SOMEONE SPIKED MY DRINK. There’s no other explanation for why I’m seeing Laney Jacobs sprawled out on the ground, staring up at me with those fucking doe eyes that have haunted my dreams for the past eight years. Except it really is her because she just said my name in that unmistakably sexy voice I couldn’t forget if I tried.
My mind is stuck. Completely frozen. And despite any attempt otherwise, I’m unable to keep my eyes from roaming every inch of her. She must be just as shocked as I am because she too is staring at me like she just saw a ghost, and I can only imagine what we would look like to someone that happened to walk by.
She opens her mouth several times but nothing comes out.
Yeah, I know the feeling.
I honestly never thought that this moment would come, and now that it’s here, the only thing running on repeat in my head is—
“What the hell are you doing here?” Her eyes widen a fraction and she purses her lips. Seriously? What the hell did she expect me to say?
“Welcome home. How’ve you been? Let’s have dinner.”
Fuck no. I’ve got to give her credit, though. Even with my harsh words, she still keeps hers eyes locked on mine. And holy shit . . . those eyes. I used to find them hypnotizing. Sage and emerald green with swirls of soft caramel. I could get lost in them for days on end with no sense of time. It’s a damn good thing they have absolutely no effect on me at all anymore.
None.
Zilch.
Nada.
She’s splayed out on the parking lot, leaning back casually on her palms as though she just sat down to relax. Her short little legs look a mile long in her cutoff jean shorts. She’s wearing a loose-fitting t-shirt that does nothing for the sexy little body that I know she’s got hiding underneath. And what I wouldn’t give to have it wrapped around me again for just one more night.
She clears her throat and my gaze snaps to hers. Warmth slides up my neck, seeping into my cheeks. I clench my jaw. Hard.
Fucking embarrassing.
I don’t mind getting caught ogling a beautiful woman, but I sure as hell don’t want to get caught ogling
this
woman. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look smug. No, she looks . . . hopeful, which does nothing to help me sort the through the jumbled mess of emotions I’ve got floating around. Sitting up, Laney brushes her hands together, knocking off the dirt.
“This is my home,” she whispers, peeking up at me under a thick set of bangs that weren’t there the last time I saw her. I shouldn’t be surprised. Deep down I knew she wouldn’t stay the same, but I can’t help but wonder what else about her has changed. Are Calla lilies still her favorite flower? Does she still eat triple fudge ice cream and French fries when she’s sad? Where has she been? Where does she work? Does she still love fried pickles and deep-dish pizza?
Does she ever think about me?
Laney was my world, and as I stare at her for the first time in eight years, the pull to be near her and touch her is stronger than I ever remember it. But it doesn’t seem to matter what I’m feeling, because the memory of her walking away from me—from us—is still very vivid in my mind.
“No.” I shake my head, brow furrowed. “Your home is in California. If this was your home, it wouldn’t have taken you eight years to come back.” She flinches. Her eyes dart frantically around the parking lot before she squares her shoulders and holds up her hand.
“Could you help me up?”
“No,” I answer quickly, astonished that she would even ask. There’s no way I can touch her. I’ve worked too damn hard to purge her from my system, and I’m terrified that one touch of her silky skin is all it would take to erase the past eight years. My gaze drifts to her hand. If I close my eyes, I’m certain I could still feel the way the pads of her fingers used to roam across my chest, trail down my abs, grab onto my c—
Fuck no.
I push away the memory before I actually let it in and look at her with a cool indifference.
She watches me carefully for several seconds before slowly lowering her hand back to her lap. “I should’ve never left,” she whispers. And there it is. The icing on the fucking cake. Her words slam into me at full force and I run my hand through my hair, gripping it tight.
“But you did,” I growl, hating that Laney’s been back in my life for all of two minutes and she’s already got me worked up like this. She bites her lip, her eyes shimmering.
“Worst mistake I ever made,” she says with conviction. Fucking hell, I don’t want to hear this shit now. This woman walked away without a second fucking glance, and then a couple of weeks after that, she ripped my heart out again. As if the first time wasn’t enough. So yeah, eight years ago I would have welcomed those words . . . but not now.
“Fuck!” My hands fist at my side. “What the hell do I say to that, Laney?” The look of regret and guilt written across her face is almost my undoing. “You walked away from me, remember?” My voice, along with my blood pressure, is rising with each word as I stab a finger into my chest. “You’re the one who left me.”
Her eyes stay locked on mine. I have absolutely no idea what’s going through that pretty little head of hers and it’s driving me insane.
“You gave me an ultimatum, Levi. I realize that I made more than my fair share of mistakes and I’m adult enough to admit that, but it wasn’t just me who was wrong. You forced my hand. You forced me to choose between you and my future—”
“Don’t you get it?” I yell. “I
was
your future, Laney. Me!” My chest is heaving and my hands are shaking. Adrenaline is running rampant through my veins and suddenly I feel exhausted. I don’t want to do this. This isn’t me. I haven’t lost my temper since that night eight years ago. Only Laney seems to bring this out in me. Well, not tonight.
“Listen”—I take a deep breath and lace my fingers above my head—“I wasn’t prepared to see you tonight and I’m not ready to hash things out with you.” Laney bites on the inside of her mouth, and just when I think she might very well burst into tears, a look of understanding slides across her face. She pushes up from the ground and it takes every last ounce of strength I have to keep from reaching out to help her up. She rubs her palms along the sides of her shorts and a bright red streak appears on the faded material.
“You’re bleeding,” I breathe, moving toward her. She lifts her hand, absently examining it.
“Huh. I guess I am.” She shrugs her shoulders as if it’s no big deal.
“Come on.” I tug on her elbow then release her almost instantly when I realize my hand is touching her skin. She doesn’t say anything, just looks down with a saddened gaze. “I have a first-aid kit in my office. Let’s clean that up.” Surprisingly, she doesn’t fight me, instead choosing to follow behind quietly as I push the door open and weave my way through the back of the restaurant toward my office. I lead her into the adjoining bathroom where she props her hip against the sink while I make quick work of finding the peroxide, antibiotic cream, and Band-Aids. I concentrate on my breathing—in and out—and my rage from a few moments ago gradually fades.
“Where’s Dan?” Her words roll casually off of her tongue—too casually. Something doesn’t sit right with me.
Has she talked to my father?
“He’s finally stepping back. He’s getting too old to do this anyway.” She nods. I lay everything out on the sink and keep talking. Why, I have no idea. “Mason was supposed to take over Flame since I’m running Blue, but with all of the changes we’ve had going on, we’ve both been stretched a bit thin.”
“Blue is yours?”
“It is,” I confirm, turning the faucet on to let the water warm up. I don’t want to talk to her about Blue. Frankly, I don’t want to talk to her at all. I need to get her the hell out of here. I’m so damn confused. One part of me wants to push her away, while the other part is struggling to pull her close and all these damn feelings are fucking with my head.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, her warm breath fanning the side of my face. I take a deep breath and look up. It blows me away that she’s here, in my office, talking to me about Blue. I can see every emotion running across her face—I always could read her like a book—but hope and fear seem to be battling for control. Her bright eyes are begging me to see her, her hands are itching to touch me, and I can tell by the way she keeps biting her lower lip that she is feeling the exact thing I’m trying
not
to feel. Our connection.
“Here.” I shove the wet cloth at her, mad at myself for even entertaining the fact that we still have a connection. Because we don’t. Nope, she broke that bond. Sure, it took me awhile to get over her, but I did.
“Oh. Okay.” She grabs the cloth and dabs at the cut on the palm of her hand. I watch her as she scrubs gently at the dried blood and dirt.
“Does it need stitches?”
“No,” she shakes her head and laughs. “It’s just a little cut. But I’ll let you kiss it and make it all better if you want.”
“Don’t,” I command, pushing past her, aggravated that she would even think it’s okay to go there. I can hear her feet pad behind me on the wooden floor, but I don’t stop until I’m shielded by my big mahogany desk. “You need to go.” I slam my hands against the smooth wood and lift my head. “I can’t do this with you. You need to leave.”
She furrows her brow. “What exactly is it that you can’t do?”
“Why the fuck are you here?” I demand, throwing my hands up. “Christ, Laney. I don’t even know what to say to you. I haven’t seen you for eight years—eight years, Laney! And now you’re back and telling me it was all a mistake and that you regret it, and now you want me to just forget—” I trail off, not wanting to finish, because she doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve my time. She doesn’t deserve me.
“I’m not going anywhere, Levi.” I watch her carefully. Laney always was an incredibly strong woman, never hesitating to ask for what she wanted or to speak her mind. I can see that hasn’t changed.
“Why did you move home?” I curse myself as soon as the question leaves my mouth, because I’m not sure I want to know. If she tells me she moved home to start a family with her new husband, I may very well punch a hole in the wall.
She swallows hard. “I’ve got my reasons for moving home, but you’re not ready to hear them.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I roar.
She walks up to me, on the opposite side of the desk, and leans forward. “It means that you are part of the reason I moved home.” I don’t miss the fact that she said
part.
“But I can see that you’re still very angry, and rightfully so. You should hate me, because I hate myself. So until we work through those feelings, you’re not ready to know why I’m home.”
“Maybe I don’t want to know.” Because I don’t.
“Oh, trust me,” she says, averting her eyes with a grim look on her face, “you’ll want to know.” She takes a deep breath and looks back at me. “Who was the girl?” Her question catches me off guard, so it takes me a moment to process what she just said.
“Jenny?” And then it hits me. I’ve been so wrapped up in seeing Laney again that I totally forgot my best chef just fucking walked out on me. I sigh, falling back into my seat. This night can’t possibly get any worse. “She’s my head chef.”
Laney’s shoulders relax. Who did she think she was? “Not any more, by the looks of it.”
“You’re right.” I flick my computer on, waking it up. Time to look for a new chef. “Listen, I’ve got a ton of stuff to do. Why don’t you go in the bathroom and bandage your hand up and then head on out. Good luck with everything. It was nice to see you.” I lie. It isn’t nice to see her. It fucking hurts like hell and I want her to go back to California . . . or stay . . . hell, I don’t know what I want.
My eyes flit across the screen as I browse through my dad’s files. I know he has a folder with possible applicants in here somewhere. I see Laney fidget with her shirt from the corner of my eye, but I don’t spare her another glance. I’ve had enough for tonight, and the quicker she is out of here, the quicker I can forget about her again.
“I’ll do it,” she says, garnering my attention. She takes a hesitant step forward. “Let me fill in for you”—I give her a hard look and she takes a step back—“at least until you find someone else.” It’s tempting. But I can’t. There is no way I can work with her day in and day out. It’s impossible. “Please,” she pleads, sitting in the chair in front of my desk, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “Please let me help you. I don’t have a job yet so my schedule is completely open. Well, except for an appointment I have on Thursday that I can’t miss, but we can work around that.”
Laney is more than capable of filling in. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve kept tabs on her over the years, but because I did, I know she accomplished what she set out to do . . . and then some. After a heated argument with Luke a couple of years ago, he finally caved and told me that not only did Laney graduate with her bachelor’s degree in Culinary Arts, she also received a bachelor’s in Baking and Pastry Arts Management. Plus, I’d be lying if I said that I’ve never googled her name just to see what popped up. Suffice it to say that despite my resentment toward her, I am very proud of her accomplishments.
“I can’t pay you what you made in California.” I don’t even want to know what she was raking in there, but no doubt it was well above anything she will make around here.
She shakes her head and scoots forward in her seat. “It doesn’t matter what I made in California.” Her teeth bite down on her lower lip and her eyes flit around the room as though she’s contemplating what to say next. Then her gaze lands on mine. “I don’t care what you pay me, I’d just be happy to help you.”
I’m at a loss for words, desperate to come out of this situation unscathed. But I’m not sure that’s even possible at this point. The sincerity in her voice, and the vulnerability and remorse in her eyes make it hard to tell her no. I should tell her no. But I can’t. Partly because I’m in desperate need of a new chef, but mostly because something deep inside of me is screaming at me to tell her yes.
Laney is staring at me, patiently waiting for an answer, but I’m not really sure how to proceed. I have a gut feeling that my answer to her question could dramatically change my life. And I’m not sure I want anything
to
change. I’m happy. Content.