by Olivia Miles
Only one person could share her loss, her grief for a baby she had never even met, but only dared to imagine. And he didn’t even know.
She could feel her blood rushing in her ears as her heart began to pound. She reached for her glass but her hands were trembling so hard she didn’t trust herself, and she tucked them between her legs.
Mark dragged in a breath and brushed a few unruly locks from his forehead. He turned to face her, and Anna felt her temper wilt, only to be replaced with a much more lethal emotion. This was the image she had fought to avoid, the very one she had tried to banish from her mind, her dreams, all of it. Mark with his warm brown eyes and tousled hair, with that slight bump on his nose and that broad, defined chest. Mark who knew every inch of her bare body, all her secrets, all her joys and sorrows.
All except one. He’d never known about the baby. Never given her a chance to tell him. He’d been too busy flirting, having his fun with his latest fling. Cassie. That had been her name. One she’d never forget.
For years she had refused to go there, to allow herself to remember his face, the way his skin felt under her fingers, the way his lips tasted, and the way everything about them, every kiss, every laugh, was so effortless. She’d forced her eyes to drift whenever they came in contact, desperate to fight that tightening in her chest that occurred every time she saw that smile, an attraction she couldn’t deny, a love she knew she could never have. She’d look away, bury her mind in other things, and break free the first chance she had. Now she was facing her fear head on, staring straight into the eyes of the man she hadn’t properly looked at since he broke her heart, confronting every crushed dream he had ever brought her. And damn it if her gut didn’t stir, not with anger or contempt, but with longing.
“Look,” Mark said. “We’re going to be working in the same kitchen for a few weeks at least. We may as well try to get along.”
“You’re right,” Anna replied, feeling embarrassed over her emotional outburst. She’d done far too good a job at shielding herself to let Mark rattle her now. “The past is in the past. It’s better to leave it there.”
Beside her, Mark shifted in his chair. “So this is how it’s going to be, huh? We’re just going to keep on ignoring each other?”
Ideally, Anna thought. “No. I figured I’d come into the kitchen before your breakfast crowd hits. It must get pretty crazy then.”
Mark nodded, but his lips pursed with displeasure. “Too busy.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t sound happy about that.”
Mark peeled the label off his bottle. “I’m just burned out.”
Ah. Of course. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve stuck with it as long as you have.”
Mark snapped his gaze to her, his eyes flashing in anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying that commitment has never been your strong suit.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then clamped it shut. “You’re right,” he surprised her by saying.
Anna leaned back in her chair, at a loss for words. At the other side of the table, Grace and Luke were having an animated conversation with Jane, and Anna could tell from Luke’s wide-eyed interest and Jane’s grin that she was telling them about Rosemary’s newest career as the town matchmaker. On their side, however, silence stretched. Anna watched the light from the candle flicker against the amber glass of the empty beer bottle, wondering what to say. What was even left to say?
“I really do appreciate being able to use the kitchen,” she said, softening her tone. She was at his mercy, a place she never imagined she would be, but she needed to heed her own advice and leave the past behind her and focus on the present. She was good at that, throwing herself into work, and her career was more important than ever now. She had to do anything she could to salvage it. Even spend time with Mark. “I’d like to pay you in some way.”
“Nah. Don’t worry about it.” Mark brushed a hand through the air and then returned it to the beer bottle. He tipped it to the left, holding it against the light, seemingly lost in thought.
“Really though,” Anna pressed. “I could be in there for months. At least let me do something. It was… really kind of you to offer me the space.”
He looked at her sidelong, his expression revealing nothing. “It wasn’t my idea. But hell, it’s the least I can do, all things considered.”
Anna felt her lips thin. She reached for her glass, bringing it to her mouth before she said something she would later regret. He was right: It was the least he could do for her.
CHAPTER
5
Mark turned his key in the back door of Hastings and flicked on the lights to the kitchen, wincing as the fluorescent glare roused him from his sleepy haze. He blinked and rubbed his forehead and then pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. He could blame the headache on one too many beers, but he knew that wasn’t its true source.
He was still reeling from his interaction with Anna last night at the bar, playing the conversation over and over and not getting anywhere. She hated him, that much was clear, and could he really blame her? He’d ruined the good thing they had, just like he screwed up every relationship before and after that. He could pretend he didn’t care, hadn’t come across like the jerk Anna clearly believed him to be. But deep down, it gnawed at him.
With the exception of Luke, Anna was one of the few people he’d ever let in. He’d let himself get comfortable with her, vulnerable even, and he’d let himself start to trust her. He’d let himself slip—the one thing he’d promised never to do.
He set his jaw. It was better to get out first. Better to be the one in control, not the one left behind.
That’s what he’d told himself. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure…
Mark drained the water and tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin. He pushed through the door to the dining room, which was dark and quiet, the chairs neatly tucked into place. He turned the lock on the front door, even though the diner didn’t open for another three hours, and lingered there, searching down the street for any hint of that silky blond hair and those legs that seemed to go on for miles.
Mouth thinning, he turned from the window and went back to the counter, where he started a fresh pot of coffee. He leaned back against the wall, training one eye on the road as he waited for the brew to finish, hating the sense of expectation that pulsed with each tick of the minute hand.
At five sharp, just as the first warm glow of sun was beginning to bloom in the horizon, Anna’s face appeared in the window. Mark set his coffee mug on the counter and lifted a hand, waving her in, trying to ignore the kick in his chest. The bell above the door jingled as she entered, and he let his gaze fall over her impassively, his groin tightening at the way her blue T-shirt hugged her small waist, and her jeans clung to the flare of her hips, defining every curve of her slender legs. He’d half hoped the attraction he felt at the bar had just been the dim lighting and whisper of her thigh against his, but now, in the diner’s bright, overhead lighting, he knew that was wishful thinking.
He could try to talk himself out of it all he wanted, but it was useless. Anna was under his skin. She’d crawled into his life when he was twenty-one years old, and nearly ten years later, she was still there, even though he’d tried so hard to scratch her out.
She set her leather handbag on the nearest table. “How long have you been here?” She glanced at him, her expression revealing nothing as she reached up and began gathering her long blond hair with her hands, expertly retrieving a hair band from her wrist and securing it in place. Her shirt rode up, just barely an inch, but enough for him to make out the smooth, creamy hint of skin beneath.
Mark cleared his throat and drained his coffee. This was going to be more difficult than he first thought.
“I just got in.” He gestured to his mug. “Coffee?”
She smoothed her ponytail and dropped her hands. A hint of a smile passed over her mouth. “I’d love some.�
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He took his time filling her mug. “Cream and sugar are on the counter. It’s not as fancy as the stuff you make.”
“It’s five in the morning. Anything will do.” She ripped the seal off an individually wrapped creamer. Mark cursed to himself, wishing he’d had the foresight to pour some fresh milk into a glass. “Besides, your coffee’s pretty good.”
Mark lifted a brow. “A compliment? I’ll take it.”
“Oh, come on, you know you can cook circles around me if you put your mind to it.” She grinned over the rim of her mug.
Mark decided to ignore the insinuation that he wasn’t living up to his best, but the reminder hit him square in the gut. This wasn’t what he had set out to do, and Anna knew it. She alone knew all about the real dreams he had for himself, the ones that involved inventive menus and wine pairings. The ones that involved her.
“I’ll walk you around the kitchen,” he said, pushing back from the counter.
Anna grabbed her handbag with her free hand and followed him, pausing in the doorway of the large kitchen. Her gaze swept over the room, from the nine-foot stainless steel island to the ten-burner range and then, finally, landed steadily on him. “This will do.”
He tried to see the space through her eyes, knowing Fireside had a much bigger kitchen. He’d spent as many weekends there as he could, back when it was Tavern on Main, watching his dad in action, calling out orders and working the pass. It was a big kitchen, bright, with more stations than Anna had certainly ever put to use. It was a restaurant kitchen, fully loaded, and capable of great things. Anna was an exceptional chef, but God, did he hate the fact that she’d taken over that spot. Only one person belonged in that kitchen, and that man was never coming back.
Mark hated even thinking of the place. Hated that it still excited him. That the memory of his father’s voice, the clanking of pans, the heat from the stovetops, still made his heart speed up. That the thought of it falling dark, or worse, burned out and covered in soot, made him feel like he’d lost it all over again. Lost his dad all over again.
He forced himself back to the present. “Well, it’s a diner. It’s functional.”
Anna nodded, causing her long, blond ponytail to spill over her slim shoulder. “As I said, it will do.”
Mark felt his temper stir but he kept his thoughts to himself. “My crew gets in around seven thirty.”
“Just you and me then. Like old times.” In any other context, the words might have been flirty, suggestive even, but Anna’s eyes were hard and the statement came out more like a bitter observation than a pleasant remark.
He watched her steadily, wanting to say something, anything that would take the hurt away. He set his jaw. There was nothing he could do.
“I’ve got some prep work to do,” Mark said, taking a step back. “Feel free to use the station near the door, if that suits you.”
Something in her blue eyes softened. “Thanks.”
Mark nodded once and turned on his heel, his mind spinning. He crossed the room with purpose and began gathering eggs and meats from cold storage, doing his best to ignore her presence behind him. Curiosity finally got the better of him, and he glanced ever so slightly to his left, refusing to turn his neck or show the least amount of outward interest, and watched as she hauled cloth grocery sacks into the kitchen and then marched back out again, only to return with more.
He should offer to help, but that would be sending the wrong message. It would imply teamwork, a partnership, and they were merely sharing a space, not joining an effort.
They worked in silence for half an hour, heads bent over their work with fixed determination. He finished chopping the vegetables and set them in stainless steel bowls, covering them with plastic wrap. Across the center island, Anna was mixing dough for scones, her eyebrows pinched in concentration, her mouth set in a serious line. Something about the silence, the way they each covered their tasks, working side by side but independently, brought him back to a happier time, a time he had tried to forget, when he had dared to think his life could be so much more than it now was.
He could still remember waking up and sipping coffee, Anna in one of his old shirts that skimmed the back of her thighs, padding barefoot around him, chopping vegetables while he whisked eggs. So easy. So simple. So perfect.
“Mind if I turn on the radio?” He couldn’t take the memories for another second.
Anna looked up at him, seeming briefly startled at the interruption, and brushed a loose wisp of honey-colored hair from her face with the back of her hand. “If you must.”
Mark flicked it on. “It’s better than standing here in silence.”
“I’m not standing here. I’m working.”
Mark hesitated. “Is this how it’s going to be between us? You’re just going to ignore me the way you’ve done for the last six years since you’ve been back in Briar Creek?”
“I don’t ignore you,” Anna replied crisply.
Mark leveled her with a look and to prove her own point, she held his stare. God, she was exasperating. “You avoid me, Anna. You act just polite enough not to let on that we have a history, but you’re hardly friendly.”
“Well, we’re hardly friends.”
He waited a beat. “Why can’t we be?”
Anna sighed audibly and made a grand show of setting her wooden spoon on the counter. She glared at him, and something within Mark swelled. Damn it if he didn’t want to kiss her right then and there, if he didn’t want to push aside that kitchen island and grab her by the shoulders and swipe that pinch right off her pretty little mouth. He wanted to shake her up, give her something to get worked up about, ruffle that cool, calculated exterior and see if there was still a hint of the girl he once knew under that determined shell.
She used to laugh. She used to smile and joke.
He grimaced. He supposed he was to blame for stealing that joy from her, even if all he’d ever wanted to do was to protect her—and himself—from this exact situation.
“If it would make things easier, I’d like to pay you for the use of the space, that way we can both be clear this is purely a professional transaction.”
He looked at her squarely. “I don’t want your money, Anna. I’m doing this to help you.”
“I know, I know. Because your aunt asked you to. I know it wasn’t your idea,” she added bitterly.
He shouldn’t have said that last night, and he hadn’t intended to—not until she had to go and make that jab about him still running the diner. She’d hit a nerve; voiced his unspoken disappointment.
“If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have agreed to it.” Mark set his hands down on the cool steel worktop that separated their bodies and huffed out a breath. “We used to be friends once, Anna. Good friends.”
“The best.” Her voice was barely audible. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable until her blue eyes suddenly flashed. “And then you had to go and throw it all away.”
“Now that’s not fair.”
“You’re right. It wasn’t fair.” Anna picked up her spoon and began furiously stirring the thick, sticky dough. She tipped the bowl, emptying its contents on a flour-coated surface and began shaping it into a circle.
“Anna.”
She slapped her palm over the top of the dough, patting it flatter.
“Anna.” His voice was low and husky, and he watched as she blinked quickly, paused, and then set her mouth in that familiar thin line, her eyes fixed on her work. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I never set out to do that.” Relief rolled off his shoulders. He’d held that in for too long.
She snapped her gaze to him, her eyes sharp and accusatory, her cheeks flushed. “Get over yourself, Mark. If you think I’m still sore about the way you dumped me and then took up with another girl two days later, you can relax. I assure you I didn’t cry a single tear for you then, and I’m certainly not losing any sleep about it now.”
“Well, I just assumed by the way you’ve ignored me—”
“Last night we established that what we had was meaningless. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have ended it like you did.”
He balled a fist at his side. That wasn’t true, but she didn’t need to know that—it didn’t change anything. She had always been looking for more than he could give. She deserved more than he could give, but try telling her that. It was his own damn problem that what he could give and what he wanted to give were two very different things. She wanted it all—the restaurant, the relationship. Those two could never go hand in hand. In the end, one always won out.
He looked around the diner, frowning.
Turning back to her, he said, “We were friends, Anna. Best friends. For two years before it became something more. Didn’t that friendship mean anything to you?”
Her gaze held his, and for a moment he thought she might smile, she might back down, and they might forget the awkward strain of their past and move forward, falling back on what they had, what they should have kept in the first place. A friendship. Nothing more.
“No.” She slammed the dough onto a baking tray and strode to the oven. She kept her back to him, working at the far counter that lined the wall rather than returning to the island. Mark watched her warily until finally sighing, and giving up. He pulled a sack of potatoes from a cabinet and began peeling them over the sink, frowning with each stroke of the knife. The silent minutes ticked by.
“What’s this?”
He looked up to see Anna leaning against the counter, trays of beautifully plump, crumb-topped muffins at her sides, holding a small stack of paper in her hands. His notes. His dreams. Every doodle and idea. Every detail of his plan to finally get out of this damn town and away from all its painful memories.
“Give those to me!” he snapped, tossing the potato and knife into the sink and lurching across the room.
Anna’s mouth curled into a mischievous smile as she held the papers out of his reach. He reached for them, but she arched her back and held her arms high. If he stepped any closer, his chest would skim the swell of her breasts—not that he minded, but he had a feeling the interaction would spark a less than desirable reaction from Anna.
