Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
The whole kitchen starts murmuring about what a shame this is and how much they like Slater’s channel. The general consensus being that it’s a loss that Slater is marrying me. Apparently one million followers on TikTok is more impressive than maintaining a three-star Michelin rating.
“Slater’s TikTok account will not be preparing the meals tonight, so let’s get moving on the protein. Terry, run down that lamb. Gabby, please let Slater know that I’ve got a problem with prep and that I’ll call her when I have a free moment. Jess, come with me. We need to rework the menu.”
Everyone scatters at my orders. It’s time to get to work.
About ten minutes later, Gabby returns with a note in her hand. I flick it open and read the message.
I heard about your beef issues. Sad! I’ll stay out of your way. Come up whenever you’re done. xoxo
“She wrote this?” I ask Gabby. I’m not familiar with Slater’s handwriting other than the scrawl of her signature on her driver’s license, and while it looks nothing like this round printed lettering, I’m not an expert.
Gabby nods.
Slater doesn’t seem to be the type to write “Sad!” either, but it could be the pregnancy hormones. Again, not an expert. I don’t know what “xoxo” means.
I tuck the note in my pocket and shoo Gabby out of the kitchen. She has a tendency to linger back here. If she’s interested in cooking instead of serving, she should go to culinary school.
Jess and I finish making the changes and filling out a list of produce and fruits we’ll need to make the new lamb dish. Terry has secured enough lamb for forty dishes. I call Slater to see if she wants to make the supply run with me, but her phone skips right to voicemail. I don’t have time, but I run upstairs anyway to find the apartment empty. She probably went home to get her things.
I shoot off a text.
Call me.
I read it back. It seems abrupt. Should I add xoxo since that’s how she ended her note? Maybe I should come up with my own code phrase. What’s the name of her channel. Favorite Feeds? I type in FAFE and hit send.
Call me
FAFE
That looks good. Call me, Favorite Feeds. I tuck my phone away and head off for the supplier. It takes me an hour to pick everything up. By the time I’m back at The Plate, things are getting more hectic as service nears. I need to roast the lamb and prepare the sauce. Even though I don’t have the time, I run upstairs again to check on Slater, who has not responded to my text.
The apartment is still empty. My phone is silent. Another text won’t hurry her response. I’ll talk to her later tonight about how, as my wife, she needs to reply to my texts.
She’s never been married before nor had sex, so she just doesn’t understand how these things work. I’ll be patient and let this slide. Clear lines of communication are how the kitchen works smoothly. It’s reasonable that Slater, being a customer, doesn’t understand this.
Service goes smoothly. Everyone loves the lamb. We celebrate an anniversary and two birthdays, and once the kitchen and front of the house is spotless, the staff goes home happy.
I trudge up the stairs, lighthearted and hungry. I’ll make a late-night dinner for myself and Slater, and then we can talk about the text issue. After that, we’ll have sex but this time in the bedroom. She’ll be the perfect dessert. I throw open the door and find…nothing. The apartment is still empty. There is no sign of Slater, not a purse, not a tube of lipstick, not even a shred of lace from the panties I tore. She should have been back by now if she ran home to grab a few things.
It’s like she was never here. Like the morning I woke up and the side of her bed was empty. Pain tears through me and then anger. I slam the door shut and head for my car. Unlike before, I know her name, her address, and her Social Security number. She will never be able to hide from me again.
Chapter Eleven
SLATER
Abanging sound has my eyes flying open. I sit up, trying to get my bearings to whatever the hell is going on but don’t hear anything.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
What the hell is that?
“Slater, open the door, or I’ll have to break it.”
Oh, that’s my crazy baby daddy. I throw my blanket off, padding over to the door. I flip the lock, jerking the door open. What the heck does he think he’s doing?
“People are sleeping, jackass.” I grab his arm, yanking him into my apartment before one of my neighbors comes out. He’s got a grumpy-ass expression on his face, but it’s still handsome. Now is not the time to be thinking about his looks. We’re mad, I remind not only myself but my body as well. I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him. Brooks' eyes trail me up and down. It’s then I remember I’m only wearing an oversized shirt. “Don’t even think about it.”