The thought of spending a night out suddenly filled Brad with dread. He’d been up since 3:30 a.m. and had spent most of the day training his new assistants how to bake most of his recipes so that they could take over for him a couple of days a week. He’d been working seven days a week for a month now. He wastired.
“I’m beat, man.”
“Aw, come on. This bar is classy, not like the places we used to hang out. Nice decor, bespoke cocktails, fancy ingredients.”
“It sound great, but do you know how early I have to get up to make muffins and danishes for the morning rush?”
Aaron nodded. “All right. I’ll let you have that.”
They chatted about food and people they knew. Brad appreciated the tour of the studio, but he happily got on the subway to go back to his place in Brooklyn.
He was renting an apartment in Prospect Heights, the third floor of a narrow three-story row house. It was a big space—long, albeit narrow—but hadn’t been updated since the nineties, so Brad had gotten a pretty good deal on it. The kitchen was small but functional, just enough space to let him play around with new recipes. This was his first place without roommates, and he was happy with his two bedrooms, one of which he was using as an office.
Not that he was ever home, which was why he did not need a cat. He didn’t see himself as a cat person. It didn’t matter how cute Hamilton was or how much of a shine that cat had taken to Brad. And, okay, since Brad usually opened, he always looked in on the cats, and Hamilton always beelined right for him. And, sure, sometimes Brad talked to Hamilton about whatever was on his mind, and Hamilton always sat there staring at Brad like whatever he said was fascinating. And, fine, unburdening himself to a cat was surprisingly cathartic.
He’d thought about getting a dog, but his long hours were an even bigger problem with a dog. Lauren had told him that she and her husband hired a dog walker to take their dog out when they were both working. Brad had seen that poor woman a few times, walking between three and five dogs at a time down Whitman Street. So that was a possible solution. And maybe Brad was protesting too much about adopting a cat. But he just didn’t see the point of adopting a pet when he was never home.
He dropped onto the sofa in his mostly bare living room. He’d only been in the apartment about six months and was still deciding what to put on the walls. His old posters were sitting in a box in the bedroom, and he’d put some Post-its up that said things like “Rolling Stones” and “Matisse print” where he thought his various artworks should go. He’d get there. Not to mention, he’d finally had enough of working for his eccentric boss at the chocolate restaurant and had decided to leave, and he’d been anxious enough about finding a new job that he hadn’t wanted to jinx his ability to stay in this place by decorating.
He flipped on the TV and saw he’d left it on the Food Channel. He laughed and watched a few minutes of the last show Aaron had worked on, a show calledFlash Fryabout chefs who had to make complete meals in thirty minutes. Then fatigue from the day finally set in, and he started to doze.
As he always did when he was half-asleep and no longer able to ward her off, he thought of Lindsay. There had to be some way to at least have a conversation with her. Maybe he could make her see that he’d grown up enough for her to merit giving him a second chance. Maybe he could track down Phoebe and get her to explain to Lindsay that the kiss in the kitchen that night really had been nothing. Maybe he’d just charm her socks off this time, make himself irresistible, and talk her into going on a date with him. It could be just like old times. He imagined her texting him flirty things, his phone lighting up with words and images from Lindsay.
Then he realized his phone actually was chiming and he wasn’t just imagining it.
The text was from Paige.You’re still in for the adoption event cupcakes etc., yes?
Yes, he responded.
Cool. Lindsay dropped by the café bc she knew you wouldn’t be here. But I think I talked her into coming.
Brad laughed. He wasn’t sure what it said about him and Lindsay that her friends, despite their protestations, seemed to be rooting for him, but he was grateful. He texted Paige a thumbs-up emoji.
Now he just had to figure out how to get Lindsay to talk to him.
Chapter 7
Since no one was accepting “Brad will be there” as an acceptable excuse to miss the café’s quarterly adoption party, Lindsay reluctantly walked into the cat café.
She attended these parties if she was available as a way to support her friends who worked for the café. Paige hired a bartender to sling drinks, and usually they got catered food from local businesses, but as soon as Paige entered the cat room, she saw that it was Brad carrying around trays of snacks. A table was set up on one side of the room, and as Lindsay walked in, Brad laid a tray of mini-cupcakes there.
He was stupid cute when he was in work mode. He wore a plain white chef’s jacket and nicely fitted dark jeans rolled up at the cuffs to show off his ankles and brown boat shoes. No city boy should have worn boat shoes, and yet Lindsay still thought his ankles were, well, attractive and masculine, which felt like a stupid thing to think about ankles.
He grinned at a few of the women who walked over to take a cupcake before walking over to talk to Lauren. Lindsay wasn’t anxious to have him know she was here yet, so she walked to the bar on the other side of the room and ordered a martini. When she turned around again, he was leaving the room.Phew.
Evan approached. “You’re not subtle.”
“What?”
“I saw you come in and carefully dodge the direction of Brad’s gaze like you were Bugs Bunny hiding from Elmer Fudd in a cartoon.”
“I need a cocktail before I can talk to him.”
“I’m surprised you came.”
“I’m trying to support my friends. I mean, you, Lauren, and Paige are my three best friends in this whole godforsaken city. Lauren and Paige both work here, and you do enough freelance work for them that you might as well work here, too. If I didn’t love my new job, I’d probably try to work here, too. Except, oh wait, now my ex-boyfriend does.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been trying to shoot lasers out of my eyes so that he’ll catch on fire whenever I see him, but it’s not working so far.”
