She’s wearing a white, knitted sweater paired with faded denims. It’s a simple outfit, and yet it hugs her slim figure so well that I find it hard to take my eyes off it. Or her.

  Who am I kidding? She could be wearing a chunky, ugly Christmas sweater and I’d still find her attractive.

  “Hey.” She gives me a smile as she stands up. “I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble by coming here.”

  “No trouble at all,” I tell her. “But you could have just called if you needed anything.”

  “Yes, I could have.” She takes out a box from her purse. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to give you this.”

  I look at the box. “You baked me cookies?”

  “Not me.” Claire shakes her head. “I don’t bake.”

  My eyebrows furrow. “You’re a chef, right?”

  “I know how to make pastry. I just don’t.”

  Come to think of it, I’ve never seen her post a picture of a cake.

  “Okay. So…” I look at the box of cookies again. “You… bought these?”

  “Natalie baked them. I brought them. I thought you might want to taste them. Also, she baked a ton and I can’t finish them all by myself.”

  Now I understand.

  “I see.”

  “In exchange, you can treat me to lunch,” Claire says.

  I’m confused again. “I thought you said Natalie made the cookies.”

  “But I wrapped them up and brought them to you,” she tells me with a grin.

  I still don’t think that warrants a free lunch.

  “Plus you didn’t buy me a drink at the bar when we first met,” she adds. “I mean when we met after I got back in town.”

  True.

  “And you’ve got a lot of money.”

  Also true.

  “Fine,” I give in. “I’ll treat you to lunch. And while we’re at it, we can start planning for Joel and Natalie’s wedding shower.”

  Claire nods. “Yeah, sure.”

  She grabs her coat.

  “By the way, I’m in the mood for something Korean.”

  ~

  In all my thirty years, I’ve never eaten at a Korean restaurant. I’ve never had Korean food. Yet here I am eating bibimbap while Claire is having a soup with dumplings, very spicy from the looks of it, though she doesn’t seem to mind.

  I don’t mind my food, either. It tastes good, actually. Not too spicy. Lots of flavor. There’s a lot of texture in it, too. I’m not a chef but I’d say it’s a noteworthy dish.

  “You like it?” Claire asks me as she dabs the corner of her mouth with a table napkin.

  I nod. “It’s good.”

  “Good.” She gives me a big smile. “I was a little worried that you…”

  The rest of her sentence gets garbled as I get distracted by the green between her teeth. A bit of green onion, I think. Should I tell her about it?

  “Anyway, thank you for granting my request. I…”

  She stops as she catches me staring. Shit.

  “Is something wrong?”

  I should tell her. It’s the right thing to do.

  I lean forward so I can whisper close to her ear. “You, um, have something between your teeth.”

  “Oh.”

  She turns away from me as she tries to fix the problem. Then she gives me another smile, this time without the green onion.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I tell her.

  Claire picks up her chopsticks. “I’d be embarrassed but you’ve seen me worse.”

  True. So why am I acting like we’re strangers on a first date?

  I relax my shoulders. “So, since when have you liked Korean food?”

  “Ever since I went to Korea,” Claire answers. “I’m like that. I go to a place. I eat their food. I learn more about it. And I just fall in love with it. And that relationship goes on even after I’ve left that place.”

  “Wow. So you’ve been… dating cuisines all this time?”

  “Exactly. And I don’t have a favorite one. I love all of them. It just so happens that I’m in the mood for some Korean today.”

  “Hmm. I hope the others don’t get offended.”

  “You mean jealous?” She shakes her head. “Nah. They’re cool. Our relationship is very solid. They know I’m committed and they’re never going to break up with me. They can’t. They love me.”

  I’m curious to know if she thought the same of the men she dated, and how many there were, but I don’t want to pry.

  “So, apart from having relationships with cuisines, what else have you been up to?” I ask instead.

  “Nothing much,” Claire answers. “My life’s been mostly about food. I dropped out of college. I went to Greece with a friend of mine for the summer and I didn’t come back.”

  I nod. “I remember Joel was pissed about that.”

  She shrugs. “Like I said, I fell in love.”

  With the friend or with the country? I wonder.

  “And then from there, I just traveled throughout Europe, learning all about food.”

  “Did you go to any culinary schools?” I ask.

  “I took a few lessons, but mostly I learned in kitchens. Real kitchens.”

  “Including the one at that famous restaurant in Venice.”

  Claire straightens her shoulders as she gives me a grin. “Wow. I didn’t realize you were following my career.”

  I don’t respond to that.

  “Is it true that you cooked for royalty?” I ask her.

  “Yes,” she answers. “When I was in Sweden, I was working under a chef who was asked to prepare a feast for the children of the royal family. They happened to love the meatballs I made.”

  “And that bit about you being offered an entire restaurant in Melbourne?” I ask next.

  Claire gives me a puzzled look. “Joel told you about that?”

  “He did,” I admit. “I think he wanted you to accept it.”

  “I know he did. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be tied down to any restaurant. So I left and I kept traveling. I went around Africa and Asia, realized there were so many people going hungry, so I cooked for them. I started teaching people how to cook, how to make the most of the local ingredients. I even helped a family put up a restaurant from scratch.”

  I give her a look of admiration. “Wow.”

  “That’s what I mostly do now—teach people to cook,” Claire tells me. “In fact, I’m going to give cooking lessons at a local school while I’m here.”

  My eyebrows arch. “Really?”

  And here I thought she was taking a vacation.

  “You seem to have been leading a very busy life.”

  Busier than mine, in fact.

  “What about you?” Claire asks me. “What have you been up to apart from working for your father’s company?”

  Good question. I can’t seem to think of an answer. Have I been up to anything apart from working for the family company in the past few years?

  “Is he still working? Your father?” Claire prompts.

  “No,” I say. “Ethan is running the company now.”

  “Oh. And you’re okay with that? I mean, you didn’t want to be the one to run it?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So what’s your position now?”

  “VP of Acquisitions.”

  Claire’s eyebrows go up. “That sounds important.”

  “It’s one of the top positions in the company,” I tell her.

  “But VP, that means Vice President, right? So it’s second from the top?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s the highest you can go?”

  I don’t answer, because I can sense that Claire is asking something else.

  “That’s the position you’ll be holding for the rest of your life? The position you want to hold?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

  “And you’re not answering,” she points out.

  And she’s not going to stop pestering me until I give her an answer. I sigh.

  “I’m not going to be working for the rest of my life.”

  “But you’ll be working until you’re sixty? As VP of Acquisitions?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  Claire’s eyebrows furrow. “You guess?”

  Is that… disappointment I hear in her voice? What the hell?

  “What do you care?” I ask her before taking a sip from my glass of water. “The last time we spoke, you barely wanted anything to do with me. Now you want to know my plans for my whole life?”

  “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  “No. You’re prying.”

  “I…”

  “And you have no right to, because you’re not my best friend. In fact, we’re not even friends.”

  Claire’s jaw drops.

  I get out of my seat, grab my coat and leave a fifty-dollar bill on the table.

  “I have to get back to work.”

  Without saying another word or waiting to hear one from Claire, I walk away from the table and head out of the restaurant.

  Chapter Five

  Claire

  Stupid Ryker.

  Thanks to him, I’m in a foul mood on New Year’s Eve, sulking by the window while my friends are dancing in the living room. Like it wasn’t bad enough that I was pining for him on Christmas Eve.

  I know he’s not a jerk, so why does he have to act like a jerk towards me? I don’t even know why he’s mad. All I did was ask him a few questions. I answered all of his questions, too.

  I roll my eyes at the moonlit sky and mutter under my breath. “Jerk.”

  “Hey.” Christy stands next to me. “Are you sure you don’t want to dance?”

  She bumps her shoulder against mine but I don’t budge.

  “I’m not really in the mood.”

  “Oh, come on.” She wraps her arm around mine. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Do you really want to welcome the new year looking like you’re knee-deep in shit?”

  I look at her. Is that how I look?

  “Just forget about him, okay? That’s what New Year’s is about—forgetting the hurt, the people who took us for granted, the mistakes and just celebrating the good things and resolving to have more of them.”

  I say nothing. She’s right, I think, but unfortunately, forgetting is something more easily said than done.

  “Please?”

  Christy tugs at my arm as she sticks out her upper lip and gives me puppy dog eyes. Her ace move. As usual, it works.

  “Fine.” I get off the windowsill.

  Christy grins as she pulls me into the middle of the living room. Then she lets me go so she can increase the volume of the speakers. I start to dance. At first I’m just moving my feet, nodding my head and clapping my hands, mostly for Christy’s sake. But the more I dance, the more I realize she’s right.

  A new year is coming. New opportunities. New adventures. There’s a whole new blank page waiting for me to write on, and I can’t start with a lousy first line full of pain and fear and regret. So I’m going to cast all that aside.

  This year, everything is going to be even better. In fact, it’s going to be my best year yet.

  With that resolution in mind, I move more freely, losing myself to the music. Now, I’m dancing for me, for the year I had and for the amazing year I’m going to have.

  Christy gives me a smile of approval. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

  We dance until midnight, until the fireworks start exploding and the horns start blowing and someone pops the bottle of champagne. The two couples in the room kiss. As for us, we just place our arms around each other’s shoulders and drink.

  In the midst of all the celebration, I get a message on my phone. I don’t hear the beep because of all the noise, but I notice the screen lighting up. Christy does, too.

  “You have a message,” she says.

  I grab my phone. As soon as I see the name on the screen, my heart stops.

  Ryker.

  It seems he just wished me a happy new year.

  “Would you look at that?” Christy grins. “It’s barely three minutes into the new year and things are turning around already.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I tell her, even though I’m almost grinning myself.

  I need to calm down. It’s just a New Year’s greeting. For all I know, he could have sent it to everyone on his contacts list. Or he might have sent it to me by mistake. Either way, it’s just a greeting. No reason to get excited.

  So stop beating so fast, my stupid heart.

  Then another message comes in, also from Ryker. This time, it contains two words.

  I’m sorry.

  My breath catches. Okay, so that’s not something he could have sent to everyone, or by mistake. In fact, I can almost hear him saying it to me. Sincerely.

  “Aren’t you going to reply?” Christy asks me.

  I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. Should I forgive him just because he said sorry? Just because it’s New Year?

  “At least say ‘Happy New Year’ back,” Christy tells me.

  So I do that. A few seconds after, he sends me another message.

  Are you free this afternoon? I was thinking we could play paintball. I know the owner of a place and we can have it all to ourselves. Also, I’ll let you hit me the first few times.

  This time, I grin.

  “It seems like he’s really sorry,” Christy says.

  I glance over my shoulder. “Why are you reading my messages?”

  “Because they’re exciting.”

  I shake my head but don’t push her away.

  “So, what are you going to say?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  I have nothing against paintball. In fact, I’ve played it a few times before, and I liked it each time, even when I didn’t win. What I’m worried about? Spending time with Ryker. I want to, but should I? I thought New Year’s was about leaving your mistakes in the past and moving on, doing better. Wasn’t I supposed to forget about Ryker?

  “Say yes,” Christy urges me.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re a drunk.”

  “And you’re a fool if you’re going to let this opportunity pass you by.”

  My eyebrows furrow. “I thought you said I should forget about him.”

  “That was before he apologized and asked you out on a date.”

  “So I’m just supposed to forgive him and go out with him? What happened to New Year’s being about moving on?”

  “Giving people a second chance is part of moving on,” Christy tells me. “It’s a fresh start. Take it.”

  I stare at my phone. Well, I guess New Year’s is about new beginnings.

  “Fine,” I say before starting to type. “I don’t want you giving me any more puppy dog eyes.”

  She chuckles.

  At first, I type sure. Too eager. I change that to OK. Too nonchalant. I scrap that and type a new message.

  We could. Pick me up at 2?

  Then I send that before I have time to second-guess it.

  He replies almost immediately.

  “Two it is,” Christy reads the message out loud. Then she gives me a hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

  And I realize I’m happy, too. Maybe this is a fresh start.

  I pick up my glass of champagne and raise it. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers!” Christy echoes as she raises her own glass.

  After our glasses clink in the air, I lift mine to my lips. I intend to gulp down every drop, but after my first sip, Christy takes the glass away from me.

  “No more drinking,” she says as she sets the glass down and waves a finger at me. “You have a date later, remember?”

  ~

  A date. With Ryker.

  Even now that I’m on it, it still seems so unreal.

  As I run around the warehouse dressed like a surgeon with a paint gun in hand, everything seems in slow motion and yet a blur at the same time. I can’t wipe the smile off my face, not even when a big blob of lime green paint hits the side of my neck and splatters up to my chin. Adrenaline buzzes through my veins, not just from the game but from the very thought of being all alone with Ryker in a big warehouse.

  So this is what a real date with Ryker is like. Unbelievable.

  He’s unbelievable. He’s fast. He’s agile. He shoots so well. If I didn’t know he was a corporate executive, I would have thought he was a Marine.

  And he looks damn attractive. Even now, with his hair all ruffled from being imprisoned underneath a helmet and with blobs of paint all over his silly gown, I still want to kiss him.

  Maybe I will after I give him a piece of my mind.

  “Liar,” I tell him as I take off my helmet. “You said you were going to let me win.”

  Ryker walks towards me. “I said I was going to let you hit me a few times at the start, which I did. I never said anything about letting you win.”

  “And you couldn’t have toned your skills down a little?”

  He chuckles. “I guess I was showing off.”

  Charming. But I’m not going to let him off easy.

  “Well, you were supposed to be making things up to me,” I tell him.

  “Oh.” Ryker’s grin vanishes. “I was supposed to lose so you’d forgive me?”

  I shake my head. “Never mind.”

  I sit on the floor, put my gun down beside me and rest my head on a bean bag that looks like a barrel. Now that the game is over and some of the adrenaline is starting to fade, I realize I’m tired. My arms are sore from carrying the gun. My feet hurt from running around, my legs ache from all the crouching. Add to all that the fact that I only got a few hours of sleep this morning—I tried to sleep longer but I was too excited—and I can safely say I’m exhausted.

  Ryker sits beside me. “We can play another game, you know. I promise I’ll let you win this time.”

  “No, thanks.” I shake my head. “I don’t think I can move for a while.”

  He sinks his head into the bean bag. “Does that mean I’m forgiven, then?”

  Is he?

  I touch my chin. “Hmm. Let me think.”