Page 62 of Next Season
Nolan nodded. “It makes me nervous. Vinnie’s into it. He loves the idea of investing in our rival community, but I’m still on the fence. I don’t want to rely on my husband’s money for something I’m not convinced we can pull off. The diner comes first for me. It’s family, and this is my town. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested. I just need a little more time to think. I asked Bryson for first right of refusal and promised we’d have an answer by the end of the first week of January. That way we can get through the holidays and put together a rough business plan instead of rushing into something. I mean…if that’s cool with you.”
“Yes, that’s very cool. And it’s a lot to think about,” I replied softly.
“Ha. I know. Sorry. I didn’t intend to hit you with all that at once, but you were so cranky out there and I don’t want you to think I’ve been stringing you along. I respect you, I care about you, and I know for a fact that I owe you a huge debt for helping me put this diner on the map. So this is me telling you I get it and I want to do what’s right, JC. I think we make a great team.”
I inclined my chin. “Merci.”
“You’re welcome.” Nolan hugged me, knocking a newspaper from his desk. It wasn’t an awkward embrace, per se, but it had the potential to carry weight neither of us was interested in sorting through. He bent to retrieve the paper, laughing as he pointed at the cover photo. “Oh, check this out. We made the front page. And if you squint real hard, you’re in the background too.”
I took the paper and glanced at the photo of Vinnie, Nolan, and Riley from the juniors’ game the other night. They smiled broadly for the camera, exuding athletic prowess and pride—two professional hockey players and a fit local coach. And yes, the shadowy figure lurking off to the side was me. I stabbed a finger at it, rolling my eyes before reading the caption, directing readers to the sports page for more information regarding the Eagles’ exciting win.
I unfolded the paper and read the headline,
Riley Thoreau Is Seattle Bound!
The veteran pro isn’t ready to hang up his skates yet. After making a full recovery here in Elmwood from a recent concussion, Thoreau is heading back to the ice to finish his season with the Slammers. There’s been heavy speculation about his pending retirement, but hockey fans everywhere will be excited for his return. As for next season…
“They didn’t get my good side,” I deadpanned, handing the paper to Nolan.
He chuckled. “Well, they got your nose.”
“And my stomach. I’m going to work now, and then I’ll do five hundred sit-ups.Au revoir.”
“Wait. Can I ask about you and Riley?”
I sighed. “Go ahead.”
“You seem…close to him and—are you going to be okay…when he leaves?”
I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh at Nolan’s awkward show of concern or cry that he’d felt the need to voice it at all. Everyone was guilty of leaving things unsaid to avoid moments like this, so perhaps I should have been grateful that he’d tried, but I felt sad that I couldn’t be honest.
I shoved a hand through my hair and shrugged. “I’m okay, Nol. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay, but…I’m here if you want to talk. Whenever.”
“Merci.” I smiled tightly, hooking a thumb toward the kitchen meaningfully and turning the doorknob. “And now…work.”
I paused to check on a few dishes on my way to my station and surveyed my kingdom—the gleaming stainless steel appliances, the smartly attired and well-trained chefs, the meticulously organized trays of fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Okay, it was the same mess I’d left five minutes ago. Even the fucking garlic skins were still on the floor. But everything and everyone was in its place.
Even me.
My fork in the road had suddenly splintered. And Seattle…
Could I walk away from this? Could I start over…again?
Yes, and I’d do it in a heartbeat to be with Riley.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that our choices were more complicated than stay or go.
* * *
Elmwood wasa winter wonderland cloaked in snow, glittery in the moonlight. Inside, tapered candles flickered on the linen tablecloth, and Nat King Cole crooned softly about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Neither Riley nor I had decorated for the holidays so there was no tree, no wreath, no tacky gnomes with Santa hats. But we had music, lush wine, and amazing cuisine.
I’d made my signature chickencordon bleuserved with lemon-infused scalloped potatoes and green beans gremolata. For dessert, we’d have a berry pavlova. Riley didn’t care about sweets, but to me, a celebratory meal required the proper punctuation via a sugar boost. And the best thing about pavlova was that it looked impressive and pretty on a table, yet it was relatively simple to assemble.
Riley dished up a spoonful of merengue and berries, sighing at the first bite. “Oh, my God. This is so good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I sipped my wine, unabashedly staring at my lover.