One Last Night (Love or Magic #2)

by Sotia Lazu

  And he would still play her for a fool, if she let him.

  A shy smile began curving his lips, and she realized he’d mistaken her silence for consent to keep trying. To keep lying to her.

  “I’m signing the papers,” she said, her voice low but heavy with finality. This time, she’d be the one making the hard choices. “We’re done, Mike. For good.”

  Chapter Three

  He was on his shift, thinking of Ana.

  This was all manners of fucked up.

  Her name wasn’t even Ana, for all he knew.

  Not that he cared. He didn’t want to get to know the woman. He only wished he’d spent some more time with her heavenly body. He imagined her riding him, her golden hair whipping from side to side, as she gave into the pleasure overtaking her.

  He imagined gliding his palm over her stomach. Between her breasts. Around them. Cupping them and bringing each nipple to his mouth, to lavish with attention.

  He was stroking the fucking tomatoes, for fuck’s sake.

  “You good?”

  Mike looked up from the chopping board he was putting to no use, to see Derek watching him from across the kitchen pass. “I’m fine,” he said. “Banging out. We could use an extra pair of hands, boss.”

  “You can’t pay me enough to come closer, after how you were molesting those tomatoes.” Derek chuckled. “Had fun last night?”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  “Seeing her again?”

  “Nope.”

  “Figured. Now, haul ass. We’ll be at capacity tonight.”

  “When aren’t we?” Mike grinned, scanning the dining area. The place had blossomed after Derek got it back from his hateful ex. They couldn’t accommodate walk-ins any longer—a feat, since Arbore’s-San Francisco had been a dive a couple months back.

  “I’m not complaining about it.” Derek gave him a toothy grin.

  His boss had nothing to complain about lately. It was weird seeing him so utterly happy since he and Amanda got together.

  Some men just needed the right woman in their lives.

  Mike shook his head and began dicing the tomatoes. He wasn’t one of those men. The right woman for him changed every night, and he didn’t mind that one bit. Maybe tonight it’d be the brunette by the entrance, who seemed not to enjoy the company of the elderly couple dining with her.

  Pale blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face came to mind. Baby-blue eyes looking at him with knowledge beyond her years. Ana. He wouldn’t mind seeing more of her. One more time, to take his time tasting—

  “Shit. I know that look. You’re daydreaming. She must have been special.” Derek was still there. Awesome.

  The usual clanging-and-yelling background noise ceased. Mike couldn’t believe everyone stopped what they were doing, to eavesdrop on the two of them. “What are you all looking at? Back to work. We have mouths to feed.”

  Ana had a heavenly mouth. Her lips looked and felt gorgeous, stretched around his cock. He never saw her nipples, but he pictured them a pale, rosy pink. He pictured her glistening pussy to be a lighter shade. Why didn’t he go down on her? Now he’d never know how she quivered when his tongue flicked her clit.

  He scooped the tomatoes into the hot pan and crushed a clove of garlic with the flat of his blade. He needed to scrub his thoughts clean of Ana, and he could think of no better way than by pouring his focus into chopping, slicing, and dicing.

  The real chef of Arbore’s would never dream of doing his own prep, but the real chef of Arbore’s was hospitalized three days ago, along with his sous-chef. Car crash, not food poisoning.

  Derek was looking to replace them for however long it took their limbs to mend, but Mike already had the skills, so he took over until they found someone else. Right now, the restaurant needed a chef more than it needed a manager.

  Mike watched the tomatoes shimmer, lose their water, and become nice and sticky with released sugars, before he added fresh olive oil. Garlic, in. Salt and pepper, in. Mike’s mom taught him this pasta sauce, and it would never be deemed posh enough for the re-launched restaurant, so it wasn’t on the menu. Table 23 had asked for pasta with a simple tomato sauce though, and that was what they were getting.

  Because Mike liked giving people what they asked for.

  “Wait. Want you in my mouth.” Ana’s voice came to mind unbidden.

  Ah, fuck. This shift would never end.

  As the evening progressed, Derek stopped expediting, and worked the floor, trusting Mario to time manage and keep orders organized.

  Now he leaned against the pass. “Table 23 wants to see the chef.”

  Mike craned his neck, but 23 was one of the few tables he couldn’t see from his workstation. Eh, it was probably an Italian, wanting to tell him his dish needed basil or something.

  “I’m busy.” He wiped loose cocoa powder off a plate of Tiramisù and nodded to himself. It looked good. He still had the touch.

  “I told her. She said she’ll wait.”

  Her. She. Ana’s face flickered in his memory.

  Nah. This was stupid. It could be anyone.

  “Aren’t you gonna ask if she’s hot?” Derek arched an eyebrow.

  Mike shrugged. It wasn’t her. If Ana wanted to see him again, she’d have given him her number.

  “If who’s hot?” Mario asked. He stopped next to Derek and handed Grant a batch of order tickets, to stick on the rail.

  “Table 23?” Mike said.

  “Fucking hot, man. Though you should know better than me.” Mario winked and ducked in time to avoid a smack on the back of the head by Derek.

  So it was her? Or one of several other women Mike had picked up after one of his shifts. “What does she look like?” Mike asked, trying for indifferent.

  Mario was already off, a tray of starters in hand.

  “You’ll find out when you’re done,” Derek said. “Since you’re so busy now.”

  Mike hated the knowing smile Derek couldn’t seem to get rid of these days. A steady, happy sex life sure could turn people into jackasses.

  “We got a count of six on veal parm,” he said, to show how much he really didn’t care.

  “I’ll spread the word.” Derek gave him a curt nod, but the smile lingered at the corners of his eyes. He knew something and could barely wait for Mike to find out.

  It had to be her.

  But Mike should have spotted her when she entered.

  He certainly did last night, as did most of the establishment. She balanced elegantly on her high heels; long legs bare under her short, midnight-blue shift dress; hair a golden halo that reached the small of her back. She looked straight at Mike, widened her baby-blue eyes, and licked her lips.

  Mike had to stop himself from jumping over the pass and sweeping her off her feet. Then he’d remembered he was working, and she was there for dinner, and he was too old to be ruled by his cock.

  The few who didn’t see her come in sure noticed when she played with her espresso cup for an hour after she finished her coffee. The kitchen had buzzed with a wager among the waiters on which of them had caught her eye. Mario was everyone’s favorite, his dark looks, Italian accent, and effortless charm giving him an edge over competition.

  Mike knew otherwise. She stole glances at him all night, and he returned the favor with ever more brazen scrutiny.

  When Ana had asked to see the chef, tables turned—so to speak. Not wanting to mess with his buddies’ bet, Mike sent Mario to tell her it was a busy night, and unless she had a complaint, she’d have to stay until closing time.

  He wasn’t surprised when she said she’d wait.

  * * * *

  Never did a shift crawl by so slowly.

  Mike was hyper—chopping, slicing, sautéing, mixing, cooking, plating, and praying for the clock to strike midnight and the kitchen to be closed for food. There would still be cleaning to do, and he was on until one, but Derek would let him at least go talk to—

  Ana

  —whoever was wai
ting for him.

  Ten more minutes to go.

  “I need three espressos and a chocolate soufflé.” Mario handed him the tickets.

  Fuck. The soufflé needed fourteen minutes in the oven. He was tempted to nuke it, but Derek would murder him if he used the microwave for anything other than decontaminating sponges. The thing was a leftover from when Derek’s ex owned the establishment, and she’d driven the restaurant into the ground.

  “Grant, you got this?” Mike looked at the cook, who nodded.

  Nine minutes to go.

  Torture.

  At two to twelve, Mike could hold back no longer. He’d already wiped his station and cleaned his utensils—which he didn’t have to do. He took off his hat, checked his white uniform for stains, and when he found none, made his way out of the kitchen. Derek raised an eyebrow but chuckled when Mike told him to buzz off.

  Mike could see Table 23 now. She had her back to him, and sure enough, her hair was pale blonde—only shorter. And her shoulders were wider than he remembered.

  She turned when he was a couple feet away. “Finally, Mr. I’m-too-busy-to-talk-to-customers,” she said. Mirth danced in her blue eyes, as she stood to greet him.

  She was gorgeous.

  But not Ana.

  “Tanya.” He pulled her in a bear hug, honestly happy to see her. “Your brother could have said it was you.”

  She grinned. “Derek can be an asshole. Were you expecting someone else?”

  Mike’s face reacted before he could deny it.

  “I see. Flavor of the week, or something more?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Tanya laughed. “Not how I remember it. Derek kicked your ass when you told people about me and you.”

  “That was in sixth grade, and it was my first kiss. Of course I told.”

  Tanya laughed again, and he felt warm inside. She’d been his first love, when he and the Arbore siblings were growing up in New York, but their relationship had evolved into a pure and deep friendship. He always felt better about himself when she was nearby.

  “How long are you in town for?” he asked.

  “I moved here on Saturday. He didn’t tell you that either?”

  “That’s awesome, Tan.”

  She took her seat again and motioned for him to join her. “Sit. Tell me how you’ve been.”

  Mike sat his ass down and shrugged. “No news here. Work is going well.”

  “I hear you’re cooking again.”

  “Yeah, I’m—” The rest of that sentence died in his throat, when a gust of cold night air hit him. He had to look at the door.

  Ana stood at the threshold, once again looking straight at him, as if she’d known where he’d be.

  Even in torn jeans and a loose T-shirt, she was stunning. Mike’s mouth went dry, and he was on his feet before he knew he was standing.

  Tanya swiveled in her seat, to follow his gaze. “Someone’s got a type,” she murmured with a chuckle.

  “Tan, I—”

  “Yup. You got to go. We’ll catch up tomorrow.”

  He rushed to Ana, who was watching him. “You came,” he said.

  “You’re busy.”

  “No.” Mike shook his head. Why did he feel the urge to tell her nothing was going on between him and Tanya? And why couldn’t he find the words? What if Ana left before he explained? What if she didn’t come back?

  Why did he care so much?

  “Uh, that’s Tanya.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “She’s not—”

  “I know.”

  “We’re not—”

  “I know.”

  Ana smelled like candy and gazed at him with promise in her hooded eyes. Her lips were still swollen by his kisses. If people weren’t watching, he’d take her on the nearest table.

  He wanted to tell her she looked amazing. That last night had been the best he had. That he would’ve called, if he had her number.

  He didn’t trust himself to make sense, and he knew better than to trust the promises he ached to give, so he did what he did even better than cooking. Mindless of the wolf whistles coming from the kitchen, he slanted his lips over hers and let her perfume steal his breath.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered against his lips.

  He’d have to apologize to Derek and the brigade tomorrow.

  Chapter Four

  She loved and loathed the weird-ass memory dreams in equal measure.

  They started the way her actual nights with Mike had, but veered off from there, and she had complete control over them. It was as if she were transported to her past, knowing what she did now.

  And what she knew now was that Mike was a two-timing bastard and a liar.

  Only she didn’t have to hate dream-Mike, like she did her real ex. She could pretend they’d just met, and enjoy their wild time together without worrying about the future. In her dreams, she was free to give in to the animal passion they always shared.

  Correction—the animal passion she always believed they shared. If he’d lied about loving her, he could’ve lied about anything.

  Last night’s dream was one of her favorite memories. In reality, it was their second date. She’d given him her number, and he’d called, and she’d gone to meet him after her recording session.

  Her dream had started with her outside Arbore’s, but she somehow knew Mike wasn’t expecting her. She also knew everything else would be the same. He’d be chatting with Derek’s sister, and he’d jump up when he saw Ana, and he’d run to her and splutter about who Tanya was.

  In her dream, she didn’t torture him as long as she had in real life. Back then, Tanya pointed at Mike and then at herself, shaking her head behind his back. Bella realized the other woman was saying she and Mike weren’t a thing, but let Mike ramble on for a while, enjoying his floundering.

  If Bella hadn’t believed him then, she wouldn’t have lived a lie for sixteen years.

  Her new alarm clock chirped gleefully. She flattened her hand on top of it, and it stopped. Simple as that. Like her marriage.

  Why did she keep setting an alarm? With the exception of the lawyer firm handling the divorce, she hadn’t really been anywhere since she received the pictures proving she was a fool. She didn’t bother with makeup, and on some days, a shower seemed too much effort. Not like she had a job. She could afford to sleep in or be stinky.

  She could afford to do many things, now that she was officially due half of Mike’s fortune, including his London restaurant. He was extremely proud of the small bistro he’d opened with the money from his first best-selling recipe book and expanded through hours of hard work. Bella was surprised he yielded so easily when she asked for it in the settlement.

  “I love you,” he’d said. “If it takes losing one restaurant to prove it, then it’s all yours.”

  She took the deeds, but they changed nothing. The hurt and betrayal were still there, every waking moment of every day.

  There was no hurt or betrayal in her dreams. She kept her mind off them, as she and the Mike she first fell for laughed and made out at every traffic light on the drive to his place.

  “This is me.” He opened the door and waited for her to enter. “It’s nothing much, but it’s quiet.”

  “I forgot…” How much she liked the sparsely furnished living room that opened to a wide kitchen. Pans and pots hung from rails over the central isle, and fresh herbs filled the air with their aroma. Her subconscious held on to more detail than she realized.

  Mike looked a question at her, and she tried to will away his curiosity. It was her dream; she should be able to control every element. When that didn’t work, she peeled off her T-shirt.

  In the past, she’d never get caught without a bra. In the dream, her breasts were free to distract him.

  They made love on his floor, and then he stood in all his naked glory and allowed her a full view of the sculpted body he still maintained in his fifties, as he walked to the bedroom. When he ret
urned, he had his duvet in his arms. He motioned for her to move to the couch, and when she did, covered her and tucked the edges under her feet. She smiled. She always hated it when her feet were cold.

  “I’ll make us a snack,” he said.

  Bella—or was she Ana again for real?—took in every flex of the muscles in his broad back, as he put on his apron. She watched his arms work, while he cut large slices of homemade bread. Listened to him hum a song she no longer remembered the lyrics to, as he grilled the bread, grated tomato, and sliced mozzarella.

  And as he plated his creation, drizzled olive oil over it, and decorated the plate with drops of balsamic reduction, she let herself fall for him again.

  It was just a dream.

  In her reality, in her now, she was a forty-two-year-old divorcée, with no future as a vocalist and no tender lover to feed her body and soul.

  “Do you cook for all the girls?” she’d asked—in the past and in her dream.

  His answer was the same both times. “I’ve never brought a girl here before.”

  Both times, she believed him.

  If only she hadn’t. If she’d laughed and had fun with him, and not returned his calls again, she might be happy now. She might have a career and a husband who gave himself to nobody but her.

  There was no going back to sleep. She kicked off the covers and sat up with a huff.

  One of the things she missed the most was not having to make her own breakfast. Since they agreed they were exclusive, and except for the five days a month he spent in London, they slept together every night, and he woke her up with breakfast.

  She also missed their nightly chats, when she waited up till two, for him to get home and tell her about his day. Her days were usually uneventful, her time divided between the gym, her charity work, lunches with friends, and appointments at the salon.

  Oh, God. She was shallow and boring.

  Was that what led him to the redhead? Was the girl interesting and intellectually stimulating, on top of young and beautiful?

  The sob caught Bella unaware, shaking her chest and ripping out of her throat with the force of her heart breaking. The tears weren’t far behind. They poured down her cheeks, soaking the neckline of the shirt she slept in and making it cling to her—warm and sticky and disgusting, like he was.