Chapter Twenty-Two

Julia

Focus is a fight when all I want is to lose myself in Kit.

I round the corner toward the restaurant and almost barrel bodily into Coco. She's talking on the phone, dressed in her brunch wear, and chewing on the earpiece of her sunglasses idly.

She smiles, holds up her finger in the universal wait gesture.

"We're not going to rush the process," she says into the phone. The person on the other end of the line must not agree, because I hear a garbled, but adamant-sounding, response. Coco shushes it. "It's the weekend, babe, just let it sit for two days. She's going to sign on, I can feel it." She hangs up.

"Aren't you all still supposed to be brunching?" I ask as soon as the call has ended.

"I had a meeting with a very important celeb collab for Coco's Intimates, couldn't reschedule." She waves the phone. "And then a call with one of my employees right after because it didn't go as planned."

"Oh, gotcha," I say. "You motioned for me to hold on, so I assumed you needed help with something."

She nods, twirling her phone. "You have lip gloss smudged on your neck and collar." She points her long red nail to the up-turned, and now sullied, collar of my shirt. Fuck, I left my emergency bag at Homebase. I never do that.

I can't believe I did that.

She flicks her eyes behind me. "And there goes the tarot reader coming out of Homebase." She waggles her brow. "Mission Sexy Times, success ."

My blush is immediate. "Oh my God, please stop." I wet the tips of my fingers, trying to wipe away Kit's lip gloss. To no avail. "Not Sexy Times."

"Evidence proves otherwise." She smirks.

I give up my futile wiping. The stain is staying.

I launch out. She follows.

"I don't have time for this," I say, speed-walking. "I'm in crisis maintenance mode."

"Always," she says, keeping my pace easily.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Her hand drops to my shoulder, holding firm. I root in place, huffing.

"Make room for play."

It's not what I expect her to say, so it catches me off guard. "I'm on the job, on the clock, on someone else's dime. I can't make room for play if circumstances don't allow it."

"Circumstances will never allow it," she says, smiling. "Can I give you a piece of advice?"

I brace for something totally batshit, as is her typical MO.

"When I started Coco's Intimates, I was terrified to delegate any responsibilities to my team. I wanted to be cc'd on every email, called in to look at every swatch, meet every shipment, oversee wholesale orders, manually check online orders." She makes a what the fuck face, totally embarrassed by past Coco's failings. "It was a mess—I was a mess. I had a small team, all women, everything made in LA, and I could see it unraveling under all the pressure I was putting on it—on them. I wanted it to grow, but I didn't want to let go."

There's that phrase again. Let go. Like it's the first step in a wellness program.

I roll my eyes and she releases one hand to smack me on the ass. I sidestep the move but she doesn't give up, getting me on her second try. "I am offering pearls, and you're acting like a swine."

"Sorry," I snort. "It's just, letting go—come on, that's just slowly losing." Her face drops into a frown.

"You can't control everything." She winks. "Make room for play. It's the Coco's Intimates office motto for a reason."

She turns down the path that leads back toward the bachelorette party bungalows.

And I'm left wondering if for once I should listen when someone tells me to let go .

?I arrive at the kitchen to find that the chef has locked himself in the dry pantry, refusing to come out.

I rap my knuckles on the door. "Javier." Rap. "This is Julia Kelley. We've been corresponding through emails." He's a new vendor for Love, Always, but he came highly recommended.

Zoe hands me one of the offensive to vegans empanadas.

"What's this?"

"Delicious," she says, biting into another one. "Maybe a few compliments will get him out of the pantry and back to work."

"Does he even have time to start over from scratch?" I ask, sniffing the crusty dough parcel. It smells spicy, with just the right amount of cumin. Zoe shrugs.

"T-minus six hours," she says. "Tight, but plausible."

I bite into the empanada and my taste buds are immediately flooded with flavor. The beef is tender, mixed with tiny russet potatoes and cilantro, seasoned with spicy chilis. I roll my eyes in ecstasy. "Yum."

"I know," Zoe replies, shoving the rest of the empanada in her mouth.

I turn back to the pantry door. "Javier, we understand the freak-out. But we can't let that stop us from problem-solving." I hear him whimper through the door. "I mean, have you met the groom and his merry men? They could clear a hundred of these babies easy and still have room for more." I pause. "They won't go to waste."

"But they only ordered three batches of the potato and beef, and explicitly wanted a vegan option. I had one all prepared," he cries.

"Correct."

"And when I left the bakery this morning, I was certain I had grabbed the cart of black bean and corn. I don't know how I did this!"

I turn to Zoe. "Why can't he just go back to LA and get the vegan dish?"

"They've been sold as beef and potato to unsuspecting buyers at The Grove kiosk."

I stifle a laugh. Oh dear. I turn back to the door. "Javier, the kitchen here at Celestial Sands is equipped with most of the items you need to make something just as spectacular, if a little more rustic."

"Corn?"

"Uh, I believe—"

"Cilantro, black beans, serrano peppers?" he lists.

"I can't be certain of the exact ingredients," I say. Zoe steps away again, walking back through the archway that leads into the kitchen. "But you should come out and try to turn this situation around." I don't want to be a dick, but this is his mistake—he needs to find a fix.

Zoe is back. "The kitchen staff I spoke with thinks they have everything he needs to redo the empanadas."

"Javier," I say, elevating my voice through the door. My tone is firm. "There's still time to fix this if you get cracking."

There are a few beats of quiet in which, with an extraclose lean, I can ascertain that Javier is moving around inside, likely searching for beans. Then there's the click of the lock and the twist of the door handle to reveal the disheveled-haired, red-rimmed-eyed Javier. He's a young entrepreneur whose family owns a well-known restaurant in West Hollywood. He's trying to make a name for himself, so a screwup on a big wedding account with an influencer like Millie would understandably freak him out.

"We have less than six hours until the cocktail hour," I say, as we all walk back over to the main kitchen area. The chef has given him a small space near the back door to work.

"Chef Dorian has agreed to allot room in the oven for up to three pans," Zoe says, setting two bags of black beans on the counter space. "And they have a pressure cooker for these."

I make a mental note to send Chef Dorian a flower arrangement. Her reputation for being a team player wasn't a fallacy, but this is really above and beyond.

Javier begins setting out his needed ingredients from the kitchen's supplies, and I let out a deep exhale of relief. It took every ounce of my training—all my impeccably honed willpower and self-control—to focus on the crisis when I could still taste Kit's tongue. I want to get back to her. Not solely to hook up, but definitely hoping that's still in the cards. I have to internally snarl at my own use of a term with such a literal meaning in our case.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least moderately nervous she's going to pull the same disappearing act as she did that summer after high school if I ask her what this whole heavy petting, steamy kissing thing means for us when we get back to LA. Hell, I'm half expecting her to play down any connection here at Celestial Sands.

The second one might be for the best, actually, considering my brooding ex-girlfriend is on-site and trying to get me alone so she can mindfuck me into taking her back.

I motion for Zoe to follow me out of the kitchen. We're standing in the main dining room of the restaurant, where some of the extended family are enjoying lunch. Fortunately, the mothers are both still at the spa. I had Zoe schedule them lunch inside the facility as a precaution. Those two roaming the grounds unattended presents too many unknown variables, the mental flexibility for which I do not possess right now.

"Update on the fathers?" I ask Zoe, as we walk through the dining room to the courtyard. The sun shoots through the bright, multicolored lanterns hanging from the pergola that shades the area, casting Zoe in a rainbow of color.

"Still golfing. We sent a lunch cart out to the ninth hole, so my guess is they won't return until their barbershop cleanup." The groom's party, including both fathers and the two Connecticut uncles who flew in for the rehearsal to play ushers, are all getting a classically masculine (barf) treatment at the barber before tonight's events. Their version of a spa day.

"Bless the golf course gods for keeping them occupied," I say, steepling my fingers in mock prayer.

"They are the laziest of the gods, so I am told. Glad they came through," she deadpans. I let out an exhausted but genuine laugh. My mind is already moving away from wedding checkups and trailing back through the paths of Celestial Sands to Kit's Airstream trailer. "I'm totally rank after no sleep and bachelor wrangling. I have to go freshen up."

"Of course, boss," she says.

"I'm not your boss, Zoe. You work for Love, Always, not me."

Something like disappointment slinks through her giant, dark eyes. It's gone in a heartbeat, but I notice it, and I feel like I am inadvertently the one responsible for it.

I turn to leave the courtyard, planning to meander toward Homebase before DMing Kit to find out where she's landed. Just thinking the words brings the fresh memory back up in my head, sending shoots of heat through my body—my cheeks, my chest, between my legs.

As I pass in front of Homebase, I see the bridal party returning to Millie's bungalow after their morning of brunching. Right on schedule, as I would expect from the impeccable Millie Morgan. Millie waves me over as she unlocks her door, letting the other women funnel in around her. Piper, unsurprisingly, lingers outside to listen in.

"I know I have you to thank for getting the boys there in one piece," she says, and then restates, her nose scrunching, playful, "Mostly one piece."

"I have some ideas about how to remedy the Cash Kim forehead situation."

"He suggested I let him wear his trucker hat." She raises her brows in a hell no face.

"Oh God no." I laugh. "I was thinking strategic hairstyling plus a little concealer."

"Much better," Millie says. Her eyes drift to the hovering Piper. "Come on, sis, we have slippers and a plush robe waiting at the spa."

Piper feigns a smile. "Just need to steal Julia away for a quick sec." She winks, indicating the sec she needs is for some sort of supersecret wedding special and not another attempt to reel me back into her clutches.

"Okay, but make it snappy," Millie says, her tone playful. She moves inside the bungalow, letting the door close behind her.

I cut Piper a hard look and she flashes me a smirk, leaning close.

"I get bimonthly spa treatments at the Waldorf. I could skip out on these if you're free."

"I'm the planner of a destination wedding, my freedom is never guaranteed," I say, turning. She steps deftly into my path, all long legs, taut arms, soft flowing hair.

"One drink," she says. Leans, running the curved edges of her nails down my arm to my hand. "I'll even let you leave the walkie-talkie on."

"Not thirsty," I say, turning my face so it's tauntingly close to hers. "Enjoy the spa."

I step around her, and this time, she doesn't get in my way.

"I came out to my family over the Fourth of July." Her words hit their mark. I'm stunned into stopping, turning, unable to hide the surprise on my face. "It went wretchedly, as I knew it would."

"I'm sorry they didn't support you." I'm torn between giving her a queer woman hug of solidarity and bolting before she can interpret my empathy as something more. "On the Cape?" No hug, just polite questions allowing her to share her experience.

"On the deck before fireworks," she says. "Dad was mixing juleps. Mom was pretending to read her Nora Roberts. The nephews ran around the pool shooting water guns, Gavin and Helena were in floats in the deep end, and I just blurted it out." She's breathless, her cheeks flushed.

"I bet William flipped," I say. Her dad is a staunch conservative WASP type. Old money, and even older ideals. "Well, as much as a man who tucks his shirt into his swim trunks can flip ."

"He didn't speak. Not through dinner or fireworks, not until Pamela brought out the cake and started to cut. And then he burst out with ‘Lesbians aren't Presbyterian!'?" She laughs, but the crack tells me she still doesn't think it was funny.

"Anyone can be Presbyterian," I say.

"I told him I only go to church on Easter and Christmas, so maybe my religion shouldn't decide my sexuality," Piper says. I let a laugh slip out and she smiles, pleased.

"Have things gotten any easier since?"

She half shrugs. "A lunch with Mom, which unraveled into her trying to set me up with Diane at the club's lawyer son ."

"So, they're in denial."

"But I'm not anymore and that's what matters," she says, her voice going soft. "Right?"

Oh no, she's looking at me with hazel eyes of yearning, totally misreading my camaraderie as romantic interest. I have to shut this down.

"I'm happy for you, Piper, but you being out doesn't change anything where we're concerned." I motion to the space between us. I know I sound harsh, but my voice just takes on this stern tone in her presence. I had to adopt it to ever land an argument. Now that she's looking at me like that—all wispy and misty with hope—I just want to crush the dream. Not crushing it, not closing the door completely, scares me more than I like to admit.

Once, Piper had all the power and I had none. You don't forget that feeling easily.

"Julia, would it kill you to give me another chance?" She huffs, her nostrils flaring with annoyance. She's not getting what she wants, which is basically torture to a princess like Piper.

I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head. There's only one person I'm willing to give a second chance to, and it's not her.

"I'm interested in someone else right now," I say, turning to leave, but then quickly adding, "Really happy for you, though. Enjoy the spa."

When I'm far enough away from Piper, I tug my phone from my pocket, making quick work of going into Kit's DMs.

Fire extinguished. Ready to start another one?

I hit send and immediately blush all over. It's too forward. I'm assuming too much about what Kit will want right now, when we haven't even talked about what this means in the bigger scope of our lives. I should follow up with something neutral. Ask if she wants to meet me at the restaurant. We can hang in public where we don't have to make out. My mind glitches back over the frenzied kissing session at Homebase. Her wandering hands and hungry lips. Hungry for me . I feel warm in one very specific place now, and it's making me lightheaded.

My phone zzztt s with a DM.

I'll bring the matches if you bring the kindling.

I smirk with pleasure. Flirting, even over text, feels natural with Kit.

…to my airstream trailer. In case that wasn't clear.

I launch out on the path, all reservations about how fast or slow this is moving forgotten.