Page 29 of Banter & Blushes #1

THE ONE WHERE I FAILED AT MOVING ON

LUCA

A fter drowning myself in another night of whiskey, I knew I should’ve moved on.

I really knew it. Rebecca had made it clear that she didn’t want this—whatever “this” was.

I was, apparently, too young, too “free-spirited,” too not ready for commitment .

All that, plus the age gap. If there was a bingo card for reasons this wasn’t going to work, I had already checked off every single square.

So, with all that incredibly rational knowledge in mind, I decided to try and distract myself.

I threw myself into work. I focused on my restaurant.

I spent more time in the kitchen than I had in months.

I even rearranged the spice rack because, apparently, that was the kind of thing I did when I was avoiding my feelings.

But it didn’t work. I wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all myself.

Every time I walked into the restaurant and saw the space where I had first cooked for Rebecca, I thought of her.

Every time I made a dish she’d liked, I thought of her.

Every time I saw a tomato, I thought of the way she looked at me when I added that extra pinch of basil to the sauce. Every. Single. Time.

So, when a gorgeous woman walked into my restaurant, I was determined.

This was going to be my distraction. Maybe if I could just charm her, get her to like me, I could finally move on from Rebecca.

I didn’t want to— really didn’t want to—but I also couldn’t sit around and mope forever, right?

I needed to put myself out there again. Be the confident, flirty, charming chef who didn’t get tied down by emotions.

She was tall, blonde, and... aggressively confident. Like, overly confident . I swear, when she walked in, she practically strutted to the counter like she was on a runway.

"Table for one, please," she said, giving me a smile that was practically weaponized . The kind of smile that made you want to either run or buy her a drink immediately.

I smiled back, all professional-like. “Right this way.”

But as I led her to her table, my brain immediately went to its default setting of Rebecca . Of course. It was like the universe was sending me a giant screw you .

I tried to shake it off and focus on the woman who was now sitting down, flipping her hair like she was in an ad for shampoo. I could do this. I could just... be a regular guy. I wasn’t a mess of emotions over Rebecca. No. I was fine .

I walked over to take her drink order, only for her to look me dead in the eye and say, “So, do you always look this good in the kitchen, or is this just for me?”

Okay. I wasn’t great at flirting. In fact, I was terrible. But I had learned a thing or two. And I knew when someone was being too much . So, naturally, I did what any rational, emotionally healthy guy would do—I started to panic.

“Well, you know,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though I was dying inside , “I do try to maintain a professional level of attractiveness in the kitchen. It’s all part of the job.”

She giggled, leaning forward. “Oh, I can tell. You must have a lot of women swooning over you. I bet the ladies love you.”

I swear, I tried to keep my cool, but my mind was like, Nope, nope, nope . This wasn’t working. And it wasn’t because she wasn’t attractive. It was because my brain—my entire soul —was still stuck on Rebecca. And the more this woman flirted with me, the more irritated I got.

I felt my fists clench. Why was this bothering me so much?

She smiled even wider, leaning in a little too close now. “So, what’s your story? You, like, date your customers? Or are you one of those “commitment-phobes”?”

I let out a forced laugh, then I accidentally knocked over a glass of water.

“Uh, sorry about that,” I said, quickly wiping it up, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I could’ve sworn the entire restaurant was watching.

She wasn’t deterred, though. If anything, she leaned even closer, as if determined to break through my personal space. “No problem, hot stuff,” she said, batting her eyelashes in a way that could have been classified as warfare if you asked me.

Okay, I needed to escape. This was... not working.

I took a deep breath. Rebecca and I would be laughing together by now.

“No, I don’t, uh, date customers,” I stammered. “But I do enjoy making good food. And, uh... that’s why I’m here. You know, cooking. Since I’m the chef. ”

Why am I saying this? What am I even doing? I need to take heed to all the red flags slapping me in the face and get away from this woman.

She tilted her head, giving me a confused, slightly annoyed look, as if I were the one playing hard to get. “Cooking, huh? That’s... cute.”

I didn’t know why that annoyed me. But it did. Everything she said was getting under my skin. And not in the way I was supposed to be feeling.

Suddenly, I was just done . I was so completely obsessed with Rebecca, it was laughable I even had a thought about entertaining…

whatever this was. I had to get away from this woman before I accidentally said something completely stupid, like, “You’re cute, but you’re not Rebecca, and that’s all I can think about. ”

“Okay, well... I’ll grab you the menu, then,” I said quickly, taking a step back.

“Oh, I’ve already decided,” she said, not giving up just yet. “Maybe you can tell me where I can place an order for a guy like you? You know, a man who knows how to make a woman feel special.”

That was it. The final straw. I couldn’t even look at her anymore without inwardly wincing, regretting that this entire conversation was happening in the first place.

All I could think about was Rebecca, and the way she made me feel, and the way she had so kindly rejected me playfully only to give in to my horrendous lasagna tacos.

I was not going to do this. I was not going to play along.

“Uh, right, okay,” I said, my voice a little too clipped. “I’m going to just... get you that menu.”

I turned to walk away but managed to knock over a stack of napkins in the process. “Great,” I muttered, picking up the napkins in a hurry.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about your love life first? Seems I make you a little nervous,” she called after me, her voice a little too sweet now.

“Love life? No, no,” I said, with a little too much enthusiasm. “I’m good. Really good. No love life. Just... lasagna. Right now. Just lasagna .”

I gave one final, strained smile and practically sprinted into the back of the kitchen, where I promptly slammed the door behind me.

I leaned against it, breathing heavily.

What the heck was wrong with me?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I managed to fail miserably at trying to move on.

I was so not ready for this.