Page 72 of Stolen Dreams
As we back out of the driveway, I try again. “Where are we having dinner?”
Mom twists in her seat and meets my gaze, a bright smile on her face. “Calhoun’s Bistro. Thought it’d be a nice treat for us all.”
Shit.The pit in my stomach morphs into a trench.Please don’t let him be at the restaurant tonight.
The rest of the drive, I studiously work to calm the massive swell of anxiety beneath my diaphragm. On a deep breath, I close my eyes, count to ten, then exhale slowly and focus on the soft music playing in the car. I repeat this over and over. But regardless of my efforts, the swirling energy doesn’t settle. And when we pull into valet at the restaurant, it ratchets up tenfold.
I’m going to be sick.
Adriel meets us at the door, gestures for my parents to walk ahead of us, then rests his palm on the small of my back as we step inside.
Yep. Definitely going to throw up.
The host smiles as we approach, menus in hand as they guide us to our table.
Every step I take is calculated. My position next to Adriel concealed to purposely not draw attention to myself as we near the open kitchen. But it’s pointless.
As we approach, Dad pauses and literally points the kitchen out to Adriel. And because the universe is obviously laughing at me, it’s the exact moment Ray looks up and makes eye contact.
The room blurs as everything screeches to a halt. My hands shake at my sides, a chill settling in my bones. I can’t breathe. Can’t hear. Can’t speak. But none of it matters because I witness every flash of hurt on Ray’s face.
When Dad finishes his spiel and continues to follow the host, I also don’t miss the tic in Ray’s jaw as Adriel guides me to the table, his hand still on my back.
TWENTY
RAY
What.The. Fuck?
Four days. It’s been almost fourfuckingdays, and someone else already has their hands on her.
No.Fuck no.
My vision tunnels as she disappears from view; the little I do see is a vivid, pulsing red. Pressure builds in my chest as my nails sink into my palms. Rage I’ve never known radiates off me in waves.
I close my eyes, take several deep breaths, and try to find some semblance of calm while I finish my shift. But there’s no relief in sight. On the fourth exhale, the image of that guy’s hand on her lower back flashes in my mind’s eye.
Fuck.
Unable to get ahold of myself, I walk off the line. As I pass Fin, I ask him to cover me for five minutes. I don’t wait for his answer. I keep moving forward, headed for the only place I may get an ounce of respite.
Heaving the door open, I stride into the walk-in cooler, grab one of the coats off the hook, crumple it into a ball, crush it to my face, and scream. I let out every ounce of hurt from the past four days—all my own doing, of course. Let out every ounce ofanger—at myself—for ruining Sunday night, for ignoring Kaya all week. At Brianna for messaging me out of the blue and asking to see Tucker, which was a front for her actual motives. And at the man putting his hand on Kaya as though she belongs to him.
Sunday night may have ended in the worst possible way, but it doesn’t change facts.
Kaya. Is. Mine.
Mine.
“Get your shit together,” I chastise myself. “Rein it in, do your damn job, and deal with everything else later.” Because there is not a chance in hell I am putting this off.
Hanging the coat back up, I pace the walk-in until my skin cools and teeth chatter. One final deep breath and I exit, eyes forward and attention homed in on my kitchen as it comes into view. I pat Fin on the shoulder and thank him, then resume work.
Calhoun’s Bistro is busier than a typical Thursday evening. Independence Day week always brings in a crowd. Add in one of the largest medical conferences Stone Bay has seen, doctors from across the country flying in to listen to a prodigy doctor…
My hand slips and the dish I’m garnishing turns into a disaster.
“Chef Calhoun,” André hollers across the kitchen. “Fix it.” A muscle in his jaw tics, a rarity for him. “Now.”