bungalow, letting the door close behind her.
I cut Piper a hard look and she flashes me a smirk, leaning close.
“I get bimonthly spa treatments at the Waldorf. I could skip out on these if you’re free.”
