by Roni Loren
Sounds like most of the dates I’ve had in my life.
“You’re welcome. Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances,” she said and then walked Anthony out. Those were her standard parting words, but she meant them. People hoped to never need someone like her, and she found it a little depressing to know that this seemingly decent guy who’d loved his wife had ended up here, too.
But it was a story she saw every day. It was a story her parents had lived. Anthony had bought into the infatuation model that the movies sold everyone. Trust that rush of endorphins and attraction at the beginning and all will be okay. It won’t matter that the person is a completely impractical and incompatible choice. Believe the feelings. There’s magic at work.
But feelings lied and magic wasn’t real.
She’d spent her high school years as a hopeless romantic, in love with her best friend, thinking they were fated, believing all those romantic movies and TV shows she’d watched while her dad worked late nights at the firm. She’d even written a time capsule letter with her friends senior year, painting her perfect romantic life that she was going to have with her crush. She was going to be Sally to his Harry, Joey to his Pacey, Rachel to his Ross. Turns out she was Duckie. Or Dawson. Or worse, the geek with an underwear fetish from Sixteen Candles. Finn, the guy she’d hung all her hope on, had been in love with someone else the whole time. Still was.
She’d closed that chapter and wished him well, but she hadn’t forgotten the lesson. She also got a refresher every day at work. Love wasn’t just a risk. It was a bad bet. If she had to argue the case for it in court, the evidence would be stacked so high against it, she wouldn’t have a shot at winning. A lasting, loving marriage was a unicorn. And the person who loved the deepest in a relationship—the romantic, the idealist—was the one whose guts got ripped out in the end. No, thanks.
She headed back to her office to give her email one last check and make sure she had everything buttoned up. She started with making notes in the Ames file. Twice she caught her eyes drifting to the screenshots from the videos. She couldn’t see much of Daphne besides the rapt look on her face, but the tense, flexing muscles of the mostly naked contractor were hard to look away from. Rebecca usually found herself more attracted to men in suits, men who had a certain level of polish, but maybe there was something to be said for a guy who was a little rougher around the edges and worked with his hands.
Love was a bad bet, but sex with a hot guy…that didn’t sound so bad.
She snorted at her own R-rated thoughts and forced herself to finish her work. Before long, the sunset cut swaths of burnt-orange light over her desk, reminding her that she should be getting home.
To her empty apartment.
Where no one was waiting.
And no one would be getting naked with her.
She grunted and leaned back in her chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose. What was with her tonight? She couldn’t let Anthony’s words or these photos get to her.
She lived a busy life, was good at her job, had friends. She was comfortable being alone. If she got pent up with sexual frustration sometimes, she knew how to handle things on her own. Frankly, taking care of things solo was more satisfying than the few awkward encounters with men she’d had along the way, and it saved her from having to explain the ugly, pitted scars on her leg—always a fun conversation. Her life worked.
Anthony hadn’t wanted to be alone, and look where that had landed him—in a messy divorce, crying over his dog. She wanted no part of that kind of drama.
With renewed resolve, she closed the file she’d been working on and shut everything down. This had been a good week. She’d won two cases. She deserved to be celebrating, not ruminating in her office.
A new plan formed quickly in her head. She’d pick up her favorite wine from the store down the street, get takeout and dessert from that fancy Italian restaurant that just opened, and rent a new movie with a pretty guy to look at.
She wasn’t craving a date. She was just craving a break and a little indulgence. She didn’t need anyone else to give her that. She could handle it on her own.
She’d been doing it all her life.
Why stop now?
chapter
TWO
Wes Garrett peeked through the crack in the door to the apartment inside, eyeing the small group of women laughing and drinking champagne. One was wearing a party hat with a big light-up dick on it. He shut the door and leaned against the wall in the hallway. “I can’t believe I’m considering this.”
Suzie grinned wickedly at him, her lip ring glinting in the light of the hallway. “Don’t be such a prude, Garrett. What happened to that wild, try-anything-once guy I used to know?”
His jaw clenched. “Are you really asking me that?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “You know that’s not what I mean. I don’t want post-apocalyptic you. That sucked.”
“Ya think?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about the you before everything went to shit. You’ve swung too far in the other direction.” She shrugged. “Walking the straight and narrow doesn’t mean not having any fun or, you know, a sense of humor.”
“Suze…”
“This is a good gig.” She pinned him with her gaze. “Three hundred bucks for two hours of your time. All you’re going to be doing is teaching drunk chicks how to cook simple things. You teach cooking every day. This is no different.”
He gave her a droll look. “I teach cooking to teenagers. I get to wear my chef’s whites. I don’t have to cook naked.”
She groaned. “You’re not going to be naked. That would be a major kitchen hazard. Just…shirtless. And hey, with all your tattoos, you have some added coverage.”
Christ. This was what his life had come to? From four-star restaurants to this? He’d thought teaching at an after-school program was a giant tumble down the staircase from his chef dreams, but this was a new level. The basement. At least with the kids he could convince himself he was training future chefs. Here he would be the special of the day. “I don’t know.”
She reached out and grabbed his hands, face earnest beneath the fringe of bright-pink hair. “Come on, Wes. My other guy called in. Shirtless Chefs is just getting off the ground. If I have chefs no-showing for parties, I’m going to catch hell in the online reviews, and the business will tank before I really get rolling. You’ve got the skills, you’ve got the blond bad-boy thing going, which is going to rock their socks off. And once upon a time, you could charm the ladies, so I know you’re capable. Plus, you said you needed the extra money. This is easy cash. Win-win.”
Wes grimaced. He hated needing the money. Hated that he was anywhere close to that place he was so long ago where he’d had to scrape together every damn dime. He’d thought he was far past that and then boom, life exploded. But need wasn’t even the right word. He had enough to live right now with his teaching gig. He knew how to stretch his dollars. What he wanted the money for was a stupid idea. Something he shouldn’t be messing with. His family would kick his ass if they even knew he was thinking about it.
Still, he couldn’t help closing his eyes and picturing the beat-up school bus his friend Devin had shown him last week. The old bus had looked like it’d been rolled off the side of a rocky cliff and set on fire, but Wes had been able to see the bones beneath, the potential to be converted into a food truck. He’d gotten that itch that he’d tried to ignore since he’d lost everything. The what ifs?
Wes had found himself inquiring about a loan at the bank. He’d known the answer before he’d asked, but he’d asked anyway. And he’d put out feelers with his friends, telling them to give him a call if they had any extra catering or temporary cooking gigs.
Of course, Suzie had been the one to call, and Suzie hadn’t informed him of exactly how her new private chef business worked until he’d arrived.
But now he was here and she needed his help. And dammit, he wanted the money. He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “What am I teaching them to make?”
When she didn’t answer immediately, he lifted his head, finding her biting her lip.
“Suze,” he said, warning in his voice.
She held up her palms. “Don’t hate me, okay? There’s a bruschetta recipe and a Bourbon nut brittle that you’re going to love. But some of the other stuff is…themed.”
His shoulders sagged in acceptance. “I’m making dick-shaped things, aren’t I?”
“Um…” Her nose wrinkled. “There may be recipes for Big, Meaty Balls and Eat My Taco Dip.”
“I fucking hate you.”
She grinned and stepped up to pat him on the cheek. “You’re the best, Garrett. If I didn’t want to put lipstick on the merchandise, I’d kiss you.”
“You say the sweetest things, Suze. I just feel showered by your sweetness and affection.”
“Right?” She patted his hip. “Now go in there, be nice, and look pretty.”
“Nice. You treat all your employees like cattle?”
She stuck out her tongue. “Only my friends who won’t sue me.”
He let out a tired breath. “I won’t sue you, but if you tell anyone about this…”
“I won’t.”
“I could lose my job.” Not to mention whatever shreds of dignity he had left.
She mimed sealing her lips and tossing the key. “Your secret’s safe. I swear.”
“Fine. I’ll go in.”
She did a little celebratory clap, but then her smile sagged a bit. “You sure you’re cool with alcohol being at the party? I mean, I know I’m pushing you to do this, but for real, if that part’s a problem—”
“I told you on the phone that it’s not an issue,” he said, cutting her off, anger trying to surface. “Tonight, that’s the least of my worries.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Okay. Good.”
He ran a hand through his hair, resigned. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Right.” She swept an arm out in front of her. “Godspeed, my friend.”
With one last steeling breath, he stepped past her and pushed open the door. All eyes turned his way and the blond woman with the penis hat grinned wide and clapped her hands together. “Ooh, y’all got me a stripper?”
Wes almost reversed his steps right there. Three. Two. One. Right back out the door. But he gritted his teeth and kept moving forward.
“Even better,” said a tall, dark-eyed woman at her side. “He doesn’t just strip, he cooks for us!”
“Yum!” another of the group said, and Wes couldn’t tell if that was about him or his food.
“Hello, ladies.” Wes forced a charming smile and then unbuttoned his black chef’s coat as a little part of him died inside. “Who’s ready to get some hands-on lessons?”
All the women eagerly raised their hands, laughing as they made their way over to the long bar in the kitchen. His ingredients were neatly arranged, his mise en place set up by Suzie ahead of time, and the recipe cards were stacked in front of each chair at the bar along with colorful Jell-O shots and glasses of champagne.
He inhaled a deep breath as he took in the festive atmosphere, trying to center himself.
This was a party. Someone was getting married, and this was their fun night with their friends. Maybe the last fun night if this chick’s marriage went anything like Wes’s had. They didn’t need some grumpy-ass dude ruining their evening.
He tried to keep that in his head as he laid his chef’s coat over a chair and reached back to tug his T-shirt off.
The ladies made appreciative sounds and comments as the cool air hit his bare skin. Their reactions should’ve stroked his ego. If he’d been his younger self, he’d have rolled around in that kind of attention, would’ve egged them on and played it up. If he’d been that guy, he would’ve sidled up to the bar with them and knocked down some of those shots, found a hot single woman in the bunch and charmed her into his bed for the night.
But right now, looking at all the pretty faces and roving gazes, he couldn’t find an ounce of interest in anything but the booze. Since his divorce, that part of him had died as well. All he saw when he looked at women now was trouble, drama, and disaster waiting to happen.
No, thanks.
One of the ladies leaned over and poured him a tall glass of champagne. “What’s your name, handsome?”
My name is Chef Wesley Garrett. I trained under renowned Chef Amelia St. John, and for a half a second, I owned the restaurant of my dreams and was going to be the next big thing in the city. “Roman.”
“Ooh, nice name. You speak Italian?”
“No. Spanish.” Because that was what his adoptive mother spoke and was the language of half his former kitchen staff. But he’d be damned if he was going to perform it like this was some show. “I’m rusty, though.”
“That’s okay, darling,” said an older lady from the far end of the bar. “We didn’t hire you to talk.”
A few of them laughed, and the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. The light scent of the champagne drifted his way, and though he’d never been a champagne drinker, his throat became parched. He closed his eyes for a second, breathed through the urge, and focused on why he was here.
Money in the bank. Money in the bank.
He picked up a knife, pasted on a smile, and grabbed a bowl of ground beef. “All right, who’s ready to handle some balls?”
COMING JUNE 2018
Order Roni Loren’s next book
in The Ones Who Got Away series
The One You Can’t Forget
On sale June 2018
Click here!
Acknowledgments
Every book benefits from having dedicated people behind it, but in the case of this story and series, I needed more than a team…I needed believers. The idea for this book nudged me one day and then would not leave me alone. But how was I going to convince anyone that a story about survivors of a school shooting could also be a romance? Those two things aren’t supposed to go together. However, this book is in your hands, dear reader, because a.) you’re awesome and picked up this book (thank you!), and b.) I had the best group of believers and cheerleaders in my corner.
First, thanks to my husband, Donnie, who always supports my weird ideas and is convinced I can pull off anything. To my kiddo, who keeps me laughing even when the writing gets tough. To the Possum Posse, who keeps me (mostly) sane when I’m writing. To my parents, my original cheerleading team. And to my agent, Sara Megibow, who is always full of encouragement, energy, and thoughtful advice.
Last but not least, huge thanks to Cat Clyne, my editor, Dominique Raccah, and the rest of the talented Sourcebooks team for making me feel so welcome and for having such boundless enthusiasm for this book. I never had to explain why I wanted to write this story—y’all got it from the start. And having people who “get” your vision for a book and are just as excited about it as you are is the best gift an author can receive. Hugs to all!
About the Author
Roni wrote her first romance novel at age fifteen, when she discovered writing about boys was way easier than actually talking to them. Since then, her flirting skills haven’t improved, but she likes to think her storytelling ability has.
She holds a master’s degree in social work and spent years as a mental health counselor, but now she writes full-time from her cozy office in Dallas, Texas, where she puts her characters on the therapy couch instead.
She is a two-time RITA Award winner and a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author.
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