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I follow his directions. The kitchen’s organized chaos hits me first, clanking pots, sizzling pans, shouted orders, and there, in the middle of it all, is Brandon.
He’s shed his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand gripping a pan while the other holds a bottle of what looks like wine. He says something, but I can’t make it out from here.
A young cook, who can’t be more than twenty, nods frantically, watching Brandon’s every move.
Brandon tilts the pan, and flames leap up as the wine hits the hot surface. His movements are fluid, natural. Like he never left the kitchen.
The cook beside him dips a spoon in, and his eyes widen while the spark in Brandon’s eyes burns brighter.
My heart squeezes watching him. This is my Brandon. Not the suit-wearing corporate drone pushing papers for Elijah. This man.
This is who he’s meant to be.
THIRTY-THREE
BRANDON
“Quarterly projections look solid.” Elijah walks ahead as we leave Conference Room A. “Anderson, though? Could’ve been a fucking email.”
“I’ve seen hostage negotiations move faster.” I yank my tie loose. Give me a chef’s coat any day over this corporate straitjacket.
The corridor stretches ahead, all glass and steel and everything I’m not. Nothing like a real kitchen, where every ding, clatter, and shout means something.
My fingers still tingle from last night, showing that kid how it’s done at Elliot’s. Luckily, Naomi didn’t see, or she would have pushed again.
“How are things with Naomi?” Elijah’s question pulls me back.
“Good. She’s… We’re good.” She’s eating, not throwing up.
“You seem better.” There’s genuine warmth in Elijah’s voice. “Both of you.”
I am. For those few minutes… “What if—What if I tried cooking again?”
He whirls to me. “What?”
“Nothing.” Keep walking. Don’t look at him.
“Brandon.” He seizes my arm, bringing me to an abrupt stop. “What did you say?”
“I said, what if I tried cooking again? And before you start with the lecture, yes, I know I’m supposed to be focusing on quarterly whatever-the-fuck-Anderson-was-talking-about. But last night in that kitchen—fuck, Eli. First time since Dad died, I felt like myself again.”
My brother is silent, too silent. Then he nods slowly. “Okay. So what’s the plan? Cooking at home? Classes?”
“No.” My heart starts to race. “What if I actually did it? Opened my own place?”
“The one you signed away months ago?”
“Yeah.” My hands clench, unclench. “That one.”
“The family business?—”
“You know I’m shit at this corporate stuff.”
“You’re better than you think.”
“I’m exactly as bad as I think.” I run a hand through my hair, probably messing it up. “Dad wanted me here, but Dad’s dead.”
“Brandon—”