“This is my home,” she whispers, peeking up at me under a thick set of bangs that weren’t there the last time I saw her. I shouldn’t be surprised. Deep down I knew she wouldn’t stay the same, but I can’t help but wonder what else about her has changed. Are Calla lilies still her favorite flower? Does she still eat triple fudge ice cream and French fries when she’s sad? Where has she been? Where does she work? Does she still love fried pickles and deep-dish pizza? Does she ever think about me?

  Laney was my world, and as I stare at her for the first time in eight years, the pull to be near her and touch her is stronger than I ever remember it. But it doesn’t seem to matter what I’m feeling, because the memory of her walking away from me—from us—is still very vivid in my mind.

  “No.” I shake my head, brow furrowed. “Your home is in California. If this was your home, it wouldn’t have taken you eight years to come back.” She flinches. Her eyes dart frantically around the parking lot before she squares her shoulders and holds up her hand.

  “Could you help me up?”

  “No,” I answer quickly, astonished that she would even ask. There’s no way I can touch her. I’ve worked too damn hard to purge her from my system, and I’m terrified that one touch of her silky skin is all it would take to erase the past eight years. My gaze drifts to her hand. If I close my eyes, I’m certain I could still feel the way the pads of her fingers used to roam across my chest, trail down my abs, grab onto my c—

  Fuck no. I push away the memory before I actually let it in and look at her with a cool indifference.

  She watches me carefully for several seconds before slowly lowering her hand back to her lap. “I should’ve never left,” she whispers. And there it is. The icing on the fucking cake. Her words slam into me at full force and I run my hand through my hair, gripping it tight.

  “But you did,” I growl, hating that Laney’s been back in my life for all of two minutes and she’s already got me worked up like this. She bites her lip, her eyes shimmering.

  “Worst mistake I ever made,” she says with conviction. Fucking hell, I don’t want to hear this shit now. This woman walked away without a second fucking glance, and then a couple of weeks after that, she ripped my heart out again. As if the first time wasn’t enough. So yeah, eight years ago I would have welcomed those words . . . but not now.

  “Fuck!” My hands fist at my side. “What the hell do I say to that, Laney?” The look of regret and guilt written across her face is almost my undoing. “You walked away from me, remember?” My voice, along with my blood pressure, is rising with each word as I stab a finger into my chest. “You’re the one who left me.”

  Her eyes stay locked on mine. I have absolutely no idea what’s going through that pretty little head of hers and it’s driving me insane.

  “You gave me an ultimatum, Levi. I realize that I made more than my fair share of mistakes and I’m adult enough to admit that, but it wasn’t just me who was wrong. You forced my hand. You forced me to choose between you and my future—”

  “Don’t you get it?” I yell. “I was your future, Laney. Me!” My chest is heaving and my hands are shaking. Adrenaline is running rampant through my veins and suddenly I feel exhausted. I don’t want to do this. This isn’t me. I haven’t lost my temper since that night eight years ago. Only Laney seems to bring this out in me. Well, not tonight.

  “Listen”—I take a deep breath and lace my fingers above my head—“I wasn’t prepared to see you tonight and I’m not ready to hash things out with you.” Laney bites on the inside of her mouth, and just when I think she might very well burst into tears, a look of understanding slides across her face. She pushes up from the ground and it takes every last ounce of strength I have to keep from reaching out to help her up. She rubs her palms along the sides of her shorts and a bright red streak appears on the faded material.

  “You’re bleeding,” I breathe, moving toward her. She lifts her hand, absently examining it.

  “Huh. I guess I am.” She shrugs her shoulders as if it’s no big deal.

  “Come on.” I tug on her elbow then release her almost instantly when I realize my hand is touching her skin. She doesn’t say anything, just looks down with a saddened gaze. “I have a first-aid kit in my office. Let’s clean that up.” Surprisingly, she doesn’t fight me, instead choosing to follow behind quietly as I push the door open and weave my way through the back of the restaurant toward my office. I lead her into the adjoining bathroom where she props her hip against the sink while I make quick work of finding the peroxide, antibiotic cream, and Band-Aids. I concentrate on my breathing—in and out—and my rage from a few moments ago gradually fades.

  “Where’s Dan?” Her words roll casually off of her tongue—too casually. Something doesn’t sit right with me. Has she talked to my father?

  “He’s finally stepping back. He’s getting too old to do this anyway.” She nods. I lay everything out on the sink and keep talking. Why, I have no idea. “Mason was supposed to take over Flame since I’m running Blue, but with all of the changes we’ve had going on, we’ve both been stretched a bit thin.”

  “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?”

  “Yeah?” What else could she fucking want?

  “You look fantastic. It was really great seeing you.” I nod, unable to form words because, well, I don’t really know what to say. “I’m not with anyone. Not married. No kids. Just thought I’d make that clear up front . . . you know, in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.” I so was.

  “Are you . . . married?” I can see it on her face. My answer matters. As much as I want to lie and say yes, I can’t.

  I shake my head slowly. She smiles, seemingly pleased with my response, then walks out the door, shutting it quietly behind her. I bury my face in my hands.

  What the fuck did I just do?

  “CRAP. THIS IS GOING to hurt.” I cringe when the buzzing noise starts up, even though it’s not even directed toward me.

  “Like a bitch. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.” I glare at Mia but she just laughs. “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” she squeals. “Well, I can believe I’m doing this, but not you.” She was so excited when I told her I made plans to cross off my first bucket list item. Mia already has a few tattoos, but I don’t have any and that’s about to change. Soon, I will be inked.

  “Why not me?” I scoff.

  “Seriously? Do you have to ask?”

  “No,” I concede, hating that I’m so damn predictable. I don’t want to be predictable. “Mike?” I whisper, not wanting Mia to hear me.

  “Yup?”

  “I don’t want a pink ribbon.” Ohmigod. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  “Sweetheart, I’ll do whatever you want, but you need to decide now.” And I do . . . I make a split-second decision.

  “Can I have a piece of paper?” He hands me a notepad and pen. I quickly write down what I want it to say and hand it back. Mike looks at it for several seconds, grabs the pen and starts drawing on the paper. He flips it around and I smile. “It’s perfect.” I look up at him and nod. “Let’s do that.”

  “Are you sure?” he confirms. “It’s permanent. Once it’s there . . . it’s there.”

  “I’ve only got one life, Mike.” My voice is laced with conviction. His warm brown eyes smile down at me and he nods.

  “Give me a few minutes to get this ready.” He walks away and I’m left staring at Mia. She’s lying on her stomach, her eyes closed. Her shorts are pushed low on her hip, and I watch in awe as the needle penetrates her skin several times before the blood is wiped away.

  “Does it hurt?” Mia opens her eyes and surprisingly, she looks sleepy.

  She shrugs. “Nothing compared to what you’ve been through.” Her eyes flick over to the empty seat next to my table and then back at me. “What’s going on?”

  I smile, content with my decision. “I changed my mind.”

  Her eyes widen. “No pink ribbon or no tattoo?” she asks.

  “No pink ribbon.”

  “What are you getting?” She won’t judge me, but for some reason I’m not ready to tell her. Right now, I’m content just knowing that I’m stepping out of my box—in a big way.

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” I tease, knowing it’ll tick her off.

  “Bitch,” she huffs, eliciting a laugh from the tatted-up man at her side.

  “Okay, Laney. Are you ready?” Mike slides his chair next to my reclined seat and sits down. I watch as he opens a couple of sealed packages.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Crap. What did I do? I can’t believe I got a freaking tattoo. And holy hell, did it hurt.

  Standing in front of my mirror, I strip out of my shirt, lift my right arm and slowly peel back the thick white bandage along the side of my torso. My tattoo sits off to the side of where my breast should be and is easily covered up when my arm hangs down at my side. Mike told me to leave it covered for four to six hours and it’s been five, so I think I’m good. With the aftercare instructions in front of me, I methodically perform each step, since the last thing I need right now is an infection of some sort.

  I slip on a clean shirt and walk back to my bedroom. Mia is sitting on my bed, looking through one of my old photo albums. “Are you going to show me?” she asks, not bothering to look up.

  I had every intention of showing her. I should show her, but for some reason I don’t want to. I can’t explain it, but it’s like I have this secret that nobody else knows about. It’s my little secret. My little slice of heaven in a word, and I don’t think I’m ready to share it with anyone yet.

  “Will you be mad if I don’t?” I ask, walking over to my closet and pulling a pair of black pants off the hanger. I slip my jeans off, shimmy into the slacks and sit down on the bed next to her. Only when the bed dips under my weight does she shut the album and look at me.

  “Do you regret it?”

  “The tattoo?”

  “No. The piercing.” She rolls her eyes and shoves me playfully.

  “No,” I reply, surprised at how easily I answered. Because I don’t regret it. This tattoo is special to me in a way that no one else could possibly understand.

  “Then, no. If you don’t regret it, I won’t be mad.” She shrugs her shoulder and smiles. “I’m just really proud of you.” And I know she is, I can see it in her eyes.