We probably have two completely different definitions for what morning and night even mean. He’s a successful chef who gets home to unwind after midnight, and I’m in my pajamas by seven in the evening.
My phone makes a noise, but it isn’t a ringtone. It’s making a noise like someone is trying to FaceTime me.
Please don’t be Atlas.
I am not prepared for a video chat; I just put face scrub on. I look at the phone and sure enough, it’s him.
I answer it and quickly flip the phone around so that he can’t see me. I leave it on my sink while I speed up the cleansing process. “You asked if you could call me. This is a video chat.”
I hear him laugh. “I can’t see you.”
“Yeah, because I’m washing my face and getting ready for bed. You don’t need to see me.”
“Yes, I do, Lily.”
His voice makes my skin feel tingly. I flip the camera around and hold it up with an I told you so expression. My wet hair is still wrapped in a towel, I’m wearing a nightgown my grandmother probably used to own, and my face is still covered in green foam.
His smile is fluid and sexy. He’s sitting up in bed, wearing a white T-shirt, leaning against a black wooden headboard. The one time I went to his house, I never went into his bedroom. His wall is blue, like denim.
“This was definitely worth the decision to video-chat,” he says.
I set the phone back down, facing me this time, and finish rinsing. “Thanks for lunch today.” I don’t want to give him too much praise, but it was the best pasta I’ve ever had. And it was two hours old before I even had a chance to take a lunch break and eat it.
“You liked the why are you avoiding me pasta?”
“You know it was great.” I walk to my bed once I’m finished in the bathroom. I prop my phone on a pillow and lie on my side. “How was your day?”
“It was good,” he says, but he’s not very convincing with the way his voice drops on the word good.
I make a face to let him know I don’t believe him.
He looks away from the screen for a second, like he’s processing a thought. “It’s just one of those weeks, Lily. It’s better now, though.” His mouth curls into a slight grin, and it makes me smile, too.
I don’t even have to make small talk. I’d be happy just staring at him in complete silence for an hour.
“What’s your new restaurant called?” I already know it’s his last name, but I don’t want him to know I googled him.
“Corrigan’s.”
“Is it the same kind of food as Bib’s?”
“Sort of. It’s fine dining, but with an Italian-inspired menu.” He rolls onto his side, propping his phone on something so that he’s mirroring my position. It feels like old times when we’d stay up late chatting on my bed. “I don’t want to talk about me. How are you? How’s the floral business? What’s your daughter like?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“I have a lot more, but let’s start with those.”
“Okay. Well. I’m good. Exhausted most of the time, but I guess that’s what I get for being a business owner and a single mother.”
“You don’t look exhausted.”
I laugh. “Good lighting.”
“When does Emerson turn one?”
“On the eleventh. I’m going to cry; this first year went so fast.”
“I can’t get over how much she looks like you.”
“You think so?”
He nods, and then says, “But the flower shop is good? You’re happy there?”
I move my head from side to side and make a face. “It’s okay.”
“Why just okay?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m tired of it. Or tired in general. It’s a lot, and it’s tedious work for not very much financial return. I mean, I’m proud that it’s been successful and that I did it, but sometimes I daydream about working in a factory assembly line.”
“I can relate,” he says. “The idea of being able to go home and not think about your job is tempting.”
“Do you ever get bored of being a chef?”
“Every now and then. It’s why I opened Corrigan’s, honestly. I decided to take more of an ownership role and less of a chef role. I still cook several nights a week, but a lot of my time goes to keeping them both running on the business side.”
“Do you work crazy hours?”
“I do. But nothing I can’t work a date night around.”
