Making my way up the stairs, I’m hit with a dose of nostalgia. It’s not overwhelming though—not in the way I thought that it would be. Instead of stirring up bitter feelings, it’s almost comforting—not at all how I expected to feel when I agreed to Sutton’s offer.
When I go inside his apartment, I nearly trip over something.
“What the?—”
I look down to find Oscar, already at my feet, making figure-eights through my legs.
“Careful. Don’t trip me before I feed you.”
Unsure of which switch controls the lights, I flip them all on. The other night when Sutton showed me how to get up here, it was late, and he didn’t bother to turn all the lights on while we just stood in the entryway. Seeing his place now though, it’s not what I expected.
I thought I would be walking into a sparsely decorated, hardly used, bachelor pad. The renovated, open floor plan apartment that takes up most of the second floor is anything but that. Everything in his place feels inviting. There’s a beautiful, southwestern-patterned rug with bold colors. On the far wall of the living room is a plush, mahogany toned leather couch. It only takes one look for me to notice how one cushionis conspicuously worn more than the others. The armrest on that side has a plaid wool blanket draped over it and next to that is an end table with a couple books on cooking and the TV remote.
On the other wall is a bay window that mirrors the one downstairs in the restaurant, except this one has two plants in matching hanging baskets on either side. Underneath them in the window is a leather chair angled just right to look at the TV, but still be able to take in the views outside. That thought stirs something in my heart because I know Grandma would have approved of mountain views with a side of reality TV.
There’s a coffee table with more books and magazines on food and wine, as well as a little notebook with a pencil resting on top. The whole living space feels cozy and intimate. He clearlyliveshere. Being here feels like I’m peeking into his life, like if I waited around, he might just walk in from the other room any minute.
I make my way through the living space into the open kitchen. The upstairs of this house wasn’t overly spacious by any means and they made the most of it by opting for a kitchen with a nice island to eat at instead of a separate formal dining room.
I guess that makes sense though. Who needs a dining room when you own the best restaurant in town right under your feet?
At the base of the island, I spot Oscar’s food and water bowls. I open the storage container and top off her food.
She scurries back up to my leg and arches her back, meowing loudly.
“Go ahead. Get your dinner.” I flick my wrist, making a little shooing gesture, but she just keeps meowing.
“What? Is that not enough? I don’t think your dad wants you eating and puking on his nice rug.”
That’s when I look next to the food bowl and notice her water bowl is empty. “Oh. Maybe you’re just thirsty.”
I fill her bowl at the sink and start to set it back down. She runs over so fast she almost knocks the bowl of my hand.
“I see. You won’t eat without a nice drink pairing.” I stand up and cross my arms over my chest, watching her alternate between sips of water and bites of food. I grin and laugh to myself. "Rich was right. You are a fussy little thing.”
Looking around the kitchen, it’s no surprise that it’s fully stocked. The open shelves above the counter are filled with everything you would expect a world class chef to have. Imported oils and vinegars, bottles of various infusions, and spices for days. There’s a magnetic strip filled with all kinds of chef’s knives—some I recognize from the Eclectic Elk, a shop in town that sells the knives from a local blacksmith, Tanner Chapman. I notice other locally made goods too like the hand carved cooking spoons from the same store. Even some of his open pantry is stocked with more local ingredients, like our coffee, and whiskey from a distillery downtown.
I know his brother is a world class chef, but pride swells in my chest—not just for my town—knowing that a chef like Sutton chooses to use so many goods from the community I love. He clearly cares enough to support the people here.
Walking through his kitchen, another collection on the shelf makes me outright laugh. There are at least ten boxes of different children’s cereal. All the big names with funny marshmallows, sugary cinnamon bits, and every flavor imaginable. Next to them are a stack of oversized cereal bowls and I can just picture him sitting at his kitchen island every morning after agonizing over what flavor sugar to consume. I can also picture the way his muscular forearms would look holding a spoon and the way his dimples would pop as he eats. I ignore what that thought does to my body and keep poking around his place.
What really catches my eye is a bottle of red wine at the end of the counter. It has one of those fancy resealing things on it and I remember that Sutton said to pour myself a drink and make myself at home.
Thanks, Chef. Don’t mind if I do.
I grab the one glass I see next to the bottle and pour myself a glass.
I breathe in the wine and already know this is nicer than what Monica and I would usually drink. The first sip that hits my lips confirms that.
Shit. That is good and exactly what I needed.
One look at the French label tells me this is definitely not local and probably as pricy as his fancy SUV. A girl could get used to this kind of pampering.
An unmistakable low grumble draws my eyes to the door leading to the adjoining apartment. I see a tuft of fur sticking out from under the door and I know just whose tail that belongs to.
I swear everybody in this place needs me tonight.
“I’ll be right there.”