My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,92

don’t jump to conclusions, Abi. There’s no use in doing that.

“Yeah, I’ll call you back later after she goes to sleep. I love you, too.”

And with that, Cole hangs up the phone and walks off to rejoin the party.

Uhm, excuse me . . . what? The? Fuck? He loves who?

Because his bride to be is standing a few feet away, smiling and laughing as she talks to an old lady, and the only other person I could think of that he’d be saying ‘I love you’ to is his mom, and she’s on the dance floor with his dad.

Shit.

Chapter 18

Lorenzo

I’m ready for today.

I’ve been ready for a long time. Taking this last-minute opportunity to come to Aruba to be a guest chef for the wedding of the year had sounded like an escape from a bad situation at Avanti. But since I’ve arrived, it’s been a dream come true. Maybe even better than a dream.

Cooking alongside Esmar and his crew, I’ve learned so much—about the flavors of the island, the creativity he’s honed over decades as a chef, and his own congenial style of running a kitchen, which is so different from others I’ve worked for who felt that yelling and insults were the best way to command respect. Esmar, on the other hand, is welcoming and generous, even friendly with his team.

I’m thankful for that because it’s allowed me the freedom to make several meals and dishes over this week, for Claire’s events and even for dinner services. It’s been a true culinary gift I am thankful to have received.

And tonight is the proverbial cherry on top.

I’m running the kitchen for the wedding, even Esmar taking orders from me.

“This is your show, Chef, what you were hand-selected and flown in to do. Show us what you’ve got,” he’d said.

And I am.

“Henri, more lime on the albacore crudo,” I order.

“Yes, Chef,” he answers as he grabs another fresh lime and begins juicing for his life.

I step to the pasta workstation, double-checking that my instructions are being followed correctly. Letting go of that duty had been difficult. It’s the one thing that always makes me feel at home, like I’m honoring all the lessons taught in the steamy kitchens of Positano. But I can’t be locked down in one place. I see that Gilberto, for all his craziness, is hyper-focused on his dough. “Good. Steady hands make for consistent noodles.”

“Steady, Chef,” he repeats with a smile.

I look around in delight, seeing dishes I designed being crafted with care. I’ve stuck to my roots, the foundation of Italian cooking that lives and breathes in my soul, but added touches of the island to honor our beautiful locale.

Finding myself next to Esmar, I whisper, “I don’t want to jinx things, but it seems as though this is all going well, yes?”

He smiles and touches the wooden spoon sitting next to him. I do the same to banish any bad luck my words might’ve conjured.

“You are a thoughtful chef, Lorenzo. You should not be surprised that prep is going well.”

His praise means a lot to me. “Thank you, Chef.”

He scans the room, double-checking on his crew before tilting his head toward the dry storage. Silently, I follow him to the semi-private area, sure that he’s going to impart some knowledge or give me some feedback on something I can do better.

“Have you enjoyed your short time here on the island, Chef Toscani?” Esmar says formally.

“Absolutely,” I answer instantly.

The truth is, I have. More than I had anticipated.

The time in the kitchen has been amazing, but also, the time exploring the island with Abigail has been unexpected and powerful. It feels like I have this full, vibrant life where I never know what to expect—are the papayas ripe to make Aruban hot sauce this morning? Will Gilberto show up on time or will Henri have to drag him out of some random guest’s bed to get him to the line, where he’ll regale us with tales that I’m certain are more embellishment than truth? Am I playing along with some honeymoon scheme by making eyes at Abigail? What shocking craziness will come out of Abigail’s mouth when the two of us talk for hours after the sun has long since disappeared below the horizon?

It feels like every moment is full of possibility.

Esmar nods, a wide smile showing his white teeth. “Good, good. I know you travel frequently, a man who always wanders but is never lost, you are.” He makes it sound fanciful and romantic