*****
And it's a real date; a real proper one like I've literally never been on before. Because really, it's all new with her.
"Where are we going?" We're arm in arm as we stroll through down the side of a lane in Notting Hill. We're in the nice, proper part of London for a change, instead of in grimy gritty Shoreditch. Hell, Jolie is on the south bank, which is right proper posh and all that, but it's not like we ever see any of it outside the kitchen. So yeah, this time, we're going someplace swanky, a place with a bit of class. Seems even scoundrels like me like a littler finery now and then.
Finery like how fucking incredible Chloe looks in a dress and high-heels. I mean this girl looks hot in kitchen clothes; she looks downright sinful in this getup.
"Surprise, I told you," I say, wagging my eyebrows and loving the way she grins at me. I've had plenty of women give me "bedroom" eyes, or "hard to get" eyes, or any of that bullshit. But I have never had a woman look at me the way she does. Not once.
Where we're going is a restaurant owned by a guy I used to work with briefly before the army. It's "slow food"; super "from-the-Earth" type shit, but it's fucking incredible. He and his wife grow their produce on the damn roof of the place, right there in Notting Hill, and they bring in farm-raised everything else from meat to cheese; all of it. It's simple, and perfect, and honestly, it might be one of London's last hidden jewels.
I mean, aside from Rajeev's Brick Lane curry house that is, but a man can only take so much paneer in one week, you know?"
Jerry and his wife Tricia greet me like old friends, even if it's been at least a year since I got over here. He's clapping me on the back and is genuinely so happy for me and the success I've found moving up at Jolie, which is great but also strange since I'm so shitty at taking compliments.
Right, I know; me, not taking praise well doesn't really compute does it?
Truth is truth though. I put on the cocky mask, because it's just how I was brought up and all, but being around real fucking proper trained chefs like Jerry and Tricia always makes me feel like some sort of fraud; the pauper that snuck his way into the castle or something. I mean these two have been cooking for like a decade and a half, or guys like Danny who've been doing it twice as long as that. So why the fuck is it some punk like me who gets stupid glowing blog posts about how good my shit is?
"Cause it's really good shit, that's why, dummy," Chloe says, rolling her eyes at me when I voice this exact thing at the table.
"Right, but so are a lot of other people's."
She grins at me, "Wow, you must really like me, Oliver Beckett."
She bats her eyes sarcastically at me and I roll mine. "Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that, luv."
"Oh, you bring all your girls to Notting Hill for fancy dates at posh restaurants while you divulge insecurities to them?"
She grins as I purse my lips together, "Cute, Chloe. Cute."
"See, I told you, you liked me."
I mean look at me; look at us!
"So, this is a date, huh?"
Chloe laughs, "Afraid so."
"I like it."
"Well will wonders never cease?"
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand as the waiter comes over to take our order; "Oh, the lady will have the cucumber salad to start with," I say quickly, grinning wickedly across the table at her as she about chokes on her water and shoots me a look.
"Couldn't help yourself, could you?" She says, blushing fiercely as the waiter walks away with our order.
"Wouldn't want to tread on tradition," I say as she rolls her eyes.
"Oh, right, well of course, we couldn't fall too much onto cliché, now could we?" She says with a wry smile.
"And what cliché is that, luv? The one where you have lots of mind blowing sex with your stepbrother?"
She blushes again, "Lower your voice!" She hisses, giggling.
"Okay , fine."
"No, I mean, you know, being all … lovey-dovey like this."
I raise my eyebrows, "Wow, you are so that girl."
She laughs, the sound musical in the dim candlelight of the dining room, "No, I'm not at all that girl, which is why this is so … I don't know, strange."
"Strange?"
"Good strange," she grins, squeezing my hand. "Really, really good strange."
I'm grinning at her and she rolls her eyes.
"Oh don't give me that look."
"Who, me?" I say, grinning as I sip my wine and lean across the table into her, like I just need to be fucking closer to her or something.
"I mean, look at us, we're like, on a date, in Notting Hill of all places." She sticks her tongue out at me, "It's like that movie or something."
"Jesus, are we that bad?" I blow air out through my lips before I grin at her, "Hollywood romantic comedy bad?"
Chloe shudders dramatically. "Well, luckily for us, I'm not some movie star who you can dump orange juice on and then kidnap away to London forever."
"Oh, lovely, because I'm not opening a fucking travel book shop any time, like, ever, so I guess we're good."
Chloe erupts into laughter, and I couldn't stop the grin of pure fuckin' happiness that spreads across my face then even if I tried.
"Cheers," I say, raising my glass towards her, "To acting the cliché."
"Cheers." She clinks her glass to mine, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
"So, I guess I'll have to do something with red roses, or some other clichéd crap every time now, huh?"
"Why Oliver Beckett, you charmer, you."
The storm always hits when you're least expecting it. And I use that metaphor as a man who's lived basically his entire life in the city of London.
I'm prepping for service like any other day - like any other of the hundreds of days at Jolie before it, only I'm glowing.
Fucking hell, I'm glowing now.
And it's not just that I fucked Chloe on the bathroom sink while the shower ran and filled the room with steam around us this morning before we came in. It's just, her. It's every fucking thing about her, in the most unexpected ways that have me tied up and twisted like I've never been before.
And I like it.
Service starts, and I can barely concentrate on calling orders or expediting, because I can't fucking stop staring at the dark-haired girl in the back corner.
Cupcake girl; the girl I can't get out of my head, the girl who I woke up to this morning curled in my arms, and the girl who's somehow making me forget the dirty rotten scoundrel I've spent most of my life trying to aspire to be.
Oh, and my stepsister. Minor details.
We're not thirty minutes into service when Ian comes in, his face drawn and that pissed look on his face, "Ollie."
"What?"
He rolls his eyes and sighs, "Barney's here."
FUCK.
I've had this talk with my dad a hundred fucking times; do not come into the bloody restaurant on a busy night of service. Or, you know, ever.
There's one basic rule that most new restaurant owners or investors fuck up, and it's the reason something like 90% of new restaurants go belly up within the first year. The rule is simple, and it goes as follows: it may be your restaurant but it is a business, not your fucking playground. Okay, so you've got cash and you want to look like some sort of baller? Go be that somewhere else.
It's the guys that come into their own places and act like they're at the Palms or something that go down in flames first. The guys who comp bottles of champagne and pricey dishes for their friends and tell themselves it's a "business expense."
Sure it is.
It's essentially the same as walking into your practice if you were a lawyer and giving your buddies a free laptop off one of your employee's desks, and how people don't see that connection is fucking beyond me.
My dad, by the way, is exactly that type of restaurateur.
I swear loudly, slamming the towel in my hand down onto the cutting board in front of me, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Ian pouts. "I wish, mate, I wish. Your new mum is out there with him, and they're, uh-" Ian shrugs and pantomimes tossing a glass back.
Shit.
"Alright, fuck, keep them fucking happy and keep them fucking distracted, okay?" Ian nods and walks out.
My whole buzz is ruined then, because having those two here taking up space at a table they're just going to comp anyways and being loud and drunk for real patrons is seriously the last fucking thing I need on a Saturday night rush. Having Barney and Laura here is the worst case scenario, really.
That is, I believe it is, until twenty minutes later just as the rush is hitting its stride, when Ian comes back in.
And this time, he's pale, shaking, and silent.