Page 9 of Until August

But even if he couldn’t process my words, my touch, or the sound of my voice, I still needed him to know I was there for him.

I leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I love you, Cruz Vega. Always and forever,” I whispered, tasting the salty tears streaming down my cheeks. “I miss you so fucking much. I don’t know how to do this without you.” Bythis, I meant life.

Today marked the two-year anniversary of the day I lost my husband. Seventy-two hours later, I’d sentenced him to a life of living hell.

And I had no idea how to forgive myself or move on.

I stayed with Cruz until the horizon swallowed up the sun, and darkness blanketed the room.

I slept in the chair beside his bed, my muscles cramped and my back stiff.

I stayed with him until a new day dawned, and this horrible anniversary was over.

Until next year. And the year after that. And for all the years that would follow for as long as his big, strong heart kept beating.

Always and forever.Until death do us part.

CHAPTERFOUR

Nicola

“Table six.Two scallop carpaccio, one burrata, one quail,” I called. “Two Dover sole, one duck, one lobster ravioli.”

“Heard,” came the replies from my station chefs.

I scanned the dining room through the floor-to-ceiling window that separated the kitchen from the diners as a large group was seated at the table in front. Friday nights were usually busy, and tonight was no exception.

Meanwhile, my cousin Ari was still hanging out at the bar, chatting. Like she didn’t have a restaurant to manage.

Courtney entered from the dining room and set a plate on the pass in front of me. “Table eight says it’s overcooked.”

I grabbed the ticket for table eight and scanned it. The steak in front of me was medium well, not medium rare like the customer had ordered. “Zach. Fire a filet mignon.Medium rare.”

No response. “Zach,” I snapped. “Filet mignon. Medium rare. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

“Yes, chef.”

I rolled out my shoulders and took a deep breath. Whenever I stepped into my kitchen—my domain—I was a chef, not a grieving wife. And that was how it needed to be. I had a job that required my entire focus and energy. A restaurant that I couldn’t afford to lose. And a young staff who needed guidance and mentoring.

But some days, I could barely keep my head above water, so trying to keep everyone else from going under was exhausting.

Everything is fine. You’ve got everything under control. Ignore the critics.

Two seconds later, Ari came in from the dining room carrying a bottle of red. “I need you to taste this wine. Table ten said it’s corked.” She poured some wine into a glass, and I held it up to my nose and sniffed, then took a sip. It tasted exactly as this particular cabernet sauvignon should. Big and dense with high tannins. “It’s not corked.”

“I know. I tasted it. So did the hot guy at the bar.” She fanned herself with her hand. “He’s super-hot. He gives off a lot of big dick energy.”

Big dick energy?

I ground my molars together and prayed for patience, so I wouldn’t leap across the pass and strangle my pretty cousin.

“We both thought it tasted fine,” she said.

Ari knew her wine. She was a sommelier, so she shouldn’t have needed the opinion of a ‘hot guy at the bar.’ Not to mention it was highly unprofessional.

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at her. “Nice to see that you’re putting that degree in hospitality to good use. Did the customer see you doing that?”

“Nope.” She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear, completely unrepentant. “He’s a pompous ass who just loves to hear himself talk. He acts like a wine connoisseur when I’d be willing to bet that he couldn’t tell the difference between a shiraz and a cab sav.” She sniffed.