Page 23 of When I Come Back
I check over everyone’s stations to make sure they’re okay before taking off my dirty apron and stepping out on the floor to find Thea. I quickly spot her next to the bar talking to a few busboys motioning to a hallway that leads to a back storage room. As I step closer, I hear her telling them to grab the few extra tables stored there and set them up along the back wall.
“What’s going on?” I ask. A piece of her hair has fallen out of her half-up style, and my fingers itch to push it behind her ear like I did the other day. Instead, I clasp my hands behind my back.
She lifts her hand as if she’s going to run it over her face and then stops, probably remembering she can’t smudge her makeup. A frustrated sound leaves her lips. “The company putting this whole thing together invited victims from local area women's shelters at the last minute and didn’t mention it. Or they did, but I must have missed the email this week with everything else going on. So now I’m scrambling to find seating for twenty-five more people. We should be good on tables, but I need to find more chairs, and I only have enough centerpieces for the tables we planned for.”
This might be her tipping point. She’s run around all evening dealing with one issue after another with such grace, but I think she’s finally hit a wall. Rubbing the scruff on my chin, I rack my brain for a minute.
“Okay,” I say. “Prep the tables, and send a few of the servers over to the distillery. We can use the chairs from there. They won’t match, but at least people won’t be standing to eat their dinner. As for flowers,” I turn to one of the busboys who just carried in a table, “Scott, run out to the front steps and grab a couple of the small pots of mums and bring them in here.” I turn back to Thea. “Throw some votives around them and slightly dim the lights, no one will notice they don’t match the rest.”
Thea stares at me disbelieving. “Thank you,” she clips out, and some of her worry fades. One of the guests—I’m assuming an organizer for the event—is now standing and giving a speech about the efforts of the charity they have all gathered to support.
“Nat,” I quietly call out to the bartender. “Can you please give me a glass of water?” It only takes her a second to fill a pint glass for me, and I thank her. I place the glass in Thea’s hand and pull out one of the stools at the bar. “Here, sit and drink. Have you eaten?”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t fight me and plants herself on the stool. The hem of the black dress that reached her mid-thigh while standing rides up an inch or two with her new position, and my eyes can’t help but take in her bronzed thighs.
Thea always had an athletic body. Growing up on the lake, we were active kids—in and out of the water constantly. When we were together in Seattle, she maintained herself by running every morning, and it seems like the habit has stuck because her legs are long and toned just like I remember.
“I–I think I had breakfast.” Her answer snaps my attention to her face. Her blush tells me she caught me looking.
“You need to eat. I’ll have a plate brought out for you,” I say.
“I’m fine. I’ll eat when I get home later. I really don’t have time right now. I have to help with the silent auction and champagne toast. And you need to get back to the kitchen, I’m sure Josh is having a panic attack by now.” She’s not wrongthere. He’s a great kid with tons of talent, but he needs to learn to work under pressure if he wants to go far in this field.
I stay at her side until she drains the whole glass. I then reluctantly leave her to handle the front of house, while I figure out how I’m going to feed two dozen additional people. I step into the kitchen and stare at the floor unseeing for a minute, hands on my hips, while I sift through my mental catalog of recipes. There has to be something I can whip up with what we have on hand.
“Josh,” I say, and his head pops up from where he’s chopping.
“Yes, Chef?” Even almost a decade later, I get such a thrill having someone refer to me as ‘Chef.’
“Grab the chicken from the freezer that’s meant for next week. Start thawing and get a mirepoix prepped.”
Sorry, Travis, you’ll have to figure out a new special.
“I need you to take a bite of this.” Thea has just stepped into the kitchen to check on me, and I hold out a forkful of braised chicken in a white wine mirepoix for her to taste.
“Can you stop trying to feed me? I don’t have time right now. I have to check on everything on the patio,” she says. At least she sounds more annoyed than frustrated, unlike before.
“Please just taste this. I can’t send this out without your approval,” I insist.
“What do you mean? I’ve already approved all the food. The menu has been set for days.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“We had a bit of a hiccup with the food,” I say in the most placating tone I can muster. “Everything’s fine, I’m handling it. But I had to improvise a bit, and now I need you to taste this, please.” I put the fork up to her face again. I know it’s good enough to go out to the guests, but I also know she hasn’t eaten, and this seems like the easiest way to get something in her system. She looks at my face a bit longer, undoubtedly looking for the lie I’m feeding her, but relents and eats the mouthful I’ve offered her. I see the moment the flavor registers because she closes her eyes and lets out a small moan that goes straight to my dick.
I swallow roughly and say, “I’ll take that as approval?” I don’t give her a chance to answer or say anything more by offering her a few more forkfuls of the chicken dish. She takes them greedily and then excuses herself to get back to her duties.
The night wears on, and I send a couple more small bites of anything we have extra to her, having them delivered by the servers who report back that she’s begrudgingly eating them. That’ll have to tide her over until the gala ends, and I can corner her into sitting down for a proper meal. I won’t take no for an answer.
Tonight might have been a success despite all the complications, but she and I will be discussing her lack of self-care. I know it’s what she does, she puts everyone else’s needs above her own, but I won’t have her running herself ragged. Not when I’m around.
Chapter Twelve
Carrington
It must be close to midnight now. I sent the kitchen staff home about an hour ago. Josh insisted on staying with me to finish the rest of the clean up, but I convinced him I had it handled and thanked him for a job well done tonight. Then I watched as Thea did the same, and the smile that took over his face at the compliment showcased how much he values her opinion.
I place the garnish on Thea’s late supper and wipe the edges of the plate. Presentation matters, all of my instructors always said so. Food is eaten with our eyes as much as our mouths after all.
I come out of the kitchen, plate in hand, and find Thea behind the bar wiping down the wooden bartop, her back to me. The lights are mostly all off around the dining area, just the dim overheads in the bar illuminate the space in a warm glow. Her hair creates a halo effect around her head in the soft light. I quietly place the plate on the counter next to me, cross my arms,lean against the wall, and just watch her. She’s swaying gently and quietly singing along to “Tennessee Whiskey” as she works.
