“You okay there, Amber?”
Shit. I pull my wagging jaw up and grit my teeth. “Can you please stop calling me that?”
“Why does it bother you?”
“You know why. Listen, I only wanted to return your knives.” I bend down and dig the knife roll out of my backpack. When I hand them to him, I stare expectantly into the depths of his aqua eyes.
He doesn’t say anything but takes the case and looks equally anticipatory at me. Oh. “Also, I wanted to thank you, but you really didn’t need to do that.”
“No, I didn’t, but I wanted to be nice.”
“Why are you trying to be nice? You never thought about being nice to me before.”
“Well that’s just not true, is it?”
What’s that supposed to mean? Knox never even pretended to be nice.
He doesn’t wait for a response but pushes up the sleeve of his sweater to look at his watch. A real gold watch. When did he get that? “Let me buy you another drink since I spilled yours. I could sure use one after the day we had today.”
An unfortunate side effect of Knox looking at his watch is that he’s exposed a sizable portion of his muscular forearm and my jaw has unhinged again.
“Rowan?” He looks at me with concern etched in his drawn brows.
God, what’s wrong with me? I’ve never cared about his arms or any other part of him before. “Um, yeah, okay.”
I follow him over to the bar and order another vodka, lifting myself up on one of the barstools, setting my backpack at my feet. Knox orders a beer flight and sits next to me.
“So, Mike Smith?”
I raise a brow, momentarily lost.
“The Smith family? We competed against them.”
Oh, that Mike Smith. What? It’s a common name. Average, one might say. “They made some great smelling comfort food.”
“Is that what you were talking about for so long?”
The bartender sets our drinks in front of us and lingers a bit. She’s a pretty redhead with emerald-green eyes which are currently locked onto Knox. He thanks her and turns back to me, waiting for my response.
“We were making small talk. Expressing congrats. Where we’re from. You know? Normal people stuff. Why?”
He shrugs and lifts one of his beers.
Um, okaaay. I take a good gulp of my own drink and stare into it. To say this is a surreal situation would be an understatement. I hate Knox Asshat Everheart. But for some reason, I don’t get up from the bar now that I’ve given him his knives and a thank you. Instead, I ask, “Where are your brothers?”
“They flew back to Austin. Where’s your family?”
“Same.”
“And yet here we both are. Kind of surreal, isn’t it? That we’d both stay behind and watch the next round of competition.”
I just said that. “Not really. You said you want your own restaurant. I said I want a bigger restaurant. We’re the most invested of our family members. Unless Declan has a desire to break off from your dad.”
Knox barks a bitter laugh and picks up his third glass. I guess I missed him drinking the second one. He turns those baby blues back on me. “Declan lives for Dad. The last thing he would want is to leave him. Weston’s comfortable.”
“Why do you? I thought Declan was next in line, but Mama says you’re the heir apparent.”
He sets his glass down and sighs, slumping in his seat a bit. “Reasons.”
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it sounded like an intense conversation earlier.”
He looks up from under his thick lashes and flashes me a smile, a set of beautiful teeth framed by perfect bow lips. Have I never seen Knox smile before? Smirk, sure. Plenty. But a real smile?
“You still have the most beautiful amber eyes.”
Blush, call me by thy name. “You’re drunk. Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m not drunk. And he’s only stressed. He didn’t want us to do this competition but agreed once we were selected. To me the timing was great, a week after the Easter rush. He’s still coming down from the anxiety of it combined with Tax Day a couple days later. He hasn’t had enough time to decompress, but everything’s fine.”
“He didn’t seem fine.”
“He’ll be fine. Declan and Weston report back in service tomorrow.”
“But you won’t.”
“No, I won’t.”
There’s so much I want to ask, but I shouldn’t. Knox and I are not friends, but obviously he’s going through something. “Why do you want your own restaurant?”
“Why don’t you want yours?”
Ouch. Just slap me why don’t you. I take another gulp of my drink and stare at the glass. There’s barely any left, but I don’t feel the effects yet.
Knox waves at the bartender for another round.
I really shouldn’t. “Maybe someday. I can’t abandon my mother, especially now.”
“I get that. Would it be abandoning her though? She doesn’t need a classically trained chef if she still calls all the shots. She only needs a competent one. You’re too talented not to have your own place.”
I gape at Knox, unsure what to do or say. I fumble with the ice in my glass.
The waitress brings us more drinks along with a couple bottles of water.
Knox takes one and drinks half the contents. He unravels pieces of the label, waiting on me to say something.
“You think I’m talented.” It’s not a question. He just said as much. It’s a declaration. An understanding between us that hasn’t existed before. It’s always been Knox, the superior. The pasta prince. And Rowan, the usurper. The waitlisted. The nobody from Round Rock.
He gazes at me, a small grin playing at his lips. “I don’t know if I want my own restaurant, Rowan. I’m not sure if that’s something I’ve ever wanted. I enjoy cooking—cooking was both of my parents’ passion—and I love working with my brothers, but I don’t enjoy the long hours, the not having a life, being tired all the time.” He sighs and puts his face
