“Yes, you will, and it’ll have to wait because he’s back.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink.
“What?” Paling, I glance behind me, following her gaze to see Mr. Handsome stroll in. Within the second of seeing he’s the man she was referring to, I’m gifted with a little relief, quickly replaced by a spike of anxiety.
“All yours, girl. And in case you’re wondering, our omelets aren’t that great.”
He takes a stool, dressed to impress, his eyes focused on me as I grab the coffee pot, snatch a ready mug beneath the counter, flip it and pour, refusing to meet his inquisitive gaze. “Morning. Western Omelet, no peppers or cheese, right?”
“Most people call me Greg,” he quips, “but yes, please.” I give him an answering smile while I write out his ticket and haul ass back toward the kitchen, cutting off any chance to draw out conversation. So far today, I’ve filled a few salt shakers with sugar, dropped three plates, and in my haste, ran smack into my office door.
Bastard.
The fatigue has finally set in from lack of sleep, and mostly because I stared at the fucking French Adonis that took up over half of my queen mattress last night wearing nothing but black boxers. He is a dangerous temptation, his profile and build—all hard lines and thickly muscled curves—mesmerizing in half-light. His construct just as incredible as it was when we were together, maybe more so now. His surreal looks are just as distracting as they were before, threatening to replace my resentment with desire. And the minute I woke up from a dream that left me raw and aching, my first instinct was to pull him to me, to wrap myself inside him, and never let go. Oh, how much I wanted to touch. So much so I had to leave my own bed to get away from him. From his smell of citrus and spice. From any familiarity that might bring me comfort.
Because fuck that, I refuse to make it easy for him.
He wants another chance, but he’s had years of chances to come back to me. He refused me at every turn in Triple Falls, forced me to let him go. Purposefully, he let me walk out of his office and his life.
And he’s right. No matter his reasons, no matter how justified, they’ll all be excuses for me at the moment.
I deserve more.
I will hold out for more, no matter how gloriously beautiful he is. No matter how many times over the years I dreamt of him coming back to me and saying the things he said. His words from yesterday cross my mind.
“I couldn’t look away.”
No matter how much the words mean, I’m no longer a teenage girl or twenty-something woman who’d had her first mind-blowing orgasm gifted by a beautiful, smooth-talking man. Been there, have the tear-soaked pillowcases and blood-stained clothes to prove it.
“Cecelia.” Travis, my short-order cook, booms from behind the cutout steel window in the kitchen, making me jump where I stand.
I glare at him, and he winces. “Sorry, you weren’t hearing me. Order up.”
“Chill,” Marissa grabs the plate from the hot bar and walks it over to Greg. She gives me a curious glance once it’s delivered, as does Greg. Annoyed by the scrutiny and refusing to look again toward the parking lot, I retreat through the double doors of the kitchen toward my office for a timeout, wishing for the first time in months I had a joint to smoke.
It’s minutes later when I’m safely behind my desk, that Marissa bursts through the office door, a look of utter shock on her face that lets me know I’m not getting off so easily. Marissa darts her eyes around the office in panic, chest heaving before she leaps for her purse.
“Jesus by the river,” she says, brushing a week’s worth of gloss across her lips, standing at the threshold of my office door. “Please tell me the man that just got out of your Camaro is your adopted brother.” Loathing the relief I feel, I slide my chair back, second wind determination running through me as she looks at me with wide-eyed hope, while Travis grunts something unintelligible behind her.