When ten a.m. rolls around, I am ready and waiting (or pretty much chomping at the bit) to find out what he has in store for me, which is surprising since Amber and I were up talking until the early morning hours. Thankfully, Brock is prompt as usual. I meet him outside of my building, and he looks as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.
“Good morning, M,” he greets me brightly.
I smile at him.
“Good morning, hubby.”
That earns me a smirk. I expect us to get into a car, but instead he insists that we walk. I take the arm he offers me and hook mine around his. Brock is refusing to tell me where we are going, so we just walk in comfortable silence. Even on this brisk morning, the city is full of life. The sidewalks are packed with pedestrians, and the sound of honking horns, distant sirens, and people talking to each other or on their cellphones fill the silence. I inhale deeply as the smell of coffee being brewed teases my nostrils. I smile as we walk past the many street vendors and admire the colorful store awnings of the droves of stores this part of the city has to offer—eclectic, yet so perfectly matched. The hustle and bustle of the city feels like home. It isn’t long before I realize where we are going, and my pulse quickens. And as I suspected, moments later, we stop in front of the building where I was hoping to start my own restaurant. It definitely needs a bit of TLC, but in my mind’s eye, I can clearly see what it’s supposed to be. My grip on Brock’s arm tightens as the giddiness inside me grows. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and dangles it in front of me. I squeal loudly.
“Can we go inside?” I ask.
“I was hoping we would. It’s a little chilly out here,” Brocks replies, amused.
I take the keys from him, unlock the door, and push it open. The moment I step inside, a warmth radiates through me, and it feels as if I have just come home. I start to imagine what this place can become.
“We are meeting some people here today to help you get started.”
Brock’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for moment, letting it all sink in. Tears start to burn at the back of my eyelids as realization flows through me.
“It’s really happening, isn’t it?” I whisper, afraid that if I say it out loud I might jinx it.
Understanding that I need just a moment, he doesn’t reply but simply nods. We walk around the place, and I tell him what my plans for the restaurant are. We meet with some contractors and get things hammered out much faster than I thought we would. It’s amazing what waving some cash around will accomplish. A little after one, the designer Brock retained shows up. Apparently, she is very important and extremely talented. We are sitting in one of the booths when she approaches. I am not sure if any of the things he has told me are accurate, but I do know one thing: she is definitely gorgeous. Her long, sandy blonde hair is flowing almost angelically around her flawless face. Her legs seem to go for miles and probably seem longer because of the five-inch heels she’s rocking. And holy crap, can she pull them off. She practically glides with a grace that has even me doing a double take. But all of those things are nothing compared to this woman’s eyes. I am not sure if it is the lighting or what, but they seem gold. They exude so much warmth, which is only amplified by her pearly whites as she smiles brightly. She stops in front of me and offers her hand.
“Hello, I am Mikaela Kingsley. I’m so happy to meet you, Ms. Hart.”
If Brock was my real fiancé, and I didn’t know for a fact that he plays for the other team, I have to admit, I’d be a little worried. I smile at the beauty before me and accept her hand.
“Hello, so nice to meet you, Mikaela. Is it okay to call you Mikaela?”
“Please do.”
“Great. And please, my name is not Ms. Hart, it’s Mackenzie, but my friends call me M. And since I have a feeling we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together, please, call me M.”
She looks around the room.
“M, you have an incredible canvas here, and I am so excited to work together to make this everything you ever wanted.”
Mikaela’s enthusiasm is definitely contagious. We talk for quite a bit about what my ideas are, and she tells me some of hers. It’s late afternoon by the time we say our goodbyes. We agree to meet in a couple of days, after the contractors have done the improvements needed in the kitchen. Brock walks me home, and while we walked in comfortable silence on the way here, the return trip is filled with excited chatter. We get to my building, and I invite him up. We sit in the kitchen at my tiny makeshift dining table, and I pour us a glass of wine.
“You know, at some point we need to discuss living arrangements.”
“What? You don’t like my digs?” I tease.
“Smart-ass.”
I chuckle.
“I’m serious. We can hardly live twelve blocks apart once we are married, and your place...well, it’s small.”
It honestly hadn’t even occurred to me that I would have to move.
“So, what do you suggest?”
“Well, wife. Maybe after the wedding, you can move in with me? I have plenty of room. In fact, there is a guest room that we can make your own. If we are going to sell this thing, it has to look at real as possible.”
I can’t say that he isn’t correct, but the thought of letting go of the place I have called home for so long just doesn’t feel right.
“I want to think about it, just for a little bit. And if I do decide to move, I would like to hold on to the apartment. Two years will go by quickly.”
Brock purses his lips, clearly mulling it over.
“If that is what you want, then that is what we will do.”
He picks up his glass and tilts it towards me to toast. I lift mine, and we clink our glasses.
“Happy wife, happy life,” he says with a wink.
We both start laughing.
“And a husband’s love goes through his stomach?”
“True story,” he says as he rubs his belly.
“Staying for dinner then?”
“Clearly.”
I take the two steps toward my fridge to see what I can throw together for us. I grab some ingredients for a simple chicken and creamy pesto pasta. As I start to prep in my tiny kitchen, I realize that Brock is right. This apartment was too small for Chris and me. And clearly, Brock and I are going to need a little more privacy. Decision made, then, I tell myself.
“Hmmm, I can’t wait to cook in my new kitchen,” I tell him as I tap my chin with my index finger.
Brock’s face breaks out in a huge smile.
“So yes, then?”
“Yes.”
* * *
I’ve been super busy the last few days, but I have loved every second. There are so many things to do—so many details to tie together. Truly, there doesn’t seem to be enough hours in a day. I’ve been getting down and dirty myself, helping with cleaning and painting the kitchen. Today they’ve finished installing the new walk-in freezer and all the new appliances. While I have had my hand in the painting and cleaning, today I’ve been mainly directing since I have been busy putting away the ingredients I ordered. I am supposed to start trying new things to add to my still non-existent menu. This kitchen is every chef’s dream, and Brock has given me an extremely generous budget, so I’ve been able to get the very best things. I walk through the dining room and admire the work done so far. The walls are already painted a soft grey, and the floors are graced with beige travertine tile. Other than that, it’s still bare. The dining room design is Mikaela’s domain, and she ensures me that I will be blown away; I have no doubt she will deliver. Yes, I have seen her portfolio and heard about her other projects, but the incredible job she has done on my office is above and beyond what I expected.
I walk back into the kitchen and head to my office. It’s now one of my favorite places, probably because it is easily the most gorgeous room I have ever been able to call mine. The walls are covered in hand-painted, red silk wallpaper, and the oak floors are stunning. The large, L-shaped desk is made of reclaimed wood and has a brand new computer on it, and the drawers are stocked with any office supplies I can possibly need. I am not sure how Mikaela got her hands on these, but there are several picture frames on my desk, each a different material and shape, showcasing images I love. There’s one of me, Amber, and some of our friends at my culinary school graduation party. Another of me and my sisters, and even a picture of Brock and me. We have been taking a bunch of pictures lately, to kind of help sell our “being in love” routine. I glance at my watch and realize I need to be getting ready. Amber, who I have hired as my floor manager, will be interviewing people tomorrow with me for the front and back of the house. So I sit down at my brand new desk and go over some of the applications.
“You’ve been busy, I see.”
That wasn’t the voice I was expecting, and I can’t deny that I am a little startled. I look up to find Ashton Walker standing in my doorway. He is the last person I expected to see, and while I want to act all cool and collected, I inwardly pray that my treacherous facial expressions won’t betray me. My heart is pounding loudly inside my chest cavity. The air in the room has suddenly become thick, and I find myself struggling to breathe. Every inch of my body is tingling, every nerve standing at attention.
“Can I come in?”
It dawns on me that he is waiting for me to answer, so I triple my efforts to get it together.
“Of course, come in. What a nice surprise,” I say as I force a smile.
He steps into my office, and suddenly there is an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. My eyes dart to the exit. I can’t be alone with him in here.
“I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I would stop by and say hello,” he says as he reaches my desk.
“That is…so nice of you, thank you,” I reply sheepishly.
His lips curl into a lopsided smile, as if the two sides of his face can’t decide on any one particular expression. We lock eyes, and neither of us speak—at least not with words. I need to say something, do something, anything, I tell myself. So I do the only thing that springs to mind. I rise to my feet and round the desk.
“How about a tour?” I offer. “There is still a bunch to do, but the bones are there.”
“Lead the way.”
I show him the dining room and tell him about the plans we have for it. To my surprise, he hangs on my every word. Ashton is attentive and even gives me some input. We make our way to the kitchen, and I proudly show him every detail.
“Are you hungry?” I ask him.
He purses his lips, considering my question.
“Actually,” he says. “I think I am. I’ve not eaten a thing all day.”
I smile.
“Well, my new kitchen just got installed, and I’m itching to try it out. How about a little lunch? I need a willing guinea pig.”
“Did you just tell me that I am a rodent?”
“I just offered to feed you.”
He grins.
“And I happily accept.”
“You say that now,” I tease in a singsong voice.
“You will need to earn your food though, so please wash your hands over there,” I tell him as I point to the small hand washing station at the other end of the kitchen.
I collect all of the ingredients and kitchen utensils I need. I hand Ashton a knife and a chopping board. He accepts them with a deer caught in the headlights look on his face, which only amuses me more.
“You have seen a knife before, right?”
He rolls his eyes.
“It may be surprising to you, Mac, but I actually know my way around a kitchen.”
I scoff and raise a brow.
“Is that so?”
“It’s a fact.”
“We are making something simple, just a salad with salmon.”
He nods, turns on his heel, and heads over to the sink to wash vegetables. I walk over to the handwashing station, wash my hands, and then start prepping the fish. When I look over at Ashton, I’m actually quite surprised to see he is actually quite competently chopping away. I wasn’t sure if he was just bluffing, but he seems to know his way around a cutting board. While we work, he asks me questions, and I fire them right back. It isn’t long before the salmon is in the oven and the vegetables are ready to be tossed. I start cleaning some of the dishes, washing them by hand. Ashton appears beside me with a towel and starts to dry the dishes I wash. After we are done, I put together the salad, which is ready just in time for the salmon. Since there are no tables or anything in the dining room yet, we decide to eat in the staff room adjacent to the kitchen. The staff room is still bare but has a table and some chairs in it.
“So,” he says as he takes his fork and stabs it into his food. “How did I do?”
“You missed your calling. I am sure you were born to be a lettuce washer,” I deadpan.
“Is that so?”
“Totes.”
“Totes?”
“Yes, totes.”
Ashton raises a brow, and the two of us start laughing. The awkwardness that initially towered over us seems to have evaporated. We finish our meal, and he helps me clean up once more. Conversation flows freely, and we have quite a few laughs. I am genuinely a little disappointed when he announces that he has to leave.
“Thank you for lunch. It was delicious.”
“Thank you for helping me,” I smirk as I think of my follow-up sentence. “I have never met a better washer of lettuce.”
He chuckles and turns to leave, but he stops mid-stride.
“Thanks again for today, Mackenzie. My brother is a lucky guy.”
And with those words he leaves me standing here, wondering why his nice goodbye makes my chest ache.