“Blue is yours?”
“It is,” I confirm, turning the faucet on to let the water warm up. I don’t want to talk to her about Blue. Frankly, I don’t want to talk to her at all. I need to get her the hell out of here. I’m so damn confused. One part of me wants to push her away, while the other part is struggling to pull her close and all these damn feelings are fucking with my head.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, her warm breath fanning the side of my face. I take a deep breath and look up. It blows me away that she’s here, in my office, talking to me about Blue. I can see every emotion running across her face—I always could read her like a book—but hope and fear seem to be battling for control. Her bright eyes are begging me to see her, her hands are itching to touch me, and I can tell by the way she keeps biting her lower lip that she is feeling the exact thing I’m trying not to feel. Our connection.
“Here.” I shove the wet cloth at her, mad at myself for even entertaining the fact that we still have a connection. Because we don’t. Nope, she broke that bond. Sure, it took me awhile to get over her, but I did.
“Oh. Okay.” She grabs the cloth and dabs at the cut on the palm of her hand. I watch her as she scrubs gently at the dried blood and dirt.
“Does it need stitches?”
“No,” she shakes her head and laughs. “It’s just a little cut. But I’ll let you kiss it and make it all better if you want.”
“Don’t,” I command, pushing past her, aggravated that she would even think it’s okay to go there. I can hear her feet pad behind me on the wooden floor, but I don’t stop until I’m shielded by my big mahogany desk. “You need to go.” I slam my hands against the smooth wood and lift my head. “I can’t do this with you. You need to leave.”
She furrows her brow. “What exactly is it that you can’t do?”
“Why the fuck are you here?” I demand, throwing my hands up. “Christ, Laney. I don’t even know what to say to you. I haven’t seen you for eight years—eight years, Laney! And now you’re back and telling me it was all a mistake and that you regret it, and now you want me to just forget—” I trail off, not wanting to finish, because she doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve my time. She doesn’t deserve me.
“I’m not going anywhere, Levi.” I watch her carefully. Laney always was an incredibly strong woman, never hesitating to ask for what she wanted or to speak her mind. I can see that hasn’t changed.
“Why did you move home?” I curse myself as soon as the question leaves my mouth, because I’m not sure I want to know. If she tells me she moved home to start a family with her new husband, I may very well punch a hole in the wall.
She swallows hard. “I’ve got my reasons for moving home, but you’re not ready to hear them.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I roar.
She walks up to me, on the opposite side of
the desk, and leans forward. “It means that you are part of the reason I moved home.” I don’t miss the fact that she said part. “But I can see that you’re still very angry, and rightfully so. You should hate me, because I hate myself. So until we work through those feelings, you’re not ready to know why I’m home.”
“Maybe I don’t want to know.” Because I don’t.
“Oh, trust me,” she says, averting her eyes with a grim look on her face, “you’ll want to know.” She takes a deep breath and looks back at me. “Who was the girl?” Her question catches me off guard, so it takes me a moment to process what she just said.
“Jenny?” And then it hits me. I’ve been so wrapped up in seeing Laney again that I totally forgot my best chef just fucking walked out on me. I sigh, falling back into my seat. This night can’t possibly get any worse. “She’s my head chef.”
Laney’s shoulders relax. Who did she think she was? “Not any more, by the looks of it.”
“You’re right.” I flick my computer on, waking it up. Time to look for a new chef. “Listen, I’ve got a ton of stuff to do. Why don’t you go in the bathroom and bandage your hand up and then head on out. Good luck with everything. It was nice to see you.” I lie. It isn’t nice to see her. It fucking hurts like hell and I want her to go back to California . . . or stay . . . hell, I don’t know what I want.
My eyes flit across the screen as I browse through my dad’s files. I know he has a folder with possible applicants in here somewhere. I see Laney fidget with her shirt from the corner of my eye, but I don’t spare her another glance. I’ve had enough for tonight, and the quicker she is out of here, the quicker I can forget about her again.
“I’ll do it,” she says, garnering my attention. She takes a hesitant step forward. “Let me fill in for you”—I give her a hard look and she takes a step back—“at least until you find someone else.” It’s tempting. But I can’t. There is no way I can work with her day in and day out. It’s impossible. “Please,” she pleads, sitting in the chair in front of my desk, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “Please let me help you. I don’t have a job yet so my schedule is completely open. Well, except for an appointment I have on Thursday that I can’t miss, but we can work around that.”
Laney is more than capable of filling in. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve kept tabs on her over the years, but because I did, I know she accomplished what she set out to do . . . and then some. After a heated argument with Luke a couple of years ago, he finally caved and told me that not only did Laney graduate with her bachelor’s degree in Culinary Arts, she also received a bachelor’s in Baking and Pastry Arts Management. Plus, I’d be lying if I said that I’ve never googled her name just to see what popped up. Suffice it to say that despite my resentment toward her, I am very proud of her accomplishments.
“I can’t pay you what you made in California.” I don’t even want to know what she was raking in there, but no doubt it was well above anything she will make around here.
She shakes her head and scoots forward in her seat. “It doesn’t matter what I made in California.” Her teeth bite down on her lower lip and her eyes flit around the room as though she’s contemplating what to say next. Then her gaze lands on mine. “I don’t care what you pay me, I’d just be happy to help you.”
I’m at a loss for words, desperate to come out of this situation unscathed. But I’m not sure that’s even possible at this point. The sincerity in her voice, and the vulnerability and remorse in her eyes make it hard to tell her no. I should tell her no. But I can’t. Partly because I’m in desperate need of a new chef, but mostly because something deep inside of me is screaming at me to tell her yes.
Laney is staring at me, patiently waiting for an answer, but I’m not really sure how to proceed. I have a gut feeling that my answer to her question could dramatically change my life. And I’m not sure I want anything to change. I’m happy. Content.
I run a hand down my face, aggravated for even thinking that I would actually let Laney back into my life. I’ve made my decision and I’m sticking to it, and there isn’t anything she can do or say to change that. But as much as it pains me to see her and for old wounds to reopen, I want this closure. “Fine. Be here tomorrow at three.” Her eyes widen with excitement and suddenly I feel the need to set her straight. “But this doesn’t change anything. This doesn’t make us friends and it certainly doesn’t mean we’re ever going to be more than that again. Got it?”
She grins and pushes up from her chair. “You won’t regret this, Levi.” Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen from my desk, she scribbles her number down. “In case you need to get ahold of me.” She slides the paper and pen across the desk before turning around. My eyes drift down her back and land on her tight little ass. She stops dead in her tracks and twists around. My eyes snap to hers. She has a mischievous grin on her face and I berate myself for getting caught . . . again. “Levi?”