Then again, if we’d had a team like this in Boston, I wouldn’t be in this delightful situation, hunkering down behind a newspaper, wearing a fisherman’s hat, sunglasses, and the fakest mustache I’ve ever seen—but it was the only thing available at the Pottsmouth dollar store. Who wouldn’t want this life?
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” Jessica, the waitress, asks.
In a high-pitched voice—because that’s so believable—I answer, “Good,” on a squeak.
As she walks away, I look behind me to see if I dropped my balls on the way in here. They must be in the parking lot.
I ordered a bunch of food off the menu to make it seem like I was a hungry tourist coming in from a long day of sightseeing and definitely not a pathetic guy who’s hoping to catch a glimpse of any men hitting on his ex.
The food at the Inn is okay. It’s not great, and it’s nothing compared to what we have planned down at Knight and Port, but for someone staying at the Inn, it’s a pretty good option.
Their biscuits are a little dry, their soup a tad salty, and their steak slightly overdone. It’s the little mistakes here and there that add up to a subpar experience at a restaurant—little mistakes I’m determined not to make at Knight and Port. It’s why Eric and I are perfecting every last recipe, why we’re making sure the construction work is inspected every night. We are building a legacy, not just a restaurant. After all, we have the Lobster Landing’s quality to live up to.
Lowering the newspaper just slightly, I peer over it and perch my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose so I can have an unobstructed view of Eve over at the bar. She’s striding around flawlessly, delivering drinks and food while chatting up every person who has a seat at her bar. She’s an absolute professional. Her work ethic is impeccable, and her drive is a huge turn-on for me. Juggling her duties at the Inn and Knight and Port until the soft opening—she’s impressive with how she’s able to accomplish everything.
Not to mention how goddamn beautiful she is. I swear she’s doing something different just to torture me, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not her hair or her makeup; it’s almost like her aura—as Brig would say—is different. The smile doesn’t leave her face. Is she happy without me—glad that I cut ties?
And that’s not even taking her confidence into account. She’s always been a ball buster and extremely self-assured, but this new level of confidence has brought her hot factor up to inferno levels.
Also, she’s been wearing a lot of low-cut shirts, showing off her perfect tits. She wears them a lot to Knight and Port, and she’s even wearing one now. I know I’m not the only guy here who’s watching her bend over. It makes me want to go around the restaurant with a can of wasp spray and blast any person who even glances in her direction right in the eye—teach them to never check out my girl.
Yeah, my girl.
Sure, I get it. I’m the moron who broke up with her, but for good reasons. After all, just look at Knight and Port; things couldn’t be going more smoothly, and it’s because we all know our place, we all know what we’re supposed to be doing, and there are no distractions—excluding my night incognito.
Maybe Eric was right, and our breakup was for the best—though I can’t stop wondering what life would be like if Eve and I were still together. I sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging out with my parents as much as I am right now. It’s so bad that I voluntarily sat between them last Friday night, watching A Star Is Born as they both cried, each of them clutching one of my hands. In that moment, I couldn’t believe that was what my life had come to: my parents crying on my shoulders while I listened to Lady Gaga sing.
No man wants that life.
And now, I’m dressed like a chump, peering at my ex over a table of mediocre food . . . Jesus.
I tear my gaze away and stare down at the lobster mac and cheese in front of me as I press my hand to my brow. What the hell am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t stalk women. I don’t dress up in cheesy mustaches and order subpar food just so I can pretend I’m not pining over someone.
And I sure as hell don’t download small-town gossip apps on my phone either.
I need to get—
“Reid, what are you doing here?”
Eve.
Fuck.
My body stills as my stomach drops to the floor in pure mortification. With my head still down, I say in my high-pitched voice, “No Reid here. Wrong person. I’m Cleatus. Food’s good. Thanks.” I give her a little wave and continue averting my eyes as she stands over me.
My hat is torn off my head, and when I reach for it, Eve bends down and rips off my mustache.
“Ouch,” I say, rubbing my upper lip. “I stuck that on with a glue stick.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Looking around, trying to see who’s paying attention, I sit up and place both hands on the table after lifting my sunglasses. “Well, thanks for blowing my cover, Eve.”
“Everyone in this building knew it was you—it’s all the kitchen staff can talk about. Don’t be surprised if you’re in the newspaper tomorrow.”
Great. Real fucking great.
“You didn’t have to come over here and turn this into a grand reveal. Have a little respect for a man’s privacy.”
“Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I wave toward the abundance of food on my table. “Scoping out the competition.” I don’t mention that the competition has nothing to do with the restaurant industry and everything to do with her heart. “And you just spoiled that. Good job, Eve.”
From the suspicious lines at the corners of her mouth, I’m guessing she doesn’t buy it.
“If that’s the case, you could have just come in and eaten food—no need for the pathetic disguise.”
She holds up the mustache that’s stuck to her finger. I quickly tear it off and stick it in my pocket. “It’s not a pathetic disguise. I thought it was creative.”
“You looked like a fool.”
“Well, since we’re no longer together, how I look isn’t your concern.”
Her lips quirk to the side. “We might not be together, but you’re my business partner, and I don’t need you scaring away customers before we even open the doors.”
“Why don’t you worry about the paperwork and the press, and I’ll worry about how I look and what we serve, huh?”
“How you look is part of my job. How you act is part of my job. Everything you do is my concern. So stop dressing up like Tom Selleck’s estranged brother who was lost out at sea for two years, and act like the five-star chef that you are.”
“Ah, you think I’m a five-star chef?”
I don’t think her eyes could roll any harder. “I’m leaving.”
“Hey,” I call out before she can get any farther. When she looks over her shoulder, I casually say, “So . . . are ya dating anyone?”
Chuckling, she shakes her head. “You’re so transparent, Reid.”
“Transparent enough that you’ll come to my place tonight and try some food?”
“No.”
Damn it.