Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
It was a piece of us, a visual and culinary expression of our story.
Finn walked in from the back, holding a glorious red box.
My heart caught at the sight. “Is that—”
He opened the lid, revealing the plaque. Our Michelin Star. Engraved and glowing.
We just stared at it, quiet for a moment.
“We should hang it right above the urinal in the men’s room,” Finn said. “That’s what you do with one of these, right?”
“I was thinking next to the garbage in the kitchen. You know — the one that always overflows before one of us takes it out?”
“Brilliant.”
We shared a smile that was both teasing and reverent, and I felt my skin heat in the way it always did when I knew my chef wanted to touch me. He was giving me that look, and I checked the time on my watch, doing the math to see if we could sneak away before the rest of the staff trickled in.
But before I could make a decision, my phone rang.
It was my father’s name and photo that filled the screen.
My stomach dropped. “It’s my dad.”
I blinked up at Finn, who frowned but nodded for me to answer it. I knew it was hard for him to understand my relationship with my father, especially after our time on the show. My father had grown more distant than ever when it all went down. He was pleasant enough when I called, or when Mom invited me and Finn over for dinner, but over time, we’d grown more and more apart.
It was a boundary I needed, to live my life without him casting his opinions over my choices. But I still missed him. My father may have been demanding of me. He may have been stubborn. He may have been loud with his judgment.
But I knew he loved me.
I knew he enforced control because that was what made him feel like he was keeping me safe.
“Hi, Dad.”
“There’s my girl,” he greeted, his voice warm even despite the discomfort I sensed. My heart squeezed like always, the greeting as confusing as ever. “I hear there’s a shiny new star in town, and it belongs to my daughter and an ornery Irish chef who stole her heart.”
“Hi, Mr. Reed,” Finn sang, and then he kissed my cheek on a grin before nodding toward the kitchen, letting me know he was going to leave me alone.
I reached out and squeezed his hand just as my father’s voice rang through again. “Congratulations, Ember. That is quite the accomplishment.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
I appreciated his congratulations. I knew this meant something to him because a Michelin Star was something he could quantify. It was a reliable source, a standard way of measuring success. He never would have given the same greeting for something I earned in yachting.
But that was okay.
He didn’t need to understand what I did or what made me happy. I didn’t need anyone’s approval to live.
He was quiet again, and I thought maybe that was it. A courtesy call. But then his voice came again, softer this time.
“Not just for the restaurant. For… everything. For surviving.”
That had my brows pinching together. “What do you mean?”
“I watched the show. The whole show.”
Well, shit.
I stayed silent, not sure what to say to that. Was he ready to lay into me for all the drama, for the way I’d portrayed myself to the public? Close Quarters had released countless “bonus footage” since the reunion, so much so that the reality TV lovers now regarded me and Finn as one of their favorite couples. The truth had come out — all of it — and though neither of us needed anyone else to know the truth but us, it was nice to not be painted as the bad guys any longer.
And while we chose not to share much of ourselves on social media, both of us fed up with our time living under public scrutiny, we were also thankful to the show and the audience it had brought us. They’d been the first to sell out our reservations when we opened Pygo, and we knew we wouldn’t have had such a jumpstart on success without them.
Strange, isn’t it, how sometimes the very things that try to break us are just the final test before the breakthrough. How the moments that bring us to our knees — the ones that make us question everything, that leave us gutted and breathless and bruised — are often the last hurdle before we rise.
“I know what you went through,” Dad said. “Well, I guess I don’t really know — but I can imagine. And I know if my personal life had been aired for public consumption, I wouldn’t have handled it with half the grace you did.”
I exhaled shakily. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You know your mother and I are college sweethearts,” he continued. “But what you don’t know is that she was dating my best friend when we met.”