Chapter 15

“I’m out of here, boss,” Brady said, coming into the kitchen, where

I was doing the Saturday prep work.

“Fine.” I didn’t look up from the bread I was dicing.

“Bakery delivery come?” Brady asked carefully.

“Yup. Vic came by a few hours ago.” I pointed at the metal shelves holding the bakery boxes. Vic had glowered at me and shook his head but saved any more lectures. Didn’t matter. I saw the judgment in his eyes, same as I saw in Brady’s. They both thought I was an ass for hurting Lance. And I was. I totally was. Just hell if I could see a way out.

“You okay?” Brady asked with a heavy subtext of why haven’t you fixed this yet?

“Yeah. Told you I don’t want to talk about . . . things.” I wasn’t sure why Brady was riding me so hard to talk. Brady’s personal life was locked up tighter than the ancient safe in the basement. His limp was better these days, but there was a tightness to his expression. I wasn’t sure whether pain or personal stuff was plaguing him, but I tried to give him all the hours he was clamoring for.

“But maybe you should talk to someone? Like what about Robby?”

“Maybe,” I said, just to shut Brady up.

Brady was my longest current employee, but before him, my best employee had been my friend Robby. He had his own coffee cart now, a bustling business in a downtown office building. I hadn’t seen him in forever, though, other than in passing on Sunday mornings. He had a boyfriend now: a nerdy, bookish type who made him sickeningly happy. No way on earth was I dragging my relationship problems over to him.

“Okay.” Brady gave a long sigh. “Whatever. Maybe you can find a way to be something other than rain clouds and mud puddles tomorrow?”

“I’ll try,” I said, even though I knew it was an impossibility. Tomorrow was Lance’s birthday. I knew Vic was pulling for me to do some big Hollywood gesture, like show up with an apology. Instead, it was more likely I’d drag myself through the shifts, same as I’d been doing all week, snapping at random people.

I watched Brady head for the service exit. He was right—the employees really did deserve better from me. For the hundredth time, I thought about Vic’s questions. I thought about who I’d been before Lance—and who I was becoming now without him. And I thought about who I was with him. I liked myself more with Lance. God, that stung to admit. Which are you going to regret more? Vic’s words rang in my ears for the next few hours.

Working on bread pudding alone in my kitchen made me miss Lance even more. The silence was deafening. No music. No dancing. I added rum and raisins to the mixture for the pudding. He’d brought so much new to my life—made me look at my gray, stagnant routine and change things up, simply because I could. Because it was fun. Or at least it was fun when there was Lance egging me on. Alone in my kitchen? Not so much.

Glancing at my cell phone, I sighed. I’d expected him to text at least once. Ask me to reconsider. Send me a cryptic photo. Wonder if we could still be friends. Something. But ever since he’d walked out—okay, ever since I’d pretty much shoved him out—it had been radio silence. Maybe I was the only one in agony. Maybe he was . . . relieved. And if so, I should be happy for him, right?

But I wasn’t. As I finished my work, the need to see him overwhelmed me. Just see him. Glimpse his face. See whether he was happy or depressed or merely existing, same as me. I had a stupid idea, one that was probably going to end up with me shitfaced and alone at the end of the night, but I had a feeling Lance’s friends would drag him to Slaughters for his birthday. I could go, stick to the crowd. One look. That was all I wanted.

 

Two hours later, I still knew it was a dumb idea, but my feet and heart refused to listen, and I found myself at Slaughters. I did two shots of whiskey at the bar before I even looked around—bypassing sipping and going straight for the nerve-reducing, brain-loosening buzz.

Slaughters wasn’t huge by any means, but it still took me a bit to make my not-stalking rounds.

“What are you doing here?”

Shit. He was right behind me. And he was alone, not with his posse of friends, though I assumed they were around somewhere. Unless he was here on the make, and that thought was enough to make me want another six shots.

“I’m not sure,” I said truthfully. He looked tired—new lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago. But he also looked good enough to lick in skin-tight black jeans and a close-fitting red T-shirt with the word “Birthday” in rhinestones. “Lots of people buying you drinks?”

“Some.” His usually lush mouth was a hard line.

“Can I?” My buzz made this seem like a splendid idea.

“Why? So you can tell me again how I’m screwing up my future?”

“No. I didn’t come here to do that.” Someone jostled me from behind, pushing us closer together.

“Why did you come, Chris?” He got right up in my personal space, getting a fistful of my flannel shirt, pressing us together.

“I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” He mouthed my jaw, each swipe of his lips going straight to my dick. “See?”

“Yeah, you are.” My head tipped back.

“You come here so we can fuck and then you can tell me about the guy I’m really supposed to be with?” He ground his hips into me. His breath smelled like rum and fruit, and I wanted to drink him down.

“No.”

“No games. I’m too drunk and you look too damn good and you smell like you.” He looked up at me through watery eyes.

“No, I didn’t come to tell you about other people. I came here to fight.” A crisp new certainty pushed past my buzz.

“Good. I’d like to fight you.” He bit my neck.

I pushed on his shoulders. “I mean I came to fight for you.”

I didn’t know until right that second, but as soon as I said it, my bones accepted its truth. I finally had an answer to the question that had plagued me all week—I still had no clue how things would play out, but when my days came to an end, I wanted to remember that I’d fought for him. Fought for us.