“I know that. But you’re not doing the competition so you may as well get used to the idea. I’ll drop out before I let you ruin your health over it.”
I get up and gather my purse and head out the door. I mean what I said and she can stew in it awhile. I regret putting stress on her, but she can’t go.
*
The last time I’ve spoken with Mama was when I left her house a few days ago. I pick up the phone and call her once again. When her voicemail comes on, I leave a message at the beep: “Mama, this is ridiculous. I know you’re upset and we both said some things, but you need to call me.” We’ve never gone this long without speaking to one another but I’m not surprised. Wyatt’s been over and talked with her. She will only answer my call if I’ve changed my mind, which I definitely haven’t.
There’s some good news at least. Hannah’s in. Technically I don’t actually work at the restaurant anymore but that’s not really official so we’re all set.
The bad news is that I have to see Knox again. It doesn’t matter that he tried to get in touch when we were kicked out. He was a smug asshat the last time I saw him after years of being a smug asshat. He hadn’t changed and that was disappointing. Even more so is that now that we’re back in the competition, he’ll be looking down that straight nose of his even more. We won’t be on equal footing, because the only reason we’re in the finals is because the winning family dropped out. It’ll just reaffirm his belief that I overheard all those years ago—I’m some sort of charity case.
Still. I’m curious. I don’t want to, but I can’t help myself. I find myself in my car speeding toward downtown to witness the filming at their restaurant. I want to get an idea of what to expect tomorrow when the film crew comes to Smothered in Love.
And if I’m being honest with myself—and we’ve already established that’s a must—I’ve missed seeing Knox’s arrogant face. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. It doesn’t change anything. I’d never pursue these feelings because of the whole asshat thing, but I don’t mind ogling that fine ass from behind a pillar somewhere. As long as he doesn’t see me, and he shouldn’t because he’ll be in the kitchen, we should be fine. When he came to our place, I would have never known he was in the restaurant had he not asked for me.
I’ve never actually been inside Everheart Bar and Fine Dining. When I drive up and enter the parking lot, I spot the valet, but speed past and find my own spot. Of course they have valet service.
Now that I’ve come this far, I’m not certain how to proceed. I get out and wipe my sweaty palms on my sundress. It’s an understated beige with a sweetheart neckline and short-sleeved thin jacket. I don’t want to stand out, and I’m hoping this outfit will blend in. I suppose I could just eat lunch, but then I run the risk of being in the background when the film is played during the show. I’m not sure how that would go over. Spying much? Maybe I’ll ask for a table and skirt off to the bathroom, then lurk around until I’ve got my eyeful. No, that won’t work. They’ll be looking for me at the table. Ugh, why didn’t I think this through?
When I step through the door, I sidle up to the host stand. “Hi, may I have a table for one please?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s about a fifteen-minute wait. Is that okay?”
It’s pretty packed for lunch so I’m glad that’s all I’ll need to wait. “Sure, that’s fine.”
“May I have your phone number so we can alert you when your table is ready?”
Oh fuck. I hadn’t thought of this. We don’t have a fancy paging system, and it didn’t occur to me that I’d need to give my phone number. That means a record that I was here. I can’t give a fake number because then I won’t know when my table’s ready. But if I give my real number…
“Ma’am?”
“Oh, yes, sorry.” I give him my phone number because what else can I do? I really didn’t think this out.
There are plush leather seats near the front as well as an entry bar so I decide to hop up on one of the stools and do a little light day-drinking to get my nerves back together. The chair’s leather is cold against my bare legs and I curse myself for the dress being so short. I should have worn a maxi. Do I own a maxi? The thing is, I don’t actually have too many nice clothes—they’re all work-related or yoga pants basically. Clearly Knox has done a much better job supplementing his wardrobe since we left school—supple leather you want to run your fingers over and richly colored sweaters hugging muscles. Humph.
While I wait for my glass of wine, I use the time to scan the room. I spot the camera crew in a private room near the back of the restaurant. Looks like there are three private rooms and they have the smallest. That’s not really saying anything because the room can probably hold at least thirty people. Everything here is all dark paneling, leather, and glass. Rich and fancy. The kitchen isn’t closed off like ours. It’s there for everyone to see. Weston is plating what looks like a piece of cake. Although the longer I stare, the more it looks like trifle. There’s an open wood fire
