“You’d better check on your bath before it overflows.” He nodded in the direction of the distant sound of streaming water.
I nodded wordlessly and turned, walking back toward the bathroom. I was glad to put some distance between us. Being attracted to him was not something I was proud of, and I knew it’d only bring more complications to my already messy love life.
“Sparrow…” His voice halted me mid-step. “What do you do all day?”
I didn’t turn around. Was afraid he’d read the confusion on my face.
“Sit around here,” I answered, my voice brittle with the burden of the truth. “Mostly just trying to remember who I am, figuring out what to do next.”
“Your husband is a very capable man, you know.”
I gripped the belt of my robe, my teeth digging hard into my lower lip. “So people keep telling me.”
I turned around now, and our eyes locked. There was some space between us, but not much. Not enough for me to ignore the heat pouring from his body.
“What I mean is…” He licked his lips before taking another step in my direction. “Troy owns a restaurant just off Tremont Street. Rouge Bis. I manage it for him. Maybe you’d like to help out there.”
I almost clapped a hand over my mouth in disbelief. Rouge Bis was widely considered the most romantic place in Boston, so it was comical to find out that it was owned by the least romantic man in New England.
“Wait, how do you know that I’m a cook?” I frowned.
“Maria mentioned you keep making a mess in her kitchen. Plus, I noticed the fridge’s full of stuff that’s not just condiments. That’s a first in the Brennan household. Also, there’s the newspaper.” He nodded toward the island where he’d sipped coffee. “You highlighted a job as a cafeteria cook in the local schools. So, yeah, you’re not really keeping a low profile about it. Look, I’m sure you can give us a hand at the restaurant. You should probably ask Troy about it.”
“I doubt he’d be too happy to have me around.”
“He’s not there all that much.” Brock’s tone held a hint satisfaction, almost like he, too, couldn’t stand the presence of my husband. “If he’s game, I promise I’ll make it work. Instead of wandering, find yourself again, Sparrow. I’ll help if I can.”
I looked down, biting back my smile and fighting the butterflies that took flight in my stomach in full force.
Is he playing me?
Is he genuine?
Am I an idiot for feeling grateful?
“Okay,” I finally said, looking up to meet his eyes. “I’ll ask him. Thank you.”
“Sure thing. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Have a good day, Brock,” I said as he headed for the door.
“You too, sweetheart.”
THAT NIGHT, I crawled to bed with a headache as oppressive as the thunderstorm outside pelting the windows with rain. Summertime my ass. It was like the lack of sunshine mimicked my feelings.
Brock’s words looped in my head all day, and I tried to think of ways to convince Troy to let me work at his restaurant. It was the first time in the last two weeks I was feeling a little hopeful.
Ever since he’d taken me from Pops, I felt like I was handcuffed and locked inside a brakeless car, rolling downhill at the speed of light.
Working in a kitchen was something I’d dreamed about ever since I was in middle school and watched Ratatouille. Pops gave me the DVD for Christmas and I played it so many times over, I remembered every single sentence. I’d worked my butt off, taking every class and course I could afford, to make it happen.
Now I was close. So close. The only thing standing between me and fulfillment was him.
Food. I loved making it. Loved watching people enjoy the fruits of my labor as I served my dad and his buddies with a hearty meal. They’d sit there with their shirts open, undershirts beneath, their white-haired chests and bellies poking out against the small wooden table in our kitchen and shovel in my food. Be it Irish stew, homemade pasta with fresh sauce, or just my famous blueberry pancakes. Cooking and baking made me feel like someone, and someone was better than being the no one I was growing up to be.
Everyone was known as something. The pretty one, the athlete, the nerd, the bitch, the accountant or the mobster. I was known as the one with no mom, and I wanted to reinvent myself as the girl who could make mean blueberry pancakes. The chef.
I waited for Brennan in bed for what felt like a decade. The clock ticked, painfully and almost deliberately slow, as my thoughts swirled in circles.
Will he be his usual, asshole self?
Will he surprise me and agree?
Is this even a good idea, to work for my fake-husband?