by Olivia Miles
She seemed to frown at this. “I didn’t realize this was an interview.”
“It’s a two-way street, baby,” he said, leaning both hands on the counter. “A prize like this is a lot of money. I need to know you’re in it to win it.”
“Of course I am!” she scoffed, but her expression wilted when he arched a brow. Her shoulders dropped slightly as she set her glass on the counter. “Look, if I decide to enter—and I’m not sure I will yet—then I’m going to give it my all. Have you ever known me to not throw myself into something entirely?”
He didn’t need to consider the question. Fireside was living proof. “No,” he replied, his jaw setting when he considered where he fit into that grand statement. She’d given her heart to him, and look what he’d done with it.
He went to the stove and peered through the glass lid covering the pot of mussels, shaking it one last time, just to make sure all the shells were open before flicking off the gas.
“Frankly,” she continued, “I have some reservations about your commitment. How do I know you won’t bail on me if we agree to team up?”
He tightened his grip on the large slotted spoon he plucked from the canister. Of course she had to go there, and really, could he blame her? Ending their relationship, when all he really wanted to do was stay in it forever, had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. She couldn’t see that. Not then. Not now. He’d been mean about it, dodging her calls, then hanging around Cassie, a random girl from his pastry class, making sure Anna saw it, too, and knew that it was over, that he wasn’t the man for her. Judging from the way she’d ignored him ever since he’d sat her down and told her it was over—their relationship, their friendship, even their dreams of a restaurant—she’d gotten the message.
He gave her a hard look over his shoulder. “That would be pretty damn stupid, wouldn’t it?”
It would be stupid all right, about as stupid as it had been to ever think he and Anna could have opened a restaurant together. He’d loved her, and he couldn’t keep his feelings at bay, couldn’t keep it platonic. He’d given in, kissed her, pursued her, told himself it would be different this time, that what they shared was real, a love that had two years of friendship backing it up, a common goal, a shared passion. He’d told himself they could have it all, even when he knew deep down that was bull. Tavern on Main was proof of that—his father had sunk everything into that place, and the stress of the business took a toll on his marriage, until eventually the relationship was over, and so was the restaurant. Mark couldn’t risk coming out with nothing, so how, in the end, had he ended up in the exact position he’d tried to avoid?
Cursing under his breath, Mark began transferring the mussels to their bowls, double checking that each had opened, and tossing the few that hadn’t into the bin. The room went silent as he finished preparing the starter, the tension in his shoulders slowly working itself out in the comfort of the task, the simple enjoyment he derived from each step. He diced the butter and stirred it into the white wine broth, letting the flavors fuse together before he added the fresh tarragon.
His dad had taught him this recipe on a slow night at Tavern on Main. Mark must have been about nine at the time, and he’d eagerly listened as his father walked him through the steps, letting him assist. “You’re going to make a fine chef one of these days,” he’d said, grinning, setting his heavy hand on Mark’s shoulder.
What would his father think of him now? Would he be proud that he’d done as he’d set out to do, followed in his footsteps by going to culinary school? Or would he see him like half the town did these days—just some regular Joe behind the counter at the diner, serving up coffee, good for a few laughs.
Mark frowned. He’d never know.
With a heavy heart, Mark poured the mixture over the mussels, leaving a generous pool at the bottom. Finally, he pulled garlic toasts from the top oven and tucked two slices each into the bowls.
“Have a seat. Please,” he added, his gaze skirting to the table and the unlit candles. His stomach tightened at his folly—and how close he had come to overstepping. This wasn’t a date. He wasn’t wooing Anna, wasn’t wining and dining her into bed the way he did with half the other women who floated through his door. She was too smart for that—too burned.
Besides, that’s not what he wanted from her. Anna wasn’t a short-term fling. Anna was the real deal. And that was just the problem.
“Go ahead and start.” He pivoted and walked back to the oven to check on the main course, and then grabbed the neck of the wine bottle.
Anna was hunched over the bowl, turning over each mussel with the help of her spoon, and her face flushed with guilt when he appeared at her side.
He sunk into his chair. “Making sure I wasn’t poisoning you?”
She let out a small laugh that sent his mind into a tailspin; it had been too long since he’d heard that sound. He’d forgotten it somehow, its melodic sweetness, but its memory came flooding back, reminding him of happier times.
“Force of habit,” she said, picking up her fork and spearing the mussel. He watched as she brought it to her mouth and chewed slowly, no doubt analyzing the precision of his seasoning.
Mark hesitated before he tucked into his dish, anxiety greeting him like an old friend, and then decided to hell with it. If it was bad, she’d certainly let him know. He couldn’t resist the grin that tugged at his mouth if he’d tried. Any worry of oversalting faded with that first bite. It tasted exactly the way it had all those years back, in that kitchen at Tavern—now Fireside. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture his father’s expectant grin, waiting for Mark’s assessment of the dish. “Not bad, huh?” he’d said. Not bad at all.
“What do you think?” he asked, chasing down another bite with the cool, dry wine.
“I think…” She paused, and wiped her mouth with the corner of her napkin before returning it to her lap. Her eyes were soft when they met his, and her lashes fluttered as she sucked in a small breath. “I think you could do a hell of a lot better than Hastings.” A flush of pink spread over her cheeks and her long fingers graced the base of her glass. “Sorry. I know it’s your mother’s place.”
He knew he should be mad, insulted really—but she was right. And she knew it. He set down his fork. “Don’t apologize. You’re right.”
Her blue gaze shifted to his. “Then why do it? Why the diner?”
He knew he could make up some lame excuse, switch the topic, but he didn’t want to. It had always been easy to talk to Anna—too easy, at times—and he missed the bond they’d once shared. Sometimes, when a particularly crappy thing had happened at work, something industry related, something Luke wouldn’t get and his mom shouldn’t be burdened with, he’d talk aloud on the drive home, and the person he imagined he was talking to was Anna. She always had the right thing to say, and when she didn’t, she just had a way of looking at him, those soft eyes patient and understanding, her response always spot on. Encouraging when he needed a kick in the pants, empathetic when he needed commiseration. She was the perfect teammate. Always on his side.
“You know that I helped out there after high school, when my mom was first diagnosed.” He took a long sip of wine, hating to remember those days, the fear of not knowing what would happen, if she’d ever get better. He was drifting then, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with himself. It was his mother who had told him to follow his heart, to apply to culinary school. He’d worried he’d betray her somehow by doing it. Now look at what he’d done with the opportunity.
“It made sense to pitch in again after my mom’s relapse. I guess you could say my reasons for sticking with it aren’t enough anymore. I want to feel excited again.” He drained the rest of his glass, briefly meeting her gaze. “Maybe I’ve just fallen out of love with it.”
Her eyes flashed as her lips drew tight, and all at once the softer side of Anna he’d known and loved so much was replaced with that tough, hard, unbreakable shell he’d seen so many t
imes over the past few years. “Seems to be a theme of yours.”
The timer for the oven went off and Mark clenched a fist around his napkin, hesitating before he tossed it on his chair in exasperation. He strode to the broiler, hating the rigid way she sat, the distance in her face, and pulled the pan from the grates. The scallops were perfectly cooked—he could tell by the caramelized crust on each one—but his appetite for them was lost.
“Do you really want to talk about this right now?” he demanded as he returned to the table.
“No,” she said coolly.
“Well, I do,” he blurted, surprising even himself.
Anna’s stunned expression had paled, darkening her eyes as she locked his gaze. “There’s nothing to discuss,” she snapped. “We dated, you dumped me, it’s over.”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“Oh yes, it was.” Her eyes turned on him. Hard. “It’s what you do, Mark. You use girls, and you spit them out. You move on to the next.”
“That’s really how you see me.” It was more of a statement than a question—an affirmation of his worst fears.
He didn’t want be seen as that man—a man like his father, a man who turned his back on the people who counted on him, the people he was supposed to love. He could still remember the hurt in his mother’s eyes when she told him and his brother that their dad wasn’t coming home. She’d tried to be brave and strong for them, but he heard those tears that carried her long through the night. He saw the way her eyes sparked with each ring of the phone for months after he’d left, never to be heard from again.
Anna shrugged, her lips turning downward. “I was just the fool who fell for your charm.” She shook her head, giving an unhappy chuckle under her breath. “I thought… I thought maybe I was different.”
Mark hated the hurt he saw in her eyes. He’d seen it before, that first week back at school his fourth year after he and Anna had spent their summer break on the beach, working in local kitchens all day and climbing into bed together each night. The season had come to an end, and he’d known that their relationship would, too. It was moving too quickly, he was starting to feel anxious, restless at night as he set his head on the pillow next to hers, watching the steady rise and fall of her breath as she slept.
He’d come back to school a week early, knowing what he had to do, telling himself the next time he saw her he’d be over her, but that look on her face when he sat her down and told her it was over, the smile he’d loved that faded for the final time, and the confusion that clouded her eyes cut him like a knife.
It would have been so much easier to carry on, as they were, forever, but what really lasted forever? And if it didn’t? He couldn’t bear it.
“You were different,” Mark insisted. When she didn’t react, his stomach constricted. “I was young then, Anna. I was… scared.”
That got her attention. Her brow pulled in confusion as she met his tormented gaze.
“Scared?” She stared at him. “Please.”
“It’s true, Anna.”
“And what were you so afraid of, hmm?” Her eyes were sharp as steel. “Being tied down to one person? Losing your freedom?”
“Anna—”
“I know your drill, Mark. I was just too stupid to see it back then, but I know how you work. You like the thrill of the chase.” She shook her head. “This was a mistake.”
He was on his feet before she was out of arm’s reach. He reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist, forcing her to face him, finding more anger in those eyes than he could bear.
“Let go of me,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
He tightened his hold. Her wrist felt so small in his hand, he feared he might hurt her, but he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. “Not until you’ve heard me out.”
She brought herself up to full height. “You have nothing to say to me that I don’t already know.”
Oh, but she was wrong about that. He watched her eyelashes flutter, her pupils grow large as the distance between them closed, and her pretty pink mouth worry itself, torn between a scowl and another biting retort.
“I was scared, Anna. Scared of the way I felt.” He felt her body relax. “Scared of what would happen if it didn’t work out.”
“So it made sense to end it first, then?”
He dropped her arm. “Something like that.”
He expected her to back away, to turn and leave, but she didn’t move. “You broke my heart, Mark.” Her voice cracked on the word and she dropped her gaze. Her lashes fluttered quickly as she blinked.
He gritted his teeth against the pain of her words. “I know.”
“You didn’t have to be so brutal about it.”
Ah, but he did. It was the only way to make sure he stayed away, that he wasn’t tempted to go back to her. Because he never could resist Anna. From the moment she arrived at the school, all grown up and prettier than ever, he was under her spell—caught up in her laughter and her warmth, in that fierce determination.
“We should have just stayed friends,” he said firmly. Sometimes, when he saw her around town, through a window or across a street, chatting with one of her sisters, setting flowers on a bistro table outside Fireside, or just walking by herself down Main Street, pausing to study shop windows, he had to physically restrain himself from catching up with her, telling her about something crazy that had happened at the diner, or worse, all those years ago, about how worried he was for his mother—his only parent, who was fighting for her life for the second time in six years. How he couldn’t sleep because he was so filled with worry and instead stayed up long into the nights, watching movie after movie until slumber simply found him.
She was his person, the one he could confide in, take comfort in. She was so close. She was right there. And he couldn’t tell her anything.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
Anna nodded slowly. “Maybe we should have.”
“I cared about you, Anna.” He’d never told her he’d loved her—not out loud. He didn’t trust the feelings he had. What was love? Did it even exist? It sure as hell wasn’t guaranteed to last.
Silence stretched and he knew they were each remembering what they’d shared. Mark pulled in a breath. “We both know we can win this contest if we set aside our differences.”
She sighed, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know, Mark.”
“Let’s not let our past stand in the way of the future. Let’s enter the damn contest, Anna.” When she didn’t reply immediately, he said with more force, “I’ll tell you what—you enter the contest with me, and after that, you never have to speak to me again.”
“It is just two and a half weeks.” She looked up at him, and his heart raced as their eyes locked.
“It’s going to be a lot of late nights,” he warned.
She shrugged. “I’m used to running on little sleep.”
He suppressed a smile. “Can we shake on it?”
Pursing her lips, Anna shifted the weight on her feet and ever so slowly brought her hand up to his. He wrapped his fingers over hers, feeling the faint tick of her pulse in her wrist, the smooth, warm lines of her bones. She felt small, fragile almost, and shame bit at him when he thought of how badly he’d hurt her.
It wasn’t a mistake he intended to repeat. He’d make it up to her somehow, and it would start with winning this contest.
“Welcome to the team, Chef,” he murmured, lazily dropping his gaze to her lips. It was the closest he had been to her in years, but it felt as if no time had passed at all.
He leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, his lips parting as the lids of his eyes fell. She was looking up at him, blinking almost in question, but she hadn’t pulled back, hadn’t pushed him away. He hesitated, feeling the heat of her body, sensing the rise and fall of her breath, the questions in those big blue eyes. Abruptly, he pulled back, just like he had all those years ago. He had to be the one to stop this.
He was no good for her. She knew
it all those years ago, but she couldn’t let him go. She believed in him, saw him for more than he was, for the man he wanted to be—the man he was when he was with her. Not the man he really was.
He couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not then. Not now. And the only way to stop hurting her was to never lose sight of that, no matter how tempting it would be to just give in to the feelings that somehow grew stronger each day.
CHAPTER
13
He’d almost kissed her. She’d seen that look, the slight parting of his lips, felt their bodies inch closer, and closer still, until there was only once choice: give in or run.
Thank God she’d had the sense to resist him, even if her body was still prickling by the near miss. They’d established rules in the kitchen last week—ones she hadn’t stuck around long enough to keep—and they’d have to do so again, even if some were unspoken, or rules only for herself. Rule number one: She would not fall for Mark again. Two: She would most certainly not let him kiss her. Three: She would stop wishing he would.
The whistling teakettle forced her from that thought, and she hurried to the stove, grabbing a potholder along the way to lift the kettle from its burner. Flicking off the gas, she called over her shoulder, “Tea’s ready!”
Her mother came around the corner, her eyes bright and alert, with a healthy flush dusting her cheeks. She stopped to catch her breath at the counter before pulling some mugs from the cabinet. “I finally finished unloading the last of those fabric bolts. My goodness, that was a workout, but at least I won’t have to feel guilty about taking a second helping of that pasta, Anna. It was delicious.”
“You should really let one of us help with that,” Jane scolded from her perch at the kitchen island.
“Nonsense,” Kathleen huffed. “The exercise is good for me. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”
It was true, Anna reflected. The past year had been hard on all of them, and each sister had handled the loss of their father in their own private way. His sudden heart attack had come without warning, leaving them to process their grief slowly, in a state of near disbelief. It wasn’t until last Christmas that Kathleen began to take steps toward a recovery. Having Grace move back home for now kept her company, and reopening her interior design business was keeping her busy.
