The blog, New In New York, highlighted up-and-coming restaurants, breaking foodie news before anyone else. Usually, the posts interested me, but I was nearly halfway down the front page before a post caught my eye. More specifically, a photo caught my eye. It was a street view image of the building Dean had purchased from Hunter. The construction was further along, but it was definitely the same place.
I scrolled back to the top of the post and started from the beginning.
Manhattan’s Finest Set to Open Lirio
Fresh on the heels of winning the James Beard Award for Outstanding Restaurateur, Dean Harper is set to open his new restaurant, Lirio, next month. We haven’t been able to pin down details on the menu yet, but with a name like that, one can only hope it will have a Spanish flare. Tapas and margaritas anyone?
We managed to snap this photo of the outside of the restaurant, but the windows are taped up during the interior construction phase. Sneaky sneaky. As soon as we have more details, we’ll be sure to pass them along!
Also, to save you the Google search, Lirio translated into English means Lily. Dean Harper is a notorious bachelor, so we have no clue where the name came from. His grandmother? A friend? PLEASE DON’T SAY IT’S HIS GIRLFR—
I started the article again, this time reading each word as slowly as possible. Dean was opening a restaurant and he was naming it after me. He was naming his restaurant after me and I’d stood him up.
I slapped my laptop closed and tossed it onto the futon. I turned in a circle, trying to think of what to do first. I was wearing a t-shirt and no bra. Shit. I threw off my pajamas and rifled through my closet, trying to find a single clean shirt. I hadn’t had the energy to do laundry in days. I grabbed a black sundress and yanked it on over my head, then yanked it off and put on a bra.
I had my keys in hand and my purse over my shoulder when I flew through the front door. It wasn’t until I was halfway down the stairs that I realized I wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“SHIT!” I yelled, turning and running back toward my apartment.
This was the closest Dean would ever come to commitment, and I had no shoes. I needed to find him. I needed to apologize for standing him up and I needed to find some freaking shoes!
It was already 7:30 PM. Dean definitely wasn’t still at the restaurant, so I took off in the direction of his house. I didn’t want to wait for a cab, so I hoofed it on foot, my flip-flops slapping against the concrete as I made a run for it. I turned the corner and took off down the sidewalk, nearly plowing down a girl Instagramming her ice cream cone.
“Watch it!” she spat as I brushed past her.
“No, YOU watch it,” I yelled back. I wasn’t taking anyone’s shit. I had to get across town and I couldn’t waste a single second.
Flip-flops were a terrible choice of footwear for a cross-Manhattan run. I knew I’d be nursing blisters for the next two years.
“Oh god, I’m not going to make it,” I hissed, leaning against a brick wall and trying to catch my breath.
I was almost there, but my heart was going to give out if I kept running. I turned to the side and caught sight of my reflection in the window of the building. Holy shit. Not good.
I hadn’t put makeup on that morning or washed my hair the night before. Not that it really mattered; most of the blonde strands were sticky with sweat and stuck to my forehead in a grungy sort of look. My cheeks were flushed, and my eyes were wide—that may sound cute, but it wasn’t. My black dress was stuck to my chest with sweat, but thankfully the dark color sort of concealed my general lack of hygiene.
I forced myself to ignore my appearance and kept going. I pushed off the wall and took a deep breath. Dean’s house was only a few blocks away.
I’m almost there.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Lily
I rang the doorbell twice and then knocked with my fist. The light turned on in the foyer and then his black lacquered door slid open. He stood on the other side, shirtless and silhouetted by the light behind him. His black drawstrings pants were untied and loose around his hips—clearly he didn’t know proper protocol for how to answer a door.
“You’re too late,” he said, careful to keep the emotion out of his voice.
I took a step back before meeting his gaze. I’d seen him angry before, on multiple occasions, but I’d never seen him defeated. His eyes were soft, his lips were downturned, and his brows were furrowed not in anger, but in pain.
“You named it after me,” I said, barely above a whisper.
He swallowed slowly and then nodded. “And every single dish was inspired by you, and every wine tastes like you, and every painting hung on the walls was commissioned in your honor.”
“Dean—”
“Too bad you missed it.”
“Show me,” I pleaded.
He took a step back. “I think I’m good.”
“Dean. Show me.”
He laughed, but it was a hollow sound, something I never wanted to hear again. “Antonio is gone. The food is in the restaurant’s kitchen, cold and forgotten.”
He moved to close the door, but I put my hand out to block its path. If he closed it, he’d chop my hand off. I wouldn’t put it past him, but I had to at least try to stop him.