“Double dates are a bit too high school for me, Bare.”

  “If you saw Kim and met her friend Cherokee, you’d eat those words. Hot chicks.” I shit you not, he draws an hourglass figure in the air with both hands.

  “I’ll pass. I’m beat.”

  “You’re not beat, friend,” Barrett says. “You’re whipped. By a Tennessee cutie you refuse to talk any more about.”

  The night I came home from vacation, Barrett and I drank a few beers. Those few beers loosened my lips and I ended up telling him about Becca. Never have I more regretted sharing so many details with anyone. I was exhausted from driving, heartbroken, and overwhelmed by the call from my realtor about this very bar. He caught me at a weak moment, and I spilled everything to him.

  “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” I ask him now.

  “You vacationing in the woods and falling apart over a long-legged beauty? Never.”

  “Have fun with Kim and Cherokee.” I grab a broom and sweep the remaining specks of sawdust into a pile.

  “Why don’t you call her? The Tennessee girl?”

  “I don’t have her number.”

  “The main office of the resort. The place she works. Come on, Dax. I’ve never known you to be shy about these sorts of things. You want the girl, go get her. It’s only been a few weeks.”

  He’s trying to goad me into calling her, but he doesn’t understand.

  Two weeks felt more like two months. The miles between us are nothing compared to the distance created when we kissed goodbye at cabin 7.

  “Sometimes, Bare”—I lean on the broom on the edge of the unfinished bar—“there’s no way to go back to what you once were. You and the ex-girlfriend. You know what I’m saying. You go back to her over and over and it doesn’t work. Why do you think that is?”

  “Probably because every time we split up, I date other women like my life depends on it. She hates that shit.”

  They didn’t call him “the bad boy of the NFL” for nothing. But he’s also full of it. Yes, he dates, but he’s not solely responsible for their horrible relationship. Beth has broken his heart a few times too. I’m not sure why he goes back to her when he knows they’re going to fall apart again. Hope springs eternal for some, I suppose.

  “I hear you,” he says. “Once bitten is enough. You want to leave it pure. The memory of her. But know this: you’re setting a high bar. Becca will be the unachievable goal all other women in your life will aspire to reach. You’re setting up a lot of honeys for heartbreak. Never knew you to be so cruel.”

  He’s wrong. The real reason is because, like an idiot, I fell in love with Becca on that mountain. And like an even bigger idiot, I turned and walked away without telling her. It took me two weeks to fall in, and I’d hoped it’d take two weeks to fall out.

  I’m not there yet.

  Maybe it’ll take twice that long. Maybe it’ll take ten times that long. I hope it doesn’t take longer than that.

  “Exactly right,” I say anyway. Telling him the truth would be social suicide. You’ve never seen this guy at a cocktail party. He’d skewer me like one of those weenies dipped in barbecue sauce.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come out with me tonight?” he asks one last time.

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand and walks out of my bar. I kill time for another hour, then head across town to McGreevy’s to check in.

  One of my managers, Grace, with her bright smile and brighter red hair, is behind the bar. She fakes like she’s having a heart attack when I stroll into the restaurant.

  “Is it really you?” She gapes. Her boyfriend—excuse me, fiancé—Davis chuckles at her reaction. He’s in his usual spot on the customer side of the bar. Those two are quite the mismatched set. Grace is tats and tight leather pants, and Davis is suit and tie. Mismatched, kind of like a former-jock bar owner and a plucky blonde who can’t show up anywhere on time.

  “I haven’t seen you since the day after your vacation,” Grace says. “I thought maybe North Street Bar was your new bae and you were giving McGreevy’s the shaft.”

  “I still need someone to run North Street, you know.” I already asked Grace if she’d like to manage her own place. She promptly and politely gave me a “no,” explaining that she loved McGreevy’s and her schedule.

  “Sorry.” She turns me down again. “I’m planning my wedding. I can’t run a bar right now.”

  Davis smiles and she grins at him. They’re gone for each other, and it works. Amazing. Why that shakes out well for some people and not for others will forever mystify me.

  McGreevy’s is winding down for the night. Only a few tables are full and, other than Davis, there are three patrons at the bar.

  Grace moves to cash out one of the barflies while I check the office. I can do the number crunching on my laptop at home, but on occasion Margo leaves me a note taped to the office computer’s keyboard. I keep asking her to text me or email me instead, but she’s old school and insists on Post-its.

  The second I unlock the door, the office phone rings. I grab it to save Grace the hassle. “McGreevy’s.”

  There’s a beat of silence, but I hear a short gasp of breath on the other end.

  “McGreevy’s. Hello?”

  “Dax.”

  My heart hits the bottom of my stomach the moment I recognize that soft voice.

  “Becca.”

  “Hi.” She laughs nervously. “So. There’s only one McGreevy’s in Columbus. I didn’t expect you to answer. I thought you were rarely there.”

  “I’m never here,” I agree. “You happened to catch me. I’ve been at my new place, fixing it up.”

  “You bought it?”

  “I bought it.”

  “That’s great. You’re probably so busy.”

  I have a premonition of doom like she’s dancing around bad news, but I can’t put my finger on what it might be.

  “Barrett’s still staying with me. He’s been helping with the remodel. It’s coming along.” Inviting her out to see it is on the tip of my tongue, but she called me. If she has news to deliver, I’m going to let her do it before I shove my size-twelve boot in my mouth. “How are you? How’s the menu coming along?”

  “Great! Better than I would’ve thought.”

  Snippets of our last night together pummel my brain mercilessly. Her breath in my ear. The stars above, shining bright in a dark navy sky. Tears streaming down her cheeks, and the bone-aching love we both felt in that moment. Improbable after two weeks together, but there nonetheless.

  It was real. And because I know how real it was, I know how fake this conversation is. How forced.

  We didn’t used to have to force it.

  “Princess.”

  She lets out a sigh of resistance.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m...leaving. Tennessee.” Her voice wavers, and the laugh that follows is more nervous than the last. “I’m going to move back to New York. I might go to culinary school. I have a friend of a friend who needs a roommate. She’s a sommelier at a really fancy restaurant and said she can get me a job there. I had a long talk with Tad, but he’d already figured out I was ready to leave. He said I didn’t seem happy here, and he’s right. I’m not happy.”

  I’m not happy either. I press my lips closed to keep words like “I miss you” and “What we had was real” from tumbling out. I press them tighter when I’m tempted to admit that I might still love her.

  No, fuck that. There’s no “might” about it. I do love her.

  I was in denial until I heard her voice. Now that I’m numbly holding the handset of the piece-of-shit desk phone to my ear, I know.

  I love her, dammit.

  And she’s leaving Tennessee yet again.

  “Is that what you want?” I finally ask. I should congratulate her, but I can’t get the word out.

  “Yes.” To her credit, she doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t say, “I think so” or “Maybe” or even “Yeah.” She says a clear, concise, absolute affirmative. Yes.

  “I wanted to call you before I left,” she says. “You were important, Dax.”

  Were. I caught the past tense.

  “I appreciate that,” I say, my chest caving in.

  “Hey, we’ll always have cabin thirteen. And cabin seven.” Her casual tone is false. There’s not a note of sincerity in it. I wonder if she’s as miserable as I am, but then figure she’s not. She’s the one who called me to tell me that she’s heading off to new horizons. She’ll have new experiences. New relationships.

  That sucks.

  A long, awkward pause precedes her asking, “Did you put the quesadilla on the menu?”

  “Yeah. Here, at McGreevy’s. It’s a big hit.” I debate telling her, then decide it doesn’t matter and tell her anyway. “I didn’t name it the Cabin Seven, though.”

  “No? What’d you call it?”

  I swallow hard and then say, “I call it the Princess.”

  “Oh.” The word is so quiet I almost miss it.

  Meanwhile, either I’m experiencing cardiac arrest or that cracking sound coming from my chest is my heart suffering an irreparable split. I’m not a total selfish bastard, so I say something supportive.

  “You’re going to do great things, Becca. You’re bigger than Grand Lark. Go get ’em.”

  I swear I hear her sniffle before she replies with an upbeat, “I’m so excited.”

  “You should be. You deserve an amazing life.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  Fuck, this hurts.

  “Bye, Dax.”

  It hurts too much for words. So much that I forgo the farewell and rest the handset on the cradle. I don’t sit on purpose—I lose the ability to hold myself up. Or, hell, maybe I’m tired from the long day.

  That’s what I tell myself.

  That’s what I’ll keep telling myself.

  For as long as it takes to get over Becca Stone.

  Chapter 28

  THE NEXT DAY

  Becca

  I’m facedown in the bathroom sink—a sink filled with ice water. The frigid water is burning my pores. I emerge, mouth open, and gasp for air.

  Lara, next to me, hands over a towel and then inspects my eyes after I pat the water from my face.

  “Definitely better. Nothing gets rid of the crying puffies from the night before like ice water. Maybe one more dunk?”

  “Forget it.” I shudder. “That’s my fourth dunk and I can’t feel my eyeballs.” I toss the towel into the hamper. “It doesn’t matter if everyone at work knows I’ve been crying. I’m leaving anyway.”

  A tear trickles from my itchy eyes, hot against my hypothermic cheek.

  “Becca.” My sister-in-law comes toward me in hug mode, her arms out. I grip her wrists to stop her.

  “Please. Don’t hug me. I’ll dissolve.” After I called Dax last night I felt three simultaneous emotions. Longing. Love. Regret.

  I messed up. I’m a ginormous chicken. I called not to tell him that I was fleeing to New York, but to ask if he’d reconsider my living in Ohio. Then he answered the phone and after only a few seconds, I could tell it’d never work. I felt the distance between us. He might as well have been on Mars.

  It wouldn’t have been fair to ask to intrude on his life. I bet he would’ve said yes. He lived with his mom for months to help her clean out her house and be there for her while she grieved her late husband—Dax’s father. Then he let Barrett move in, and I found out last night that he still lives there. Dax has a habit of putting what he wants on the back burner to make everyone around him comfortable. Why would I be any different?

  I can’t do that to him. I can’t ask him to put me first and ignore what he wants. He said I deserve great things—well, so does he, dammit.

  Realizing I’d lost him for good cut like a thousand razor blades. And when I said that final goodbye, I could tell it was final.

  “New York will be a great beginning for you.” Lara doesn’t hug me, but she’s unable to keep from stroking my arm in sympathy. “You never know, Bec. Maybe your true soulmate is in NYC. You could meet the man of your dreams. What’s meant to be will be. Right?”

  “Right.” I’m not sure I believe that, but I have to hold on to hope or I’ll curl into a ball and cry enough to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool, and honestly, who has the time?

  “Are the tears done completely? I’m not bothering to do your makeup until they’re dried up.”

  “Dry.” I sniff mightily and square my shoulders. “Mojave Desert over here. Waterproof mascara just in case, though.”

  “Oh, that was never not an option.”

  I sit on the closed toilet seat. While Lara applies my makeup, I busy my brain with recipes and ingredients. I mentally slice, dice, prepare, and plate them.

  Anything to avoid thinking of the phone call last night. To avoid thinking of Dax at all.

  THE DAY AFTER THAT

  “Here they are.” Tad strolls into the office and plunks down a small stack of printed menus. “All we have to do is slide ’em into plastic.”

  I lift a one-sided menu and run my fingers over the thick paper. Two of my recipes will be served in my brother’s restaurant. The achievement is nothing short of monumental.

  “I thought I was done crying yesterday,” I tell him, my voice watery. “I’m leaving you high and dry after I promised I wouldn’t! I’m a horrible sister. The worst.”

  “Bec. We talked about this.” He sits in his usual spot at the corner of the desk. “Your food isn’t good. It’s beyond. You’re wasting your talents serving this sort of high-end fare to people with pedestrian palates. Like me.” His smile is one of good humor.

  I return it with a weak one of my own.

  “I want you to be happy. I can’t pin this on you. This is my business. My responsibility. Plus, Dominic about shit himself when I asked if he’d like more responsibility and more money.”

  “Thanks for that visual.”

  “Hey, I’m the lucky one who will profit off your amazing creations. Those fried cheese nacho thingies?” He mimes a chef’s kiss, making an okay symbol with his fingers and kissing the air. “Superb.”

  My smile is real for a change. Lately real smiles have been few and far between. “Thank you, Tad. For everything.”

  “Don’t act like you’re not coming back to visit. You will. Your old room will now be our guest room. Limited time, though. Lara and I have restarted our baby-making endeavors.”

  “Eww.” I make a disgusted face, but he knows I’m kidding. Tad and Lara make beautiful babies. And if they give me another niece or nephew, I’ll be overjoyed.

  “What time do I need to have you to the airport tomorrow?” he asks.

  “No, no. I can’t ask you to do that. I can take an Uber. It’s not a big deal.”

  I’m flying in for an interview at the restaurant in New York and taking a few suitcases to my new shared apartment. I’m scheduled to fly back a day later, when I’ll rent a U-Haul and hook it to the back of my Toyota and take the rest. I can’t believe it. Back to the city. I blink, but my eyes are too dry to cry any more tears.

  “It is a big deal,” Tad argues. “My baby sister is chasing her dreams. Again.”

  I sock him in the arm for the dig, but follow it by standing from my chair and embracing him in a huge hug.

  “I’m sorry things didn’t work out like you wanted, Bec.” He rubs my back gently, and I learn that there are more tears. Fabulous.

  “You didn’t like him anyway.” I pull away and swipe the hollows of my eyes, trying like hell to hold myself together.

  “I like him less now. He broke my baby sister’s unbreakable heart.” Tad gives my shoulders a squeeze. “I’d better go back out there. Dom is behind the bar, but Anna called in. We don’t have a server today.”

  “I can help.”

  “We’re okay for the moment, but I may need you to run food. I’ll let you know. Since the mountain’s full, we could have a dinner rush.” He strolls out of the office and I set aside the menu I helped create.

  Two hours later, I take a break from incoming bookings and cancellations to stretch my arms overhead.

  “Need you, Bec.” Tad sticks his head in the doorway.

  “Are we full?”

  “Filling quickly. Can you help bring food from the kitchen?”

  “On it.” I steal a drink from my largely ignored water bottle and lock the office door behind me and then hustle to the kitchen to find that Steve, the line cook, and Eric, on cold side, are buried. Baskets of food with tickets resting on top line the shelf as they race to fill more orders.

  I make quick work of delivering basket after basket to the dining room. The restaurant isn’t quite full, but close. After three trips, I’ve nearly relieved the kitchen, so I head back for more.

  “Bec, can you take this special order to table seven for me?” Tad, who is on the other side of the line next to Steve, pushes a basket into the window in front of the others.

  “Sure.” In get-er-done mode, I take the basket, my mind on autopilot as I speed-walk to table 7. I stop short when I spot the hulking figure sitting at the table.

  Table 7.

  He’s rugged. Even from behind, he has a presence. His jeans are ragged at the bottoms and he’s wearing a pair of motorcycle boots with buckles on the sides.

  I’m standing behind him, frozen in shock, when a guest behind me calls out, “Miss?” That’s when the guy at table 7 turns his head.

  He has a strong nose below a strong brow matching his firm jaw.

  Lips that I’ve kissed over and over tip into half a smile as his eyes go to the basket. I take my first real look at the food nestled in the red-and-white checkered basket liner to find a quesadilla alongside a pile of fries.

  “Looks like a chicken and cheese quesadilla.” I clear my throat and set the basket in front of Dax. “Interesting choice.”

  “You didn’t have one on the menu, so I made a special request,” he says. “I have this at my bar. I call it the Princess.”