Truly Madly Deeply (Forbidden Love, #1)

by L.J. Shen

“Said to remind you that he isn’t in pain anymore. That he is probably in heaven right now, playing chess with Leonid Stein and Abe Turner and eating Beluga caviar.”

He twisted again, about to walk off and leave me. Man, he couldn’t stand me. I was going to keep him here and talk to him just to piss him off. How dare he? He took my virginity and it was my dad’s funeral. He was going to be nice to me if it was the last thing he did in his life. “So how’s Paris?” I sniffled, wiping at my eyes. He stopped mid-step. Growled in dissatisfaction. Turned to look at me. “Don’t know. Ask someone who lives there.”

“I asked you.” I tried peering into his face, dread blooming in the pit of my stomach. “Because you live there. Wikipedia says so. So it must be right. It’s right, right?” “Great, another stalker.” He scowled, stabbing a piece of prosciutto with a plastic fork, loading it onto his plate. Another? How many were there? “You’re famous and I grew up with you. Of course, I jealousy-googled you. It’s not like I stole your sperm. And hey, I actually had the chance.”

“I live in Staindrop now,” came the reluctant answer. “Though ‘live’ is an exaggeration. This place doesn’t even have a fucking Whole Foods.”

“Why’d you move back?” I piped out. “Opened a restaurant here about a year ago.” He grabbed a piece of cherry pie, shoving it into his mouth without tasting it. “Descartes.” His French accent was on point. So were my nipples, which apparently approved of his grasp of the French language. “Really? I hadn’t heard.” “The Michelin people did. Gave it three stars. The first restaurant in the state of Maine to receive the honor. Just won the James Beard Award for it, actually. Guess that levels things out.”

“Why the name Descartes?” I munched on the corner of my mouth. “Taco Bell was taken.” He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, and my nether region clenched in response. “No, what I mean is, why him of all philosophers?” Descartes was known for the connection he had made between geometry and algebra. My father had been fascinated by him and had spoken of him often. “Are you always so full of questions?” he seethed. “Are you always so full of attitude?” I sassed back. “Yes,” he said simply. “Made an entire career based on it. Asshole is my entire personality.” “You weren’t always like that,” I pointed out, my gaze holding his. “Once upon a time, you were the best part of my day some days.”

“What a crappy adolescence you must’ve had to put so much stock in someone who didn’t give a shit. Go back to torturing Lyle with your VH1 trivia.” “You know, I think I’d rather torture you. You’re closer, and unlike Lyle, I don’t like you. So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Hey, Casablancas. Come to ruin another fine piece of this small town?” he all but spat at Row’s feet as we stood on the buffet-style line along a table. Whoa. What the hell? Row was royalty in this place. Staindrop’s golden boy. He had been handled with adoration and respect before he’d gone on to become the American Alain Ducasse. His shitty attitude added to his mysterious aura and bad-boy persona. “I think I’m going to spare her.” Row dunked a sponge cake in an unidentifiable syrup, sniffing it before tossing it into his mouth. “Not my type and talks a mile a minute.”

“I wasn’t talkin’ about Calla. I was talking about this house.” Randy balled his free fist, taking a step in Row’s direction. “Talk all you want about either. As always, no one’s listening.” Row smirked defiantly. Randy shoved his plate in Lyle’s chest, stepping into Row’s vicinity with his fist raised above his shoulder. “You got somethin’ to say to me, Chef?” “Yeah, actually.” Row ate the rest of the distance between them, dropping his plate at the table with a loud clank. “Eat. Shit.”

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” He gave me an exasperated look, shaking his head. “Well, I think I’m gonna let you brew in the unknown a little longer.” “What an ass.” “You know, I had the same thought when I walked into this place and you had your back to me.” “Are you flirting with me or ridiculing me?” I stomped. Actually stomped. The man was insufferable. “Neither.” He picked up his plate and resumed his feast. “Just fact-stating is all.” Tapping my finger over my mouth, I asked, “How come you didn’t kick Tuck’s butt for getting together with Dylan?” “Who says I didn’t? Relocated his nose the first time they got together. Then closed the trunk door on his fingers, breaking four out of five, after their post–pregnancy test breakup.” Pause. “Accidentally, of course.” “No, you didn’t.” A somber nod. “He’ll never be able to jerk off again. His fingers look like deep-fried Cheetos.”

“But why do you loathe me? What did I ever do to you? I gave you the greatest gift of all.” “Pretty sure you moved away because of college, not as a gesture of good faith.” He popped an olive into his mouth. “I’m talking about my virginity, you swine.” “That was a gift?” He squinted at a piece of Muenster cheese dangling on a toothpick with the utmost concentration. “What’s the return policy on that?”

“I was wrong to do that to Dylan, but I didn’t hurt you in any way. Yet you’re the one who can’t stand me. Why?” “I can stand you fine.” “Is that why you’re being sarcastic with me?” “I’m being sarcastic with everyone, Dot. Ain’t nothing special ’bout you.” “You weren’t sarcastic with me back when I was a kid.” “Spared you then.” He turned to tap my nose, his grin unbearably patronizing. “New rules now. You’re a commoner like everyone else.”

It was quaint, lovely, and cozy. If you didn’t include the beastly man that stood inside it, filling up the entire room. “Please tell me you are an unfortunate hallucination caused by my lack of sleep.” I stepped into the kitchen in a daze. Row was there, washing the dishes at the sink like he wasn’t a famous, stunning human with pictures of him in a tux available for download on Getty Images. Suds of soap coated his sun-kissed, veiny forearms. The black sleeves of his dress shirt bunched around his elbows, straining against his thick arms. He had tattoos. Two full sleeves of delicious ink. All culinary inspired. Knives, herb roots, and a human-looking pig in a chef apron butchering a piece of human flesh. “You’re not hallucinating.” He frowned at a pan, trying to scrub a dry piece of potato and cheese from it. “This time, anyway.” “What are you doing?” I glowered. “The dishes. I thought it was self-explanatory.” “Do you always do the dishes in people’s houses without asking?”

“It’s a fetish” came his lazy drawl. “Don’t tell Sheriff Menchin. He let me off on a warning last time.”

“Excuse me? Yes, they are.” “Is that what the deed says?” He picked up a dirty plate from the water-filled sink, leisurely scrubbing. “It’s what my mouth says.” “Your mouth just spent forty minutes talking about Meat Loaf.” He scowled at the bubble-coated plate he was cleaning. “It’s obviously only good for one thing, and that thing ain’t an appropriate topic for conversation.” “You’re unbelievable!” I screeched. “You’re incoherent,” he slapped back. “I don’t know why I gave you my virginity.” “If it makes you feel any better, I think I deserved it even less than that Grammy.”

I stood there, watching him being sexy and helpful and sarcastic, and just couldn’t take it. He had no right being all those things under my roof. In my house. It was time to assert power and control over the situation. “Please leave,” I said one more time. “Please shut up.” He picked up another plate to clean. I jumped on his back, lacing both my legs over his waist from behind, seizing his neck in a chokehold. That, at least, was the plan. But I had miscalculated it gravely. Because his huge, muscular shoulders got in the way of choking him. Embarrassingly, even as I was wrapped around him, he continued doing the dishes, like a fly had just landed on his back,

“Cut it out.” He turned off the tap and shoved the clean plate into the rack, trying to swat my hands away from his face. Soap bubbles landed on the tips of our noses and eyes. “What are you? Two?” “Twenty-three.” And he was twenty-seven. Birthday was May sixteenth. I remembered because he had total Taurus vibes. He clasped my wrists, prying me away as he staggered back from the kitchen sink. Ha. Being a stage-five clinger had its advantages. He couldn’t get rid of me. Row reversed all the way to the wall, where he plastered my back against it, prying my arms off. I clung tighter, octopusing around his body. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he warned solemnly. “Newsflash, you already did.” I knotted my legs over his torso from behind. “When we had sex.” “You asked me to have sex with you.” He slid us both down to the floor, where he leaned his back onto my body, then flipped himself over, so we were missionary style, him on top of me. “You came on to me.” “I was drunk!” I lied, swinging my fists toward his face.

“No, you weren’t.” His lips thinned, and he looked genuinely pissed off now. “You didn’t have more than one drink in you that night. I know you drunk. I know you sober. I know you in every fucking state. Besides, I thought you didn’t want—what was it again?” He looked up, squinting as he tried to remember that night. “A broccoli-haired trust fund baby who makes experimental techno music to take your V-card.” “I was young and impressionable.”

“Why’d you listen to me?” “Because you were a willing woman of legal age, and I was twenty-three with a pulse.”

He pinned me to the wooden planks by thrusting his nether region to trap my legs against the floor, and just like that, I came sex-to-sex with his massive erection. He bracketed me between his thighs and nailed my wrists together above my head. My nipples brushed his chest each time I panted. My eyes narrowed. “Let me go.” His gaze dropped to my lips. “Been trying to do that all afternoon, and you keep coming back.” “Sounds about right,” I bit back. “It’s the only way I come with you.” “Baby.” He released a slow, taunting smirk

“Just say the word and I’ll destroy your pussy and your chance of ever coming with any other man.”

“I’m serious, Row. If you don’t let me go right now, I’m going to do something really awful.” “Like what?” A spark of interest ignited in his eyes. Ugh. Good question. “Bite you?” I twisted my mouth uncertainly. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Litvin.” “I’ll sing! You’ve never known pain until you hear me belt out ‘Hello’ by Adele. I try to hit all those high and low notes. I also do the echoes, for full effect.”

“Say the magic word, Dot, and I’ll set you free.” “Plea—” “Nah. Our magic word. The one we came up with together.” Oh shit. He was doing that whole routine we’d used to do growing up. Whenever Dylan was busy and I was bored, I would wander into his room and rummage through his stuff. If he caught me—which he rarely did, because he was always out doing big, lovely Row things—we would grapple until he would inevitably press me against his bed or the floor and have me beg him for mercy. Only I hadn’t used the word please. I had used another word that used to make him laugh. What the hell was the word? Think, Cal, think!

“Not the first hole I have in mind, but I’ll take it. Two more shots.” “Banana?”

“Nope, but I see where your mind is going, and I’m not mad about it.”

“Give me a clue,” I demanded, wriggling. “Is it a fruit or a vegetable?” “Fruit,” he said stoically. Pear? Passionfruit? Guava? “Give me another clue.” The weight of him was delicious. To the point my mouth watered, my nipples puckered, and I was ninety-nine percent sure I was on the verge of a mini-orgasm. “Nice try. You didn’t deserve the first one.”

“One more chance to get it right, Dot. What’s our magic word?” “Mango!” I tossed the word in his face, flustered. “Wrong answer.” His voice was calm, flat, and resolute. “The word you were looking for was tomato.” “You said it was a fruit!” “Tomato is a fruit.” “How can it be a fruit if you put it in salads? Fruits are fun.” “So is payback,” Row deadpanned. “Enjoy.” He used his free hand to tickle my armpits and neck, feathery fingers skimming all my delicate areas, and my writhing became violent, frantic thrashing. I was the most ticklish person on planet Earth. It was a medical condition. I could pee myself. I swung upward, trying to bite him in retaliation. “Let go of me!”

I was horrified and delighted that the grumpiest human alive had managed to put a smile on my face on the saddest day of my life. I was dangerously close to peeing my pants and coming, and needed Mom to come down right now before I did something I would never recover from. Desperate, I sent a silent prayer to the universe.

ROW

“What do you mean they resigned by text?” I was standing at the heart of Descartes’ dining area, surrounded by rustic décor, stained glass, and useless idiots. I was two idiots short, though. Donny and Heather, my servers, had decided to quit together and hand me a generous twenty minutes notice, along with a figurative middle finger.

“You really don’t pay attention to anyone other than yourself and your kitchen, huh?” Rhy’s green eyes narrowed. That wasn’t completely true. I did notice one person. She had blue-tipped, Rachel Green hair, wore overalls unironically, and possessed the ability to be klutzy without looking like a complete moron. And I wanted to stay as far away from her as humanly possible. This wouldn’t be a problem, though. I had the uncanny ability to cut people off, and Calla Litvin had been plucked from my life five years ago, straight from the root. She was squarely on my shit list.

It was going to be a bitch to hire and train two new employees if I could even find them in this godforsaken town. The citizens of Staindrop weren’t exactly fans of mine, and Descartes was booked to the max until its closing date, the day before Christmas. January first couldn’t come soon enough. That was when my one-way ticket to London was scheduled. New restaurant. New adventure. Zero baggage.

“You wanted something immediate?” He took a pull of his drink. “Then your best bet is your sister and your mother.” “The former is on bed rest, and the latter is recovering from the flu. Think harder. That brain of yours is good for more than taking directions from lonely rich women.” “I’m too hot to use my brain. Only average people have to saddle themselves with an actual personality.” “You have a personality,” I informed him dryly. “A shitty one, but it’s in existence nonetheless.” He pointed at me with the bottle, not even a little offended. “What’s your idea, Einstein?” “Find me Donny and Heather, drag them here by the hair, and make them give us the two weeks’ notice they owe us.” “Donny’s bald.” Rhyland took another greedy sip. “He’ll be limbless too, once I’m done with him.”

Better get it over with. Rhy was going to find out sooner or later that Cal was in town. “He was the one teacher at school I didn’t want to set on fire.” I shrugged, bringing the bottle to my lips. “So you saw Cal.” Rhyland’s eyebrows were floating somewhere above the atmosphere. “Briefly,” I grunted. “Wanna talk about it?” “Hard pass. She did enough talking for the entire decade.” “Still adorably weird, I see.” He plastered his palms against the designer bar between us. “Well, if you wanna talk about it, we can grab a beer after we close.”

Had I really been that pathetic growing up? I remembered being in love with her, but I didn’t recall handing her my nuts in a flower bouquet for Valentine’s Day.

The evening couldn’t get worse if a meteor landed directly on my fucking head.

I was wrong. The evening got worse. Exponentially so and at a plane-crashing speed. Hot mess would be putting it mildly.

“My name is Sophie Avent. I’m a reporter for Cook’s Illustrated.” I never gave interviews. Unless it was a part of my contractual obligation for a TV show promo, in which case I had my people go over the questions in advance with a fine-tooth comb. My past was too tangled, too complicated for me to open my life up for the world’s entertainment. “I was wondering if you would—” “No,” I cut into her words. “You didn’t hear my question yet,” she pointed out smartly. “Unless it ends with ‘let me suck your cock’—in which case, the answer would be ‘no, but thank you’—the answer is still no.”

“So, first of all—apologies for his crassness; easing him into civilization has been a step-by-step process. Clearly, he escaped his cage.” Rhyland rearranged the utensils on her table, his heartthrob smile working extra hours. “Second, your dinner is on the house and will be accompanied by a lovely 1998 Chateau Lafite Rothschild and an exclusive ten-minute interview.”

Sophie’s expression remained unimpressed. “Did he just…?” “I wish I could tell you he didn’t, but we have an audience, so let’s focus on how to remedy the situation and make you happy.” She curved an eyebrow. “You can make me happy, I’m sure.” The suggestion had been clear. “Consider it done, sweetheart. Now!” Rhy patted her shoulder, his American Psycho smile still intact. “Please allow me to direct all my wrath—excuse me, attention—toward my volatile, genius boss. Be right back to take your order. And number.”

“Well, the good news is, now tonight can’t get any worse.” Rhyland stared out the door’s window. “Chef?” Taylor came to a screech in front of me, holding on to my butcher block. “Yeah?” “The grill station is on fire.”

“I’m talking about this place. This town. If you’re going to stick around for a while, you need a job.” “Oh. Sure. Right.” I stared at her skeptically. “And where am I going to get that?” Staindrop wasn’t exactly the Big Apple of opportunities. It was more…the Small Raisin of unemployment. I knew she was right. I did need a job. I’d just figured that job was going to be selling my internal organs on the black market or being a phone sex operator for old married men. “Let me tell you where you’re not going to get it—this couch.” “I’ll get a job.” I waved her off airily, with confidence I definitely did not feel. “You better because I don’t want it on my conscience if you lose your New York apartment. It’s rent-controlled.”

Birthday wish: cake made out of something gross like broccoli or cauliflower so I can force everyone to “celebrate” with me by eating it —Cal. This last one made my heart stop in my chest. Three years ago, on my birthday, I had gotten a special delivery of a gross cake during a shift at the restaurant where I had been working. It had had broccoli, cream cheese, rhubarb, and a few other cake-looking ingredients and had actually been surprisingly decent. It had tasted like a veggie casserole. I had figured it was a joke my mom had played on me and hadn’t worried too much when she’d vehemently denied sending it. Could Dylan be the one who had sent it? Was that her way of reaching out to me? Had I missed this crucial sign? Well, I wasn’t missing any more of them. I was going to win Dylan’s friendship back. As soon as the sun pierced through the clouds, I started working.

It was a humbling experience, standing in the pissing rain on Dylan’s doorstep with a baking dish swathed in foil, shivering in my ladybug rainboots as Zeta Casablancas regarded me with the suspicion of a prison guard. “Calla, cucciolotta, I am so sorry for your loss.” She sniffled through the tiny crack in the door. Not sorry enough to let me in, I thought uncharitably. “Is she waiting for you?” She peered beyond my shoulder, still blocking the entryway.

A minute passed. Then two. Five minutes melted into seven. The rain fell down harder, in thick sheets. God, what was I doing here, soaked to the bone, pining for a childhood friendship that had collapsed in a spectacular fashion? This was silly. It had been five years. It was time to let go. Not yet, Callichka, Dad chided in my head. Have faith. Shut up, Dad. You were an atheist. Seven minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Twenty. Whole. Minutes. “Sorry, Dad. She isn’t coming out,” I murmured. I took one last look at the Casablancases’ cottage—dilapidated, the rotten wood wet and sagging, yellowish windows, and a rickety front porch. I tried, Dylan. I really did.

A screeching sound assaulted my ears. An old window cracking open. “Calla Polina Litvin, you are such a quitter.” Dylan’s head popped through the window in her attic. Her dark locks danced in the wind, thick and glossy. She was waving a white shirt in her fist. A white flag? “It’s like that time we went to the regional hockey finals and you bailed ten minutes in because there weren’t any hot players.” “Hey,” I yelled back. “No one on that rink was over a six, and you know it.” I stabbed a finger in the air in her direction.

“Whatever, Dot. We were fifteen. It’s not like you were going to reproduce with one of them.” “Did you stare at me through your window to see how long it’d take me to break?” I squinted, somehow still unable to be mad at her. She mimicked zipping her lips and throwing the key out the window. I pretended to catch the imaginary key and tossed it back to her pointedly. She “unlocked” her lips and sighed in defeat. “Ugh. Fine. Yes. But in my defense, I hardly have any source of entertainment these days. I’ve watched everything worth consuming on Netflix.” I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile. “May I come in?” She rolled her eyes. “Guess so. It’s high time you say your piece.” “Actually, I am pissed. You let me stand in the rain for twenty minutes and watched?” My mouth hung open in disbelief. “Hey, you let me have sex with Tucker Reid.” She pointed at me. “I would never.” I clutched my chest, staggering backward as if she had shot me. “You shunned me from your life, so I couldn’t be there to remind you that you are all that and a bag of chips and deserve so much better. You betrayed both of us.” “Not me, my vagina.”

“What about your betrayal?” Dylan demanded, ignoring her mom. “Which part of your body was in charge the night you—” “I regret that night every single day of my life.” A lie. I didn’t regret it, even though I should have. I only regretted getting caught. Row was the only man other than my dad who made me feel safe. “Whoa.” Dylan puffed her cheeks. “Was he really that bad?” “Not bad! Not at all!” I pretzeled inside my soaked clothes. Great. Now I had offended her beloved brother. “He was great! Wonderful.” She made a gagging sound. “But…?” “But he is…uhm, gifted.” “Like, talented?” “Like…the length of my height?” “Dylan! My goodness! I’m coming out there with a broom!” Zeta threatened

“Still…this must be exciting for you.” I mustered a smile. I was excited about her having a baby; I was not excited that she was still with Tucker. “The new construction is supposed to house Tuck, me, and the baby.” Dylan fell to her bed, sighing miserably. “The deed is gonna be in Mom’s name, so Tuck won’t get any greedy ideas after we get married. Guess Row wanted all of us together somewhere pretty and new so he wouldn’t have a guilt trip when he leaves again.” “You’re getting married?” I whispered. Dylan nodded miserably. “Tuck popped the question.” “Aww.” “…after Row almost popped his knees.” “Oh. That’s…sweet?” I remained standing, waiting for an invitation to sit down.

“Thing is…I’m not sure I want to share this magnificent new house with him. Or if I want to share anything with him at all. Other than the baby, of course, which I don’t have a choice about. We’ve been together for five years…” Five years. Sweet Jesus. “But he also has a terrible temper, is about as intellectual as an expired bag of trail mix, and we can’t agree on anything other than the indisputable fact that the worst LaCroix flavor is cherry blossom.” Heavy silence fell between us before she added, “Plus, what if I don’t want to live in a big, fancy house in Staindrop? What if I want to live in a small, cool apartment in Boston? Or go back to being a PA in Greenwich?” I didn’t even know that had happened. “I feel like all my decisions were made for me the minute I got pregnant. People who are trying to take care of me are actually suffocating me.”