Page 9

Sullivan had a beautiful stone shower stall and a variety of expensive-looking bottles: organic bergamot bodywash, cedar shampoo and conditioner, cinnamon facial toner, Himalayan salt scrub, and several large bars of soap resting on teak soap trays.

She wouldn’t have guessed Sullivan was a fancy-soaps person, but now that she saw the buffet of body products, it fit.

You didn’t smell as good as Sullivan without product.

And Kia was standing in Sullivan’s shower.

She was touching a bar of soap that Sullivan might have rubbed against her skin, could have rubbed over her…

What was Kia doing?! What was happening?

Had she been flirting with Sullivan and then blurted out her proposal?

She was supposed to be logically, professionally laying out the argument for getting married.

Had she ruined that possibility with the kind of line tipsy men at the Oklahoma State Fair tossed her way when she sprayed whipped cream on their cinnamon fried ice cream bread pudding balls?

I didn’t know you felt that way. Sullivan definitely did not feel that way.

Although she had noticed Kia’s bra, but only because she was trained in first aid, and you couldn’t help a person without at least glancing at them.

Kia leaned back, letting the water hit her face.

This would never work, but what was she supposed to do?

She let the water cascade over her, blissfully warming her to the core.

She stayed for as long as she could without Sullivan thinking she’d passed out in the shower.

Then she turned off the water and stepped out.

As if on cue, Sullivan spoke through the door.

“I’ve left some clothes for you.” Sullivan’s footsteps jogged away.

On a decorative table next to the bathroom door, Sullivan had left sweatpants and a sweatshirt, tan with gray racing stripes down the arms and legs.

Kia put them on and stepped into fleece clouds and the faint hint of cloves and sandalwood.

Kia toweled off her hair—no salvaging her Afro, named Georgie because something so fabulous deserved a name—and stepped out of the bathroom.

Sullivan sat at her kitchen island, wearing flannel slacks and a gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, looking dignified, annoyed, and so, so, so hot.

She’d gotten tattoos. Those contrasted with the whole I-quote-Yeats-and-draw-ferns-in-the-conservatory look, but it worked.

Black-and-white geometric patterns extended beyond her rolled-up sleeves.

They hid the scars and burns on her forearms. Chefs got hurt no matter how careful they were.

The whole effect was tough and stylish, and it made Kia’s heart flutter.

“When did you get all tatted up?” Kia blurted.

“I went through a phase.”

“A phase?”

“Of having too much money and not enough hobbies.”

“Did you get them in Japan?”

Her eyebrows lifted in an expression that said, Are you here to make small talk, kid? Except in school, amused admiration would have tempered the look. Now the look was tempered with, I hate my life .

Kia had brought a peace offering. She hurried to her bag slumped in the hallway. Thank god the bottle hadn’t broken and the to-go container hadn’t leaked. She set the muddy present on the table and opened it.

“Cayenne-pear Rice Krispies treat.”

“Of course it is,” Sullivan grumbled.

“With calvados. Your fave, right? They go together perfectly.”

“I’m not going to drink away my problems.”

“What problems?”

“ You. And the shitstorm you brought with you. And why are you really here?”

It’d take a minute to get Sullivan on board. An untouched shot stood at attention on the table. Kia smelled it. Tequila. She took the shot and refilled the glass with calvados.

“Try it.” She set the shot and the Rice Krispies treat in front of Sullivan.

“No.”

“I have a solution to our problems, but first you have to try it.”

“My problem is you coming out of the Bois in the middle of the night like a serial killer.”

Sullivan folded her arms, looking aggrieved but still looking like a dapper 1920s naturalist. Kia had always imagined Sullivan would sit around her house in men’s silk pajamas or a smoking jacket.

The button-down and tattoos weren’t quite what she’d pictured, but they still fit.

The sight filled Kia with delight, like a fangirl getting a behind-the-scenes glimpse of her on-screen crush.

“Your address isn’t online,” Kia said. “Not even on Been Verified.”

“Oh that doesn’t make me think I’m going to end up in an oil drum in a storage unit somewhere.”

“I had to talk to you. I only knew where you lived because you walked away through the woods. It was like the forest opened up for you. Mean trick. It did not open up for me.”

“I own a restaurant. The hours—when I am there, coincidentally, because I am the executive chef—are posted online.”

“But you’re closed tomorrow, and Tuesday. We only have a week. Try it.” Kia pushed the Rice Krispies treat closer to Sullivan.

“A week to do what?” Sullivan sat back.

The plan had almost made sense when Kia saw the provision in the charter. Now it made about as much sense as suggesting they conjure up a genie.

“To get married.”

“I think you hit your head. Let me check your pupils.” Sullivan began to rise.

“Wait. Listen. I don’t want Mega Eats to buy the Bois. You don’t either. If you marry me, I become legacy, and I can buy the Bois.”

“I don’t want you to buy the Bois.”

“But I’m better than Mega Eats.”

That hurt. The only thing she had to win over the woman who’d driven her to be the best, whose blue eyes she’d dreamed about, whose strong hands she’d watched, longing for Sullivan to touch her the way she massaged her lacinato kale, whose teasing friendship had made the practice kitchen feel like home, was the fact that Kia wasn’t a union-busting monster corporation who might be deliberately mixing plastics with their meats but no one knew for sure because they settled their lawsuits with gag orders.

But just because Kia’s plan was crazy didn’t mean she hadn’t thought through her argument.

“I looked at your website,” Kia said. “You’re smuggling pepper into the country so it won’t go on a container ship.”

The Pepper Trail was a program where tourists—who were going to travel anyway—returned with spices, thus eliminating the need to ship them by sea.

“You know it’s not making a big difference for the environment, but it’s making some difference,” Kia went on.

“It’s not going to make any difference,” Sullivan said bitterly. “It offsets about as much carbon as not running my air conditioner for a day.”

“But every little bit counts, right?”

“Says the woman with the plastic forks.”

“Yes, we’re going to use plastic forks. And yeah, biodegradable would be better.

Metal would be better. But the restaurateurs I’m bringing in can’t afford that kind of stuff.

Do you know how much more expensive biodegradable plastic is?

I know you don’t want me here. And I’m still cutting down the trees, and I’m still putting in a food pod, but Mega Eats will cut down the trees and dump piles of trash in your front yard to get you to go.

I’ll leave you alone.” Kia closed her eyes, her exuberance fading back into shivering. “A lot of people are counting on me.”

“No.”

“I know you hate Taste the Love Land, but your other option is Mega Eats.” Kia set each word down with the finality of a checkmate.

“You and me… we don’t like to lose. We never did.

I want this land. And if Taste the Love Land moves in, it’s a quirky Portland thing next to your restaurant.

If Mega Eats moves in, they become an anchor store for everything you hate, and you will be in their way. And they will crush you.”

Kia had been so focused on her pitch, she hadn’t noticed Sullivan’s shoulders hunching in and her arms tightening around herself.

“But I’ll leave a green space around your house. You can have a say in the plans. But we have to do something tomorrow. There’s a three-day waiting period to get married. If we sign the paper on Monday, that gives us the three days, plus a day to register my bid on the land.”

“There are animals that live here and nowhere else.” Sullivan looked very tired and very sad.

Kia wanted to put her arms around her. But according to Sullivan, she was ruining her life, so that wouldn’t be comforting.

“At least one,” Sullivan said. “The miniature Oregon tree snake. It’s so beautiful. It’s like this thin green ribbon that’s come to life. It’s magic.”

“Snakes! Save anything but snakes.” They were the definition of toxic with their beady eyes glinting, their scales glistening. “Uh. Gross. The way they move. Totally unnatural,” Kia said, shivers intensifying. “Wait, does that mean there’s a regular Oregon tree snake?”

Or worse. Maybe there was a jumbo Oregon tree snake.

“Not anymore,” Sullivan said mournfully.

Kia regretted her outburst of snake hate. There was no understanding Sullivan’s apparent grief at this fact, but she was grieving nonetheless. It was written on her face, in her posture. Even her chestnut curls looked sad.

“Eat your Rice Krispies treat,” Kia said gently.

No one had ever looked so deflated by taking a bite of a Rice Krispies treat.

“With the calvados,” Kia urged.

Sullivan took a small sip. There was that hint of grudging admiration behind her sadness, irritation, and defeat. Something in the way Sullivan rolled her eyes said she knew it was the best. They’d never needed a judge to tell them who’d won.

“I’m not going to marry you. That’s not how things work.” Sullivan swallowed a few times. Her jaw tightened. The world didn’t make sense when a brilliant, invincible woman like Sullivan looked so vulnerable.

“Please think about it. I told a lot of people to risk everything because I promised I could give them a better life.”

“But you couldn’t.” Sullivan sounded as sad as she looked. “I’ll drive you back to wherever you parked.”

After all the times Kia had tried to crush Sullivan in the kitchen, seeing her crushed in real life made Kia want to lie down on the floor and cry.

“There’s nothing I can say?” Kia asked.

“Absolutely nothing.”