Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“Yes,” she says, her voice suddenly intense. “I’d love to. Does Dad know?”
“Yeah, he’s the only one.”
I can’t lie to her, but I wish she hadn’t asked that question. It just shows how close Max and I were…are.
It shows what I’m destroying just by being here.
“Oh,” Danielle says, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same, wishing she could snatch those words back.
“I never speak about this because I don’t want to shame them, not after death, but my parents had their problems. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. They could be nasty at times. They drank a lot. For whatever reason, I decided it was my job to keep them fed, to ensure they got a warm meal in their belly before, after, or during one of their binges.”
It was all so long ago, yet it feels fresh, as though I can see them slumped on the sofa. Murmuring incoherently, laughing hollowly at a movie they’d seen dozens of times before.
“It was the only place I ever felt at peace,” I tell her. “In the kitchen. I made a rule about keeping it clean, and crazily, they agreed. They didn’t always follow it, and the rest of the house was like a bomb went off, but they did their best in the kitchen.”
She’s staring at me with glittering eyes, tears threatening.
“I had no idea,” she says softly.
“I was headhunted, and he did steal from me, but there was more to the story there, too.”
“Oh?”
My smirk has left. It’s the pain of the past returning, which is strange. I’m supposed to be closed-off, hard, uncaring, and immune to feelings.
But I know that’s never going to be me, not now that Danielle has cracked me wide open.
“I didn’t win a cooking competition. I got into a fight in the alleyway outside Sebastian’s Restaurant. When he came out, I seized the chance and told him I wanted to be a chef one day. I started working underage, illegally, and when I got older, I didn’t think to question the envelopes of cash. I was just happy about the job. I didn’t stop to wonder if he was cutting me short.
“And then he started having me work the doors at his other businesses. Clubs and bars and…and that work wasn’t for me. All those drunk people. I’m not judging, but….”
“It reminded you of your parents?”
I reach across the table, taking her hand again. She squeezes on even firmer than last time.
It’s so good not to have to say every little thing, to know my woman can peer inside of me and see what I’m trying to communicate. She can read me the same way I can read her, one of the many reasons we’re so perfect for each other.
Or would be if not for the obvious.
“When I quit, he tried to blackmail me into working for him.”
“How?” she asks.
“Sebastian was an asshole. I only realized it later. He’d put cameras in the staff room where I got changed. He threatened to leak the photos.”
“What happened?” she whispers.
I laugh gruffly. “He got a lesson in manners. The photos were deleted. I went on with my life and warned him never to contact me again, which he agreed to. And then I went from job to job before landing the gig in England. I never expected to be chosen for the TV show or for it to take off like it did.”
“What an evil man,” Danielle says darkly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
I sigh, shrugging. “The world’s full of evil men. Just look at the bastard who killed my parents. He was drunk when he hit our car. Of course, they were drunk too. But they died, and he got seven years in prison.”
“Where is he now?” Danielle asks.
“I have no idea,” I tell her. “And I don’t want to know.”
My voice grows fierce. Danielle sits up, thinking I’m going to snap, shout, or do something drastic.
“Why not?”
“I want to put it all behind me,” I tell her. “If I found him, what would I do? Maybe I’d lose my temper and do something I’d regret. Or maybe he’d goad me. Or maybe it would just bring all that pain back. The thing is, Danielle, sometimes you just have to let go, no matter how hard it is. Sometimes you can’t keep holding on.”
She swallows, causing her throat to shift.
“I’m not talking about us,” I growl, staring into her tear-wet eyes.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Good.”
Is it good, though? I want to ask. Or is this the worst thing we could possibly be doing?
“Are you excited about the restaurant launch?” she asks, moving the conversation along.
We talk about that for a while, the restaurant, and ways to market it. All the time, our hands remain clasped across the table.
We don’t want to let each other go.