Chapter Twenty-Four

Mack sighed and skimmed through her notes again, the pro and con lists she’d reworked so many times they no longer made sense. “Between our top two candidates, Mitch has more experience, but Allie seems more interested in being here and working with the culture of the restaurant.”

“But who has better food?” Sam asked, and they were back to that again, trying to make a choice between two people when the one they really wanted, they couldn’t have.

It was better making these calls with someone who trusted Mack’s opinion and didn’t second-guess her at every point. But Sam put so much faith in Mack, it was frustrating, too. Where were the hard questions, the debate that forced Mack to reconsider and hone her points? Where was the sense that when she defended something, it was because she meant it down to her guts?

Sam reminded her that if their first choice didn’t work out, they could always find someone new. Either candidate would be fine.

But Mack didn’t want fine. She wanted this to be perfect the first time around. Even as she knew her quest to control the uncontrollable was part of what had driven their best option for a head chef out of the kitchen. And her arms.

The truth was, she missed Connor. The longing was a physical ache, a soreness she carried with her like a companion. It was a constant reminder of the ways he’d hurt her—and all the ways she’d fucked up.

She missed his cooking, his energy, his barrage of ideas. She missed his commitment to the restaurant and to making things better. She missed his laugh, even when his jokes were bad or it wasn’t the time to be kidding. She looked at the bar and she missed the feel of his hands, the slide of his skin, the weight of his body as he turned her and pressed into her, whispering her name. She missed his touch, his scent, the way she’d thrown back her head and let herself go in his arms. Not perfect, not in control. But entirely his.

Sam said, quietly, “I wish he were here, too,” and Mack realized it must have been obvious. Her sadness. Regret. Sam didn’t know the half of it, but she knew enough. She knew that regardless of whether they chose Mitch or Allie, it wouldn’t be the same.

She should have savored him while she had the chance. She should have spent every night in his bed while she could.

She gave Sam a half smile. “You talk to him recently?” she asked.

Sam gave a noncommittal shrug. “Austin’s in touch with him. I know he’s at his brother’s. There was talk of some fence he’s building.”

“Sounds like fun,” Mack muttered, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Whenever she thought she was going to turn to jelly from missing him, anger surged up to claw at her chest. How he’d abandoned them for something completely different. How he’d made a promise to their restaurant, and then up and left.

“Come on,” Sam said with forced encouragement. “It’s decision time.”

But before they could get into it again, the sound of tires on gravel made them both look up. It was the weekend, and the work crew had the day off. They’d finished painting the insides and putting in the tables and were getting ready to pick out the final decorations before completing the finishing touch: the sign outside. But that was supposed to be coming next week. Mack wasn’t expecting anyone to stop by, and the surprise on Sam’s face said neither was she.

It was an unfamiliar truck, dark red, and something huge was wrapped in opaque plastic and strapped to the roof. The thing was long and flat and so big it must not have been able to fit in the bed, which was covered with a tarp. “We don’t have a delivery scheduled, do we?” Mack asked.

Sam scrolled through her calendar. “Nothing I wrote down. It’s probably someone lost or turning around.”

Sam went back to her phone, but Mack watched as the truck pulled into a parking space across from them. The license plate was from Oregon and there were three stickers on the bumper. One said PDX, for Portland. One had a silhouette of Seattle’s Space Needle. And one had three letters, MTN, in black and gold. The logo of Gold Mountain, with a line drawing of the peak behind the lettering.

There were something like four million people in Oregon. Quite a few of them had trucks. With state license plates, obviously. Gold Mountain was a bit of a hike from points south, but plenty of visitors flocked here in all seasons. Mack knew it didn’t mean a thing.

She was supposed to have purged him from her thoughts, not still imagine she saw him in every bearded face in Safeway or behind the wheel of some random truck in town.

Ever since she’d had that wild, fleeting fantasy that Connor had come back to her and opened the door to Sam instead, she’d vowed to keep her head out of the clouds. Double down and focus—that was her motto. No pining. No longing. No hungering after what-ifs and second chances and hopes for something more.

And absolutely no entertaining the notion that he might, when she least expected it, show up saying she was the one.

It’s not him, it’s not him, she repeated to herself as the engine cut off. Stop it, stop it, stop it.

And then the door opened, and Mack discovered that people who said their heart skipped a beat weren’t kidding. She almost had to hit the thing to get it restarted, so completely had she frozen at the sight of leather boots, frayed jeans, a tanned arm followed by a dark T-shirt fitted to his form.

Trim beard, chiseled cheekbones, brown hair angled over bright blue eyes.

He must have been doing heavy work on the farm, because his shoulders looked thicker, the contours of his chest visible though his shirt. He slammed the door and ran a hand through his hair. A quiet damn escaped her mouth. He was rugged, beautiful, and obviously her brain had been trying to fool her into forgetting how much she’d lost, because even in her late-night fantasies reliving every glance, every touch, he hadn’t come close to looking this good.

He paused, and there was a beat in which Mack thought for sure he was going to run to her. She could feel her body melting into him at the heat of his touch, the rightness of his arms.

But he didn’t.

Because this was her life, not a fantasy, and it wasn’t going to work out that way.

He waved to Sam, who was standing beside Mack. And Mack felt something wrench inside, a crack that was her whole heart breaking with a finality she hadn’t experienced even when he walked out. Because then there was confusion, uncertainty, and the possibility, however small, that his absence was temporary. Something they could work through.

Now, she realized, it was real. It was over. Because it had never really begun. His presence made clear how meaningless their dalliance had been. How little he was hers.

Connor was back to see friends, to check on the restaurant, whatever. He wasn’t back to see her.

She had to keep it together. She had to get through this moment, and the next one, and the next. She couldn’t let him see her cry.

“I brought you something,” Connor said.

Mack was so full of her sudden realization that she wasn’t sure who he was talking to. He still hadn’t greeted her, hadn’t given her that same warm, open, uncomplicated smile he’d given Sam. He hadn’t even come over, like she might warrant a handshake, a hug—let alone a quickie out back, for old times’ sake.

He walked around the truck, and Mack made herself follow Sam down from the patio. Her joints felt soldered together, like she could barely move. The pain in her heart was physical, an actual rip. In the different kinds of heartache she’d experienced—the people who were supposed to love her but left, the ones she was supposed to trust but let her down, the one who’d protected her but died before his time—she’d never felt anything like this. She’d never watched someone she loved—not for now but for always—truly not love her back.

Then he threw off the tarp covering the back of the truck.

And it was clear why whatever was strapped on top of the truck wasn’t laid out in the bed. Because the bed of the truck was entirely filled with flowers.

Hundreds of sunflowers, to be precise, beaming their wide-open faces to the sky.

It couldn’t be. It didn’t mean what her heart wanted it to. He was taking them somewhere. They were for someone else. They weren’t for anyone. It was a coincidence. She’d made that comment about liking sunflowers in passing. There was no reason for him to remember. There was no reason for him to—

“Sam, can you help me with this?” he said, and began cutting through the twine holding the thing on top of the truck in place.

Sam clearly had no more of a clue what was going on than Mack did, but her limbs still worked, so she helped Connor untie it and unwrap the plastic covering.

Sam was closer, taller, and could see more. As the plastic came off, all Mack could see was that it looked like a huge slab of wood. She had no idea what it was supposed to mean. Flowers and something nicely polished, so what? But Sam let out a gasp as her hands flew to her mouth.

“Is it okay with you?” Connor asked.

Sam said, “It’s not up to me,” and suddenly they were both looking at Mack with such expectation, she had no idea what had happened. Or what she was supposed to do now.

“I think I’ll leave you guys to it,” Sam said, skirting Mack and hopping up to the patio to gather her things.

“Call me later,” she said to Mack, who stood there, slack-jawed, wanting to tell her to stay, because what the hell?

But Connor was reaching into the bed of the truck and handing her a sunflower, and she knew then why he hadn’t said anything to her. Sometimes there were simply no words.