Page 6 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)
Robin
I slept like absolute shit last night, tossing and turning, thinking every creak was something haunting me, one of the Hummingbird’s many infamous ghosts or, more likely, Molly.
After finally falling asleep around sunrise, I wake up at the crack of noon to find the house empty.
I don’t want to be caught lurking around in sweatpants when Molly returns, so I shower and get dressed to wander into town.
Beyond one short grocery trip, I haven’t set foot outside of the inn since I arrived days ago.
Frankly, running into old acquaintances while at rock bottom sounds only slightly more pleasant than Molly’s death glares.
I throw on a baseball cap and sunglasses in the hope I won’t be recognized, then walk toward the outskirts of downtown, trying to avoid the thickest crowds of summer tourists.
These stone stairways are all over town, cutting steep walking paths between roads.
There are even storefronts tucked away in the hills halfway up the staircases.
Eureka is a nightmare for anyone with mobility issues.
Ask me about the month when I had a sprained ankle and couldn’t go to half the places in town—including my own fourth-floor apartment.
Just when I thought I’d escaped, I hear Dot and her tour group turning onto the bottom of the stairs.
Dammit. Looking around for places to hide, I spot a restaurant sign at the top that looks unfamiliar.
Figuring it’s less likely to be full of people I know than the old-favorite Eureka spots, I take the stairs two at a time and throw myself in before Dot can point me out as a former local, now washed-up celebrity.
“Welcome to Counterculture,” a server in a burlap apron says, appearing out of nowhere and almost giving me a heart attack. “Table for one?”
“Um, yeah. Sure,” I say, realizing it’s my only option. As the rich smell of freshly baked bread and roasted garlic hits me, my stomach gurgles.
The server grabs a menu and leads me to the only open table, right in the front window. Not a great spot when you’re trying to avoid, oh, everyone. “Actually, could I just sit at the bar?” I ask.
The server, unbothered, nods and hands me the menu. I creep over to the darkest corner of the room, which is decorated tastefully with potted plants and copper statement pieces. Climbing onto a stool, I pull down my hat brim and broadly avoid eye contact, just in case.
It’s not until I start scanning the menu that I remember I’m broke. I have no business being in a restaurant that charges eighteen dollars for portobello grits. I’m searching for the cheapest dish—a side of Broccolini for ten dollars? Yikes!—when the bartender comes for my order.
“I’ll have a cup of coffee and a side of home fries, please,” I say. “Plus a slice of lemon and side of garlic aioli, if you have it?”
“Holy shit,” a voice says from behind me as the bartender walks away. “Robin Lasko? Are you fucking serious right now?”
As much as I want to avoid interacting with any living soul, I can’t possibly be upset to hear that voice. “Jesse!” I say, hopping off my barstool for a big hug.
“I have missed the shit out of you,” he says, squeezing me so hard I think my eyes bug out a little.
I take a moment to appreciate his familiar wavy brown hair, his kind eyes, his big, warm smile. Then I clock his white chef’s jacket. “Wait, you work here? That’s great, dude!”
He beams with pride. “Actually,” Jesse says, “I own it.”
“You…own…” The revelation hits me and I’m ripped in two, half thrilled for this guy I adore, half brokenhearted about my own failed restaurant ventures.
I give myself an internal shake and lean into the happy-for-Jesse feels.
“Freaking incredible!” I say, gripping him by the elbows.
“I would say I can’t believe it, but I absolutely can.
You deserve all the success in the world. ”
The bartender returns with my coffee. “Gia! Do you know who this is?” Jesse says to her, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Robin Lasko. Let’s Do Brunch winner. Foodie TV. She taught me everything I know.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” I say, shrinking as heads across the room turn in my direction.
“Oh yeah!” Gia says as she looks at me again. “I thought I recognized you.”
“Seriously though, dude,” Jesse says to me, his face brimming with sincerity. “You gave me my first shot. Took me in when no other kitchen would. I owe all of this to you.”
I gulp, moved but also embarrassed by how the tables have turned.
Jesse was my first sous-chef at the Hummingbird, hired with essentially zero experience or professional training.
But the Arkansas culinary world was too distracted by the fact that he was a trans man to notice he was bursting with talent, even at eighteen.
“Anyone paying a lick of attention would have seen your potential. I’m lucky Caro introduced us,” I say with quiet gratitude.
“Caro,” Jesse says, his eyes widening. “Oh shit, I have to call Caro. They’re going to freak out. Our house is just up the street.”
“You two are still going strong?” I say, my voice wobbling from the influx of bittersweet memories.
Caro was our earliest employee at the inn and pretty much the only reason we held it together when we accidentally became a hit LGBTQ+ travel destination and the waitlist went bananas.
Maybe my marriage was a bust, but if that makes Jesse and Caro the queer power couple in Eureka these days, it’s a silver lining.
“Fourteen years next month.” Jesse whips out his phone and starts typing. “Hey, I’ve gotta get back to the kitchen, but, Gia? Give Robin anything she wants on the house. Actually, I’ll send out a chef’s tasting menu. No fennel, right?”
“You don’t have to do all that,” I say, although both my stomach and my wallet are relieved.
Jesse waves my words away. “How often do I get to show off for a world-class chef?” He disappears into the kitchen as a voice in the back of my head says, World-class loser.