Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

What I’d like to do is find this Paul guy and wring his neck.

I shift over, bringing my body up next to hers, and wrap my arm around her shoulders. It’s the only thing to do right now, and the idea that I shouldn’t be this close to her because of work is like a puff of smoke disappearing in the breeze.

“I did the right thing,” she says, her voice choking slightly. “I refused to do something that felt so … wrong. All I feel is this sickness in my stomach, like he didn’t just steal my dream, you know?”

I rub her back, trying to be here for her in any way I can. She leans her head on my shoulder, a sob racking her body.

“I thought he signed me because he thought I was talented,” she continues. “He was the first person to make me feel like I could be something, and it was all a lie because he wanted something else.”

“I’m so sorry, Murphy.”

But my words feel hollow and unhelpful, and Murphy continues to cry.

I hold her close and wish there was anything else I could do. Anything else I could say.

Instead, I’m overwhelmed by the feelings coursing through me.

Because listening to Murphy’s story reminds me a little bit of my own. Of a chance I had to get ahead by selling a chunk of my soul.

Murphy looked the devil in the face and told him she wasn’t for sale.

And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t look back and wish I’d done the same.

Chapter Thirteen

MURPHY

Wes and I reach a level of friendship after that night at the bench that I wasn’t anticipating. I guess sharing horribly embarrassing stories with someone bonds you.

All I know is, after that, it feels like I’m not so alone.

I spend the next few days helping wherever I can with getting things ready for the opening. If we’re planning to get staff in here and trained soon, we need things to be set up.

Long hours go by in the dining room setting up tables and chairs, unloading and unpacking all the plates and bowls and cutlery, and organizing things in a way that makes sense behind the bar until the sommelier comes in and sets it up better.

And through all those hours over those several days, I can’t help but notice how often Wes pops his head out of the kitchen, or comes over to help me move something heavy, or asks me to taste something he’s working on.

He’s started training two line cooks on his tentative menu, and we spend time in the evening, on our bench, talking about how green they are and how dire the résumé situation is for the server and host positions I advertised at the start of the week.

There’s a kind of camaraderie between us. A we’re in it together feeling that I’m really enjoying.

And in the same breath, I can’t help but acknowledge how quickly I’m beginning to fall for him.

Wes isn’t the charming guy I first met at the gas station, and he’s not the playboy I thought he was when his attitude soured, or the jerk who kept me at arm’s length. Those were masks he put on, at first to entice me and then to push me away.

No. He’s so much more than any of those small, insignificant labels.

Wes is … Well, he’s kind, for one thing. He’s also a man who legitimately cares about the people around him. And after years and years of being surrounded by self-centered, egotistical fame-seekers, I can’t help but admire almost everything about him.

I don’t know his backstory, or how he maneuvered his way through the culinary industry, but I get the feeling he’s been through something difficult. He’s mentioned his younger brother a few times and hinted that he might have taken care of him when their parents weren’t around.

That kind of heart, that dedication to family, is something I so admire.

It makes me feel a little ashamed of how quickly I turned tail and scurried off to LA. How little effort I made to stay connected to my family.

That fight with Memphis? It’s true … He could have called me. He could have come to visit me. But he’s not the only one. And I can either shove all the blame onto him or Dad, and stay mad at them for all the ways they failed, or I can acknowledge that all of us were hurting, for whatever reason, and try to repair the relationships that have fallen into disrepair because we were each too stubborn to extend a hand.

I knock on the door to Memphis’s office, poking my head in when I hear his brisk “Come in.”