My phone was silent the entire way home. No text messages, no phone calls. Dean didn’t run out after me and he didn’t care enough to know if I made it home okay.
I was relieved to find the apartment empty. I tore at my clothes, tossing them into the trash on the way to the bathroom. They were sweaty and filled with memories I wanted erased by the morning. I turned on the shower and stepped inside. I squeezed shampoo over my scalp once, and then again, trying to expunge the scent of Dean.
I lathered myself in body wash from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and let it linger before washing it away with scalding water. I brought my arm to my nose and sniffed, feeling my heart break when I still smelled him there. His masculine scent overpowered my flowery body wash. I cried and scraped at my skin, sliding down to the floor of the shower. My fingers scrubbed furiously as I let his words haunt me.
I never made you any promises.
For all the progress we’d made, he still treated us like a contract that hadn’t been signed. I cried and let the water blend with my tears. The salty mixture disappeared past my lips as I curled into a ball.
I just wanted to get his scent off me.
I wanted to get him off me.
I wanted him gone.
Chapter Forty-Five
Dean
I let Lily walk out of my apartment and I stood there frozen. I was pushing her away for good; I knew it, and I couldn’t stop myself. Lily was a distraction at best and a liability at worst. I would have picked up on cues that something was amiss with Hunter had Lily not soaked up my attention during staff meetings. Looking back, there'd been plenty of signs that Hunter had been up to no good. It had worked out in the end, but I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. For the time being, my focus would remain on work.
…
Lily had walked out of my life the week before and I’d gotten more work done in those seven days than I had in months. I’d worked late every night and I’d have continued on like that forever, but the James Beard Awards wasn’t an event to skip. Every top chef, restaurateur, food critic, and journalist was in attendance, crammed into small red velvet seats awaiting the moment when the awards ceremony gave way to the cocktail hour. We’d all stand around for an hour or two ass-kissing the hell out of anyone we could manage to snag a minute with, but hopefully I’d be wearing a James Beard medal around my neck as I did it.
We’d already suffered through most of the awards, shit like Outstanding Baker and Outstanding Wine Program. I fidgeted in my seat and ignored the two guests seated beside me. According to the program, my award was next, and suddenly it was impossible to sit still.
A beautiful woman with dark, exotic features stepped out onto the stage to announce the nominees. I vaguely recognized her from a cooking show, but there were too many to keep track of to know for sure. She stood behind the mic with a gold-leafed envelope clutched beneath her bright red nails.
“The nominees for the James Beard Award for Outstanding Restaurateur are three individuals that each have a finger on the pulse of American cuisine. These three nominees have set high national standards in restaurant operations and entrepreneurship.”
I straightened my bowtie and leaned forward in my seat. I knew the cameramen would flash my face across the giant screens flanking the stage, but I didn’t paste on a fake smile. I was too focused on the announcer’s words.
“Our first nominee is Rob Villarreal. Rob has opened countless successful restaurants in the heart of Seattle. His restaurants are youthful and full of the spirit of the city.”
Rob Villareal had invested in Starbucks early and used his money to open shitty restaurants. If he won, I’d never drink Starbucks again.
“Our second nominee, Victor Keller, has established himself as the restaurant god of Las Vegas. He operates five restaurants along the Strip, one of which, La Viva, has placed in the top 50 restaurants in the world three years in a row.”
Victor Keller was a hack. He had his nose so far up the ass of the restaurant world it was a wonder he hadn’t shown up at the awards with pink eye.
“Our final nominee, Dean Harper is an up-and-coming restaurateur, making his mark in New York City one inventive restaurant at a time. In a climate where most restaurants rely on stifling traditions or flashy gimmicks, he focuses on fresh, innovative flavors and contemporary designs to set his restaurants apart from the competition.”
My heart was beating out of my chest as she ripped open that envelope. I wanted to grip someone’s hand, but the Asian mom to my left was staring down at her program, and the man to my right was too busy checking his iPhone to notice my nerves.
“And the winner of the James Beard Award for Outstanding Restaurateur goes to…” She smiled and paused to make eye contact with the audience. I was going to have a heart attack if she didn’t say the name soon. “Dean Harper! The youngest winner of the Outstanding Restaurateur award in history!”
I blinked.
And blinked again.
I squeezed my hands into fists and sat frozen.
The camera zoomed in on my face so that everyone in the opera house got an up-close view of my wide eyes. I was stunned and there was no one to push me up out of my seat or kiss my cheek as I made my way to the stage.
I stood and slipped past the attendees in my row. A few of them clapped me on the shoulder, but no one offered actual words of encouragement. I walked up the stairs on the side of the stage and was met by a young man waiting to put the heavy silver medal around my neck. My hands shook and my brow beaded with sweat as the magnitude of the achievement set in. I was the youngest winner of the award. I am the youngest, most successful restaurateur in the United States. I swallowed down that lump of success. The award was everything I’d worked toward since leaving my family in Iowa. It was the pinnacle of success and as I bent down to let the young man slip the medal around my neck, I stared down at the black stage and focused on the one emotion overpowering all the others: regret.
I cleared my throat and spoke into the mic, squinting at the glare of the lights beaming down on me.
“This award is a recognition of culinary accomplishment, not speechmaking ability, so I’ll keep this short.”
The crowd laughed good-naturedly.
“I never thought I’d find great success in a market like New York City. I fought tooth and nail for the top chefs and the best people. In the end, I look back on those long nights and lost weekends and I can honestly say…”
I paused and looked down at my medal, glowing in the opera house lights, and I felt my voice start to quake. I tried to clear my throat again. “I can honestly say…”
It wasn’t worth it.
None of it was worth it.
I took a step back, met the crowd’s gaze, and left my sentence hanging. “Thank you.”
The crowd didn’t clap right away; they were waiting for the second half of my sentence, but it never came. Eventually, after a long pause, the orchestra started playing and the opera house welled with light, happy music. I turned and let the presenter usher me backstage. She was busy congratulating me and gushing about how excited I must feel. I wanted to shake off the grip she had on my shoulder. I wanted her to leave me be so I could have one second to realize that where I should have felt absolute happiness, I only felt sorrow. It felt like I’d been punched in the stomach and the feeling wasn’t fading.
The threat of tears forced me to the bathroom back stage. I played it off like I was overwhelmed with the award and no one bothered me. No one thought twice about the emotional man with his shiny-ass medal and his rapidly closing throat.