This is how I deal with things. I cook, or bake, it doesn’t really matter which as long as it involves me in a kitchen. And after the day I’ve had, I needed a big kitchen in a big way and mine at home wasn’t going to cut it. I spent nearly the entire afternoon at the treatment center with my doctor and a few dozen nurses, who instructed, poked, prodded and hauled me from room to room until they were certain I had every piece of knowledge I needed to proceed with my treatments. Dr. Hopkins was nice but overly cheery, and there were several times that I wanted to slap the smile right off of her face. Didn’t she know what I was going through? Didn’t she understand the storm that was raging inside of me while she spoke of labs, scans, tests, appointments, side effects and every other medical thing she could throw in there? Shouldn’t she have known that while she was talking about tissue, staging, blood cells, and hair loss, I was thinking about one thing and one thing only?

  Surviving.

  “Laney, I’ve spoken to your oncologist and your surgeon from California. I know that they’ve both talked with you in great detail about your diagnosis and the treatment plan that would ensue after your mastectomy, but I just want to start by recapping so that you and I are both on the same page.”

  Dr. Hopkins is sitting in front of me with a file, which I assume is mine. It’s thick, and when she flips it open I see the words written in bold lettering at the top of the page.

  Name: Laney Jacobs

  Diagnosis: Stage III Invasive Ductal Carcinoma

  My eyes linger on the page, but I’m not reading anything. There isn’t anything in that file that I haven’t already been told, and it all really boils down to one thing.

  I have breast cancer.

  There was—or is, who the hell knows—a disease growing inside of me . . . killing me.

  “Laney?” A gentle hand touches my knee and I look up to find Dr. Hopkins watching me. “Are you okay?”

  That’s a stupid question. No, I’m not okay. I had my breast removed, for crying out loud, and now I’m about to have some extremely toxic chemicals pumped through my body for the next several months in case there are any ‘bad cells’ left floating around. So no, I’m not okay. “Yes, doctor. Sorry, please keep going.” Luke wraps his hand around mine and squeezes it gently. I squeeze back, thankful that I’m not doing this alone.

  She nods with a knowing smile. We spend the next hour reviewing my diagnosis, surgery, and upcoming treatment plans. “So if it’s okay with you, Laney, I would really like to get started as soon as possible. You’re six weeks post-op, and the sooner we can start your chemotherapy, the better.”

  I look at Luke, though I’m not sure why exactly—it’s not like he really has a say in this. But his soft smile is all the reassurance I need. “I’m ready to get this started,” I answer with false bravado.

  “When can she start?” Luke asks. He scoots forward in his chair—as if it will help him hear her better—but his hand stays locked in mine.

  “Well,” she says, looking at me with a hopeful smile. “We’re going to draw your blood here today, so as long as all of your blood levels look good, we can start tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I pull my arm away, my fingers sliding from Luke’s tight grip, and I run a shaky hand across my head. “I . . . I wasn’t expecting it so soon.” I’d thought maybe she’d say next week, or the week after that, to give me time to adjust and process everything. But isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing the past several weeks?

  Dr. Hopkins must notice my hesitation because she scoots her stool closer to me. I hold up my hand, signaling her to give me a minute. Her eyes are soft and understanding. “I know this is hard, Laney, but it’s necessary.” I nod. “If you need the weekend to prepare yourself, we can start on Monday. It’s your call.”

  She’s right. I need to get this over with. I need to make sure this horrible disease is gone for good so I can get back to my life.

  “Tomorrow is perfect.” My voice hitches, and I try for a smile but fail miserably. Luke wraps his arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear.

  “I’m here with you every step. Got it? Every. Single. Step.” I nod again, because apparently that’s all someone can do in this situation, and then wipe away a tear that slips from my eye.

  “Great.” Dr. Hopkins stands up, shaking first my hand and then Luke’s. “Sit tight for a minute. One of the nurses is going to come in and give you information about the treatments and talk to you about side effects and what to expect.”

  A loud beep pulls me from a fog and I look down to see that my whisk is sitting in a chocolaty batter. Honestly, I have no idea how I even got to this point. It’s sort of like arriving at a destination and then realizing that you don’t remember actually driving there.

  Another timer goes off and I walk to the stove, slip on an oven mitt and pull out the pan, loving the way the sweet cinnamon smell fills the kitchen. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, allowing my body to savor the familiar scent—a scent that may very well become foreign to me in the near future.

  “You must be Laney.” A short, plump woman pushes her way into the room and extends her hand. Yes, another formality that I’m just not in the mood for. I shake her hand nonetheless, and she sits on a rolling stool and opens up a folder. “My name is Tara and I’m one of the nurses in the oncology unit so you’ll probably be seeing a lot of me.” She flashes me a quick smile, but her attempt at making me smile falls flat. “Okay, this folder is for you. You get to take it home and you’ll want to comb through it and read everything thoroughly, but right now I’m going to hit on some of the important stuff.” She hands me the first paper. My eyes slide across the page and my heart stops momentarily before slamming violently into my rib cage.

  SIDE EFFECTS OF CHEMOTHERAPY

  I suck in a deep breath as my eyes travel over the words, one by one, each word crashing into me like a freight train, each one affecting me a little bit differently.

  Nausea . . . vomiting . . . diarrhea . . . constipation . . . bruising . . . bleeding . . . fatigue . . . loss of appetite . . . loss of smell or taste . . . loss of hair.

  Each word is a knife to the gut, but the last three feel like someone takes that knife, jabs it in as far as it could possibly go and then twists it until every last bit of my insides are shredded into tiny little pieces.

  I am a woman, and there are two things that help distinguish me as such—my hair and my breasts. A giant lump forms in my throat and my bottom lip starts to tremble. My hand slides across my lap and into Luke’s, whose tight grip is probably the only thing holding me together right now. It’s bad enough I’ve already lost one breast and that in the place of my once perky, plump tissue I have a jagged scar over sunken flesh. But now, on top of that, I’m going to lose my hair. I don’t want to lose my hair, I don’t want to wear a wig, and I certainly don’t want the looks of pity that a bald head will undoubtedly draw.

  Luke nudges my arm and I look up as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. He nods to Tara and I shift my attention, but the fear of everything that is about to happen to me has my blood pumping so hard through my body that it’s now pounding behind my ears. The only thing I seem to hear is the beat of my own heart, and I suppose I should at least be thankful I can hear that . . . it means I’m still alive. I watch Tara absently, and I’m able to decipher a few things she says.

  “Your treatments will be every other Friday for six months . . . Treatments will take approximately four to five hours . . . You’ll get your blood drawn before each round of chemo . . . We’ll give you medicine in case the nausea and vomiting get to be too much . . . Make sure you’re eating healthy . . . Be sure and drink lots of water . . . Feel free to bring someone with you during your treatments . . . Don’t hesitate to ask any questions.” My eyes clog with tears and I look down, rubbing my temples, willing myself to calm down.

  “Laney? Laney . . . are you okay?”

  A large hand settles on my shoulder and I whip around to find myself face to face with Levi. He steps back, his hands up in the air. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I look at the knife in my hand and then back up at him. “Are you okay?” he questions.

  I lower the knife and mumble an apology before turning back toward the counter. What was I doing? Oh yes, the dough. I finish cutting the rolled-out dough into three-inch chunks, and then I check the oil to make sure it’s warmed up to the right temperature before I drop the chunks into the sizzling pot. I turn back toward Levi and find him standing in the exact same spot as before.

  “I’m fine,” I shrug. “Why would you think I wouldn’t be okay?” I ask as nonchalantly as I possibly can. He eyes me curiously for several seconds.

  “Well, for starters, you’re crying.” I rub my arm across my face and sure enough . . . tears. The strange thing is that I don’t even remember crying. Levi chuckles, but I’m not really sure what he’s finding funny about the situation.

  “What? What are you laughing at?”

  He shakes his head and steps toward me. I watch as he slowly lifts his hand and wipes it gently across my cheek. “You just smeared flour all over your face.” His hand leaves a trail of heat against my skin and when he pulls back, a part of me wants to grab his arm and insist that he keep touching me. But that might be a little much.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, still breathless from his touch. “I’ve just had a really bad day.” His blue eyes are staring tenderly into mine, and I want nothing more than for him to tuck me against his big warm chest and hold me and promise that everything is going to be okay. “Like really, really bad.”

  A part of me wants so badly for him to ask me what’s wrong. And not just so I have someone to talk to about it, but so that I have him to talk to about it. Logically, I know he isn’t there yet. He isn’t quite ready to make amends, and until he’s ready to make amends, he isn’t ready to learn about my diagnosis.

  “Is that why my kitchen looks like a tornado went through it?” he asks, looking around the room. I nod coyly and he smiles in return. “Glad to know that hasn’t changed.”

  Cocking my head, I ask, “What do you mean?”

  “You,” he says, waving his hand in my direction. “Anytime you were upset—about anything—you wanted to be in the kitchen. It didn’t matter what it was, and it didn’t matter what you were making, you had to be in here.”

  I slide my hands down the front of my apron. “Well, you’re right. That hasn’t changed.” We stand there staring at each other, and I can’t help but wonder what all hasn’t changed with him. In the past, when Levi was upset, he liked to be with me, and it didn’t matter what we did as long as we were together. I wonder what he does now when he’s upset.

  “What are you making?” He halts our trip down memory lane and strides over to the pot that’s sizzling and popping on the stove.

  I follow him, noticing that he doesn’t look quite as rumpled today as he did the other day. “You look better today,” I say, the words just falling from my mouth.

  “Did I look bad the other day?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “No, you just looked stressed.”

  “Mason and I have had some things going on with the business,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s not a big deal.

  “Careful. It’ll spit at you,” I warn when he gets too close to the bubbling pot.

  “What is it?” he asks, peering over the edge from a safe distance. They’ve been in long enough, so I pull the fried dough from the oil, one by one, and place them on a cooling rack. Picking one up, I bounce it from hand to hand, blowing on it to cool it down so it won’t burn his mouth.

  “Here.” I hold the tiny chunk of heaven in my hand and Levi takes it. “Take a bite.” I grin, excited for him to try what I’ve made. He doesn’t hesitate and I watch as he bites into the crunchy layer, his eyes instantly rolling back into his head.

  “Oh my God,” he moans around the food in his mouth. “This is amazing.” I pop a bite into my mouth and smile as he asks, “Can I have another one?”

  I cover my mouth so he doesn’t see my half-eaten food when I answer him. “Please. Eat as much as you want. It’s your kitchen, so it’s really your food anyway.” He puts another bite in his mouth and it hits me. I shouldn’t have come here. Sure, maybe at one time I would have been welcome to come here at—I look at my watch—midnight, but I’m not sure I still have those privileges. Even though Blue is open, Flame is closed, and I had to use the key Mason gave me to get in. I really should have called first.

  “I’m sorry,” I furrow my brow, hoping that he isn’t pissed. “I shouldn’t have just come in here like this.” I shake my head at my lack of consideration. “I wasn’t thinking. I needed to clear my head and this seemed like the perfect place.” Levi swallows his food and watches me intently as I keep talking. I can tell that he wants to ask me what I’m talking about, but he doesn’t. “I couldn’t be alone at home because Mia and Benny were there. So I came here . . . out of habit, I think, but I still shouldn’t have come. Or at the very least I should have called you first. I’m really—”

  “It’s okay,” he interrupts softly. “You were going to make me samples of some desserts anyway”—he peeks in the oven—“and by the looks of it, that’s exactly what you did.” When his eyes meet mine again, he looks happy, not unlike the way he looked last night at Blue but far different from how he looked the night he hired me.

  “That’s it? You’re not mad?”

  “No,” he laughs. “I’m not mad. Now show me what else you’ve got.” He’s really thrown me for a loop. It’s not that I expected him to be furious, but with our history and the less than warm welcome I initially received, I anticipated a little bit more of an argument. But don’t get me wrong, I’ll take this. Plus, I get the impression he’s trying to take my mind off what’s bothering me . . . and it’s working, so I’m going to go with it.

  “Okay.” I walk across to the counter where my creations are and hand Levi a fork. I slide the first dessert in front of him. “This is tiramisu.” He dives right in and I giggle at his eagerness. Levi always did have a sweet tooth. “It’s a classic dessert that’s easy to make and I think your patrons would love it.”

  “It’s so good,” he says, sliding the fork into his mouth again. My eyes stray to his lips and I watch as they lock around the utensil, sliding it out ever so slowly, ensuring that he doesn’t miss one morsel of his bite. I blink, my lips parted, as his tongue slides over his bottom lip and—

  “What are these?”

  “What’s what?”

  “These,” he says, lifting up the container and waving it in front of my face.

  “Oh, those. Yes.” I clear my throat, slightly embarrassed that I just lost my train of thought watching a man eat—then again, it’s not just any man. I’m hoping that Levi didn’t notice, or maybe he’s just gentlemanly enough to not mention it. “These little darlings are Espresso Cream Pies. Here, try one.” I lift the container and he pulls one out, his eyes dancing like he’s in heaven.

  “This,” he says with conviction, pointing to the tiny pie. “This is fabulous. I want these on the menu.” A small bubble of hope forms inside of me, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I find myself getting excited about something.

  “Wait!” I run over to the oven and pull open the door, first checking to see if it’s done. This is the one that’s important and I need it to be perfect. Pulling the pan out, I set it on the stove. Levi walks over and stands next to me. His eyes lock on the pie in front of us and he stares at it blankly for several seconds before looking at me.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Butterscotch Cream Pie,” I answer excitedly. “Yes, it is.”

  A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and that little bubble of hope I felt blossoms into something much more. “My grandma used to make that,” he whispers.

  “I know.” His eyes widen in disbelief and he seems to be at a complete loss for words. That’s okay, I can talk enough for the both of us. “I don’t have her recipe, but I’ve been working to perfect that pie for the past eight years and this is as close as I can get to your grandmother’s.” Something in Levi’s expression shifts, though I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. An appreciation of sorts . . . maybe? “I hope you like it.”

  I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE made me Butterscotch Cream Pie. And on top of that, Laney said she’s been perfecting the recipe for eight years. Eight freaking years.

  I’m fully aware that I’m staring at her like a fucking idiot, but I really don’t know what to say. She made my Grammy’s pie. I can’t remember her ever eating my Grammy’s pie. How the hell did she even remember my Grammy used to make it?

  I’ve been working really hard at keeping my distance and not allowing myself to get too close, but fuck me, she’s making it hard. If I don’t get a grip on what I’m feeling now, I’ll most likely get in way over my head. But I can’t just ignore this . . . this is so much more than just a pie. I’m just not sure I’m ready to explore exactly what it is.

  “Well?” she asks hopefully, shoving a fork in my direction. “Are you going to try it?” She looks so damn cute in her pink apron, hair piled messily on top of her head and flour smeared across her face, and the sight of her tugs at something deep inside of me—something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Something I’m not sure I ever want to feel again. Unfortunately for me, Laney is my weakness . . . my kryptonite. One look from her makes me want to forget that the past eight years ever happened and beg her to start right back where we left off. I can’t let that happen.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” I blurt, needing to remind her—and me—that what we had is in the past. Laney’s smile slowly falls, along with the fork that she is holding up, and I resist the urge to reach out to her.

  I know I’m partly to blame here. I bought her a drink last night, mostly because it killed me that she thought she couldn’t afford it, and I stupidly let my guard down, even if it was only for a couple of minutes. It’s no secret that she hurt me, but after seeing her again and being around her again, I’m reminded why I loved her so much. She’s spunky, tenacious, caring, and her smile could light up the darkest night. And although I know I can’t let myself love her again, I would still very much like to be friends with her.