Page 92 of Campus Fake

“You too.”

He leaned back against the wall. For a moment he just sat there, watching the chaos around us, letting it all sink in.

“Can I run something by you?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about what I want to do after graduation. And before you say it—yes, I know that’s the most annoying question on the planet. Every person I talk to asks me that question, and I’m getting sick of it too.”

I almost smiled. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d been fielding that same question. But it was the pressure of the Gordon legacy that weighed on me most heavily.

“So what did you want to run by me?” I asked.

Foster straightened up and turned to face me. “There aren’t enough restaurants in this town.”

I looked at him.

“I’m serious. Missoula’s growing. The student population keeps climbing, the stadium Viv’s building is going to bring in even more people, and there’s what—a handful of decent places to eat? Most of the good spots are packed every weekend. There’s room for something new.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I want to open a restaurant.”

“You what?”

“I want to start a business. And I think that a restaurant would be a good investment around here because there’s a lot of opportunity.” He paused. “But I can’t cook for shit. I can barely make pasta without setting off the smoke alarm. Abby’s banned me from using the stove unsupervised.”

I waited, because I could see where this was going and I wanted to hear him say it.

“I’m good at the business side. Numbers aren’t my thing, but I’ve got Abby for that. I can handle people, logistics, and I know how to build something from the ground up because I spent my whole life watching my dad do it—even if I never wanted his version of it.” He held my gaze. “But I need a chef. Someone who actually gives a damn about the food. Someone who’d rather be in a kitchen than behind a desk.”

The locker room noise faded to a hum.

“You’re asking me to be the head chef at your restaurant?”

“Yes, but I was actually thinking we could be partners in it.”

I immediately thought of Pop’s kitchen and the first time he’d handed me a cast-iron skillet and taught me to cook. He’d unleashed a love affair with food that hadn’t faded since. I’d accepted that it would be something I just did for myself or my closest friends, but now Foster was offering me a way to build a life around it.

“I need to think about it. I want to talk to Sam first,” I said.

He smiled and patted my back. “Take your time. I get it.”

“Does Abby know about this?”

“Yep. I run everything by her since it’ll impact her too. I hear opening a restaurant can be stressful.”

I’d heard the same, but it sounded exciting too.

“Let me know what you decide.”

“I will,” I told him.

He headed for the showers and I sat there for a while longer, turning the idea over in my head—examining it from every angle, looking for the weakness, the flaw, the reason it wouldn’t work.