Page 7 of Can’t Kiss the Chef (Westvale University #2)

Lola

There is nothing more euphoric than waking up to weather that matches your mood.

The sun is shining. Birds singing. The smell of coffee wafting through the house.

That’s what I wake up to on the first day of classes. The anticipation of taking classes for a major I chose has me thinking I might not need that second cup of coffee this morning.

The espresso machine hisses, spitting out the liquid gold. I blame Nonno for my caffeine addiction. I may need five cups of coffee a day to function like a somewhat normal adult, but it’s better than being addicted to drugs.

With my drink in hand, I go through my backpack running down my mental checklist.

Textbooks ??

Notebooks ??

Pens ??

Hair ties ?

I run up to my room and dig through my vanity and there is not a single hair tie in sight.

The boxes I neglected to unpack mock me.

I guess I should have prioritized organization over a party at he who shall not be named’s house.

I hate that when he told me he missed me, I believed him.

If he really missed me, wouldn’t he have made more of an effort to stay in touch this summer?

I look across the hall, and Margo’s door is slightly ajar. She’s a senior on the basketball team and took Ivy’s old room.

I lightly tap on the door, but enter before she says anything. Margo and I have been friends since she transferred to Westvale at the start of our sophomore year. I consider myself the five-foot-three mascot for the Westvale Retrievers Women’s basketball team.

“Hey, Margo, do you have some hair ties I can use? I need them for my culinary class.”

Margo’s bloodshot eyes are the first thing I notice when she looks up from her laptop.

She went to Jasper’s– the best college dive bar you’ll ever find– last night and clearly had a good time.

She lets out a grunt before pointing to her dresser, where a wicker basket is overflowing with bright scrunchies.

I dig through it, hoping to find something black, I’d even settle for navy blue.

“Would it kill you to own something black?” I know I should be appreciative that she is letting me dig through her things, but really how do you not own one neutral color thing but never clash? Make it make sense!

She looks up at me, eyes half-dead. “Yes, yes, it would,” she grunts before jumping out of her bed and racing down the hall to the bathroom that we share.

A bright orange scrunchie grabs my attention. New year, new me. I guess.

It’s funny how a day of grueling classes can be enjoyable when you actually like what you’re studying.

Not being tied to a desk in the biology building– figuratively speaking, of course– has been so freeing.

I love my entrepreneurship capstone class.

We have to draw up a business plan and spend the semester building our opening day event.

I decided to write a plan to open my own private chef business.

Ivy said that a bunch of Jalen’s teammates have them and thinks I would love doing something like that.

There was a three hour break between my second class of the day, digital marketing, and my last class.

I’m taking two culinary-based classes this semester but this is the one that I’m really excited for.

It’s a semester-long project where we work with a partner to create a seven-course menu.

All the groups are going to be assigned a country they have to use as inspiration.

We have to come up with a printed menu, table settings, the whole nine yards.

I spent the three hours in between classes at Expresso Yourself, the coffee shop next to Lucky’s, for my third cup of the day.

I scribble down a bunch of ideas for different restaurants.

I sketch out different interior vibes. I’m a halfway decent artist, so I have sketches of both plating and table ideas.

I flick the lights on in the empty classroom, settling at a table in the second row. We won’t be spending too much time at seminars since the class acts like a test kitchen when we aren’t learning how to run a restaurant.

The loud thud of a textbook-filled backpack shocks me out of my Instagram death scroll. I look up into a pair of angelic blue eyes.

I’m not sure when it happened but the classroom is full. The only open seat is next to me. Byron Andrews happily sits two feet away from me. His signature goofy grin on display.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. I forgot we both signed up for this class.”

I forgot about that stupid nickname he gave me last semester. Being five-foot-three with a plethora of athlete friends, you kind of set yourself up for jokes about your height.

“Same,” I say flatly.

He flicks the bright orange scrunchie. Half of my short black hair– the same color as my jeans and cropped t-shirt– is piled up in a bun on top of my head. Byron’s hands run down the back of my head before he plays with the pieces that are too short to fit in the bun.

“Trying something new?”

“It’s not mine. I haven’t fully unpacked yet–”

“Shocker,” Byron says through a fake cough.

“So I grabbed some from Margo, and she had nothing darker than a kelly green.”

“That sounds like Margo.”

Yes, I wear a good amount of black, and some would say my soul is black–hi, Mom– but I know it’s not because Byron taught me last year that with the right people around me, I could actually be considered a sunny person.

That was until his messages ceased, and I remembered that if my parents don’t like me, how could I expect this golden retriever of a man to?

It’s not until Byron places his hand over mine that I realize I am nervously fidgeting with the corner of my sketchbook.

“What’s this?” Byron asks me, eyes laced with curiosity.

“Oh, just some sketches for this class. Just wanted to get some ideas down so I don’t forget them.”

His voice is soft, almost shy, when he asks, “Do you mind if I take a look?”

I shake my head and hand him the book. Nerves erupt in my stomach. I always get this nasty sense of vulnerability when someone looks at my work.

Byron’s eyes latch onto mine. His expression is unreadable.

“These are incredible Lola. I didn’t know you could draw like that.”

Thank you, comes in the version of a shrug as my cheeks grow more flush. I have never learned how to take a compliment, coming from an overly critical family will do that to you.

“I guess there is a lot we don’t know about each other.”

“I guess not,” he agrees as he runs his hands over my drawings. If I didn’t know he spent his summer with another girl I’d think he almost sounded sad.

“I just doodle, or if I have an idea for a logo or something like that, I just do a quick sketch. I’ve never taken a formal class or anything.”

Our eyes lock. I forgot how hypnotizing his eyes are.

“You amaze me, Pips. I’ve never met anyone as talented as you.”

I’m about to remind him of all his friends who are professional athletes, but before I get the chance, our teacher clears her throat to get our attention.

“Hello, class. I’m going to just get right into it.”

No pleasantries. I’m going to like her.

“My name is Chef Stroll.” She picks a notebook up from her desk.

“We don’t always get to pick who we work with, and I believe that learning to work with others is essential no matter what career you choose. So I will choose your partners and country. I went in alphabetical order so nobody can complain.”

The universe is playing some kind of sick cosmic game with me. My last name is Adams so of course it’s the first name called.

“She will be working with Italian food, and her partner is Byron Andrews.”

I turn to my left. To my dismay, my partner, who I can’t seem to get rid of no matter how hard I try, has a big, goofy grin plastered on his face. This time, I don’t try to hide mine, but I do roll my eyes. I have an image to preserve.

The second I get home from class, I change into biker shorts and an oversized Westvale Retrievers Hockey shirt that I stole from Indy, who stole it from her boyfriend Marcus. I took it because it has a cartoon portrait of Riley, our school’s adorable mascot, on it.

I grab all the ingredients I need to make Mom’s chocolate chip cookies. It reminds me that at one point in time, we did get along. Even if we never get back to that place, I’ll always have this recipe.

I decide to triple the batch. I usually double it because I know Marcus is going to come and eat at least a whole batch by himself, and with Oliver here now, I know I won’t hear the end of it if I don’t make him some.

I feel at home in the kitchen. Everything I need is laid out on the countertop. My current audiobook is playing on the Bluetooth speaker we keep in here.

Baking has always been a passion of mine, my favorite childhood memories are of me, Mom and Penny working through a recipe and Nonna yelling that we aren’t doing it right.

Having a big family that got together often, deserts were a necessity and it was a responsibility we were happy to take on.

Baking became a form of therapy after the first time I disappointed my parents.

I had the great idea of piercing second holes in my ears after watching The Parent Trap at a sleepover.

Not only were my parents mad that I didn’t ask their permission to “put holes in my head,” but I also got a whole lecture about how unsanitary it is and what could have happened if they got infected.

That’s the moment our relationship changed and I realized baking banana bread could make me feel better.

I’m sliding the first batch of cookies into the oven when Indy walks in from the gym.

“What are we making?” she asks, peeking over my shoulder.

“Chocolate chip cookies, and before you ask, yes, I made Marcus his own batch.”

Indy releases her breath like it would have been a life or death situation if I didn’t make her boyfriend his cookies.

“Marcus will be here any minute, and you know he becomes a cookie monster if you don’t make enough for him.”

I love Marcus, I really do. He and Indy are so good together, but if I have to hear him whine about not having enough food, I may kill him.

“Why are you baking?”

“No reason.”

“You never bake for no reason.”

“Sometimes I do.”

We lock into a stare down. I try to avoid her eyes as I change out the trays. I make the mistake of looking up hoping that she left the room.

“I have a class with Byron this semester,” I tell her. “We got paired to work on a semester-long project together.”

Indy scrunches her nose. “That’s rough, Lo. How are you feeling?”

“I knew I was going to have to see him with how intertwined our friend groups have become, but this just feels like such a cruel and unusual punishment.”

Indy nods in agreement, and that’s all I need to really start going off.

“The big goof just sits next to me and acts like everything is fine,” Byron is the kind of athlete who doesn’t really look that athletic. To shoot you straight, he’s a little chubby. Picture Matthew Stafford during his last season at the University of Georgia. “Then he makes fun of me.”

I don’t feel the need to mention our drunk chat from the other night.

“That seems like something Byron would do,”

“He shouldn’t be acting normal. Everything is not normal between us.” I choke back the tears. “He just stopped calling, Ind. We were about to tell everyone about us. One summer. It took one summer apart for him to realize I’m not worth it.”

Before I can process what’s happening, Indy is swallowing me in a hug. I let myself sink into it.

“First of all, you are worth it, and I won’t allow you to talk about my best friend that way. And secondly, I’m sure there is more to the story than that. That doesn’t seem like something Byron would do.”

That’s the downfall of her knowing both of us so well. I feel like I can’t complain to her or Ivy without their personal relationships bleeding through into their responses.

Right as I’m about to answer Indy, my phone rings. I answer it without looking at who’s calling.

“Hey honey, how are you?”

“I’m good, Mom, just in the kitchen with Indy.”

“Ohh, that’s nice. I was just wondering if you had time to change your major.”

Hasn’t this just been a lovely day.