by Olivia Miles
She continued to ramble about the food as she took the items from the cloth shopping bags that consumed nearly all of her counter. She hadn’t been exaggerating; the space was tight, especially for a chef, but it hadn’t stopped her from treating it like a proper kitchen. It seemed that every gadget she owned lined the counters or shelves under the butcher block that centered the room, above which an array of stainless steel pots hung from a rack. Stools were pulled up to the oiled wood surface, and a pedestal table was wedged into the corner.
“I told you it was small,” Anna said, catching his eye.
She walked over to the counter, casually leaning a hip against it as she held out an apron, but cooking was the last thing on his mind right now. Their time together was running out, and he wanted to be sure once the contest was over, this brief break in the silence wouldn’t be, too.
His gaze traveled over her smooth curves, down to her silky bare legs, half hidden under that knee-length skirt. His fingers itched to trace their way up her calves and higher, to push away the floral cotton material and explore the deepest part of her, to feel her heat.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the knots under his fingertips. “Mind if I grab some water?”
She was watching him warily. “Would wine be better?”
He grinned. “Much.” He pulled out a bar stool while she retrieved a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fully stocked and perfectly organized refrigerator and handed it to him. “Corkscrew’s in the drawer behind you.”
Mark found the corkscrew and let his gaze drift back to her as she brought two glasses down from a cabinet, his eyes resting on the flare of her hips as she lifted her arm high, arching her back in her reach.
He filled their glasses and clinked his with hers before tossing his head back, letting the cool liquid chase back the heat that lit a fire within him.
“You ready for tomorrow?” Anna came around the butcher block and slid into the stool next to his, and even with the faint aroma of fresh herbs lining the windowsill in porcelain pots, he could make out that whiff of coconut shampoo. God, he loved that smell. He remembered the way it teased him all those years, whetting his appetite for something so much greater than the friendship they shared. After the last night they spent together, her scent had lingered on his pillow for days, until he finally forced himself to wash it, to rid himself of the memory of her touch, of the temptation to want something he could never have.
Along another windowsill were groups of photos, most of them of Grace and Jane, but the one his gaze lingered on was of Anna and her father, taken on what must have been her graduation day from the culinary academy, a year after his own.
“He looks proud,” Mark commented.
Anna stared sadly at the photo. “He was the one who encouraged me to go to culinary school. He wanted all us girls to follow our passion, the way he did with the bookstore.” She looked down at the floor. “I hate the thought of letting him down.”
Mark frowned. “You won’t let him down.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Anna’s face grew pink. “You know, growing up, Grace was always sort of my father’s favorite.”
“Oh, now—”
Anna held up a hand. “No, it’s okay. It’s true. They both loved books, and Grace could spend hours in that store… I knew I could never compete with that. Instead, I found another way to stand out—through food. I started helping my mom with dinner and experimenting with new recipes, and oh, I loved making everything look pretty. I guess I just wanted to hold on to that forever. Family dinners.” She grinned. “Sounds corny, I know.”
“I think about my dad sometimes.” There it was. It was always so easy to talk to Anna. Too easy, at times. He wasn’t here to get close to her. He was just here to make her understand, once and for all. He’d never meant to hurt her. If anything, he’d tried to protect her from more hurt down the road.
“He would have been proud of you, too.” Anna offered a smile of encouragement.
Mark wished he could believe that. “Maybe,” he said, thinking of his father walking into Hastings, seeing his son behind the Formica counter, refilling coffee with a towel slung over his shoulder. He grimaced.
“Are you kidding me? Mark, you were the top of your class. Everyone talked about you and all the great things you would do.”
Mark shook off the compliment. “All the great things I would do. Like run a diner.”
Anna frowned. “I shouldn’t have said anything about that the other day; I’m sorry. Your mom took it over. I understand. It’s a family place.”
“I thought I’d run Hastings until she was better—if she got better,” he corrected himself, feeling a sharp pang tighten his chest. “I never planned to stick with it for as long as I have.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to pursue our restaurant? Is that why you ended—” She stopped herself. “Is that why you haven’t done something else?”
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “I saw what happened to my dad’s restaurant, how it affected my parents’ marriage and eventually drove him out of town. I guess I’ve enjoyed the stability of Hastings.”
“The restaurant business can be volatile,” Anna said.
“Someone should have told my dad that,” he remarked.
“Do you… do you ever think about reconnecting?”
“No,” he said, and then stopped himself. “That’s not true. Sometimes I do, I guess. Not that I’d know where to find him.”
Anna tipped her head. “I’m sorry, Mark. I shouldn’t have pressed.”
“It’s okay, really. When I was younger, I thought about him a lot, but as I got older, I guess I just tried to put him out of my mind instead. Lately, though…”
“I guess that explains why you were sitting outside Fireside the other night.” Anna gave a small smile. “Does your mom ever talk about him?”
“Nope. After he left, she tried to keep her feelings to herself. I used to hear her crying, down the hall, late at night.” He paused. “She really loved him, even after all he put her through.”
A shadow came over Anna’s face, and shame gripped him. He knew Anna had loved him, though they’d never spoken their feelings aloud. He’d felt it in the glow of her eyes, in the sweetness of her kiss, in the slump of her shoulders that awful day. So many times he wanted to say it, and he had, once, when she was sound asleep and he knew she wouldn’t hear him. The words had slipped out, without planning, and then his chest had begun to pound. Less than two weeks later, he ended it. Abruptly. Swiftly. Doing what he had to do. Striking first.
“My dad worked most evenings, but in the morning, he was usually home. I remember waking up every day, for months, thinking maybe he’d come back. I’d run down the stairs as fast I could, hoping to see him sitting at that kitchen table. His place was always empty.” Often, not wanting to believe the harsh facts, he’d open the garage, his heart sinking when he saw the vacant spot where the blue sedan once sat.
Anna reached out a hand and set it on his arm, and he resisted the part of him that wanted to pull it back. To end this conversation and keep her away. To bury his feelings along with the past. He looked at her, suddenly feeling tired, worn out and old, and full of regrets he couldn’t shake. It could have been them sitting here, side by side after a long, busy day at their restaurant, sipping wine and laughing about some order gone wrong, before crawling into bed, ready to do it all over tomorrow.
He remembered the way it felt to slide into bed beside her, to reach for her under the cool cotton sheets, to feel the heat of her skin on his, to hear her moan his name in his ear. Each morning he would wake, hours before her, sometimes before the sun had even risen, and he’d watch the room turn gray with light, listening to her steady breath. She seemed so peaceful, so pure and free of sorrow and pain. She took life in stride, and she loved with all her heart—things he could never do. He’d watch her until she began to stir, wondering how the hell he could ever sleep alone again, and panic would
set in.
She told him stories, long into the night, about things she did with Grace and Jane, funny stories that made him laugh. He listened, happy for the chance not to have to talk about his past, his need to distance himself as great as his desire to be close. He wanted to know her. Every inch of her skin, every part of her soul. But he wanted to run, too. The closer he got, the more he worried, about the future, their plans, the thought of a struggling restaurant and bills and blame and arguments and hurt until there was nothing left between them.
His gaze traveled from his arm to her lips, moist and parted, and his groin stirred with arousal, and an urge to kiss her, taste her sweetness, breathe her air. Just once more.
“I don’t usually talk about him,” he said, clearing his throat.
“He had a big impact on your life,” Anna said.
Mark nodded. More than she knew. Anna grazed her thumb over his skin, and an electric current zipped up his arm. She pulled her hand free, letting it fall, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“It’s natural to want to connect with your dad, even when he’s no longer a part of your life. I think that’s why Grace wanted to keep Main Street Books alive. I know it’s why I wanted to invest in the expansion.”
There was that flush again, staining her cheeks a vibrant pink that offset the bright turquoise of her irises.
“That bookstore meant a lot to your father,” Mark said.
Anna drew pensive for a moment, using the silence to take a sip of her wine. “That’s what has me so worried,” she muttered.
Mark leaned in, catching a whiff of her sweet scent as he did. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to capture the single sense. When he looked up, Anna was staring at him, her gaze steady. He could lean in, just another inch, remember what it felt like to kiss her mouth, to feel her soft curves pressed against him.
He pulled himself back into the stool instead. He was here to find her friendship again. Nothing more. “The bookstore’s doing fine now; I see people in there all the time. It’s never looked so great.”
Anna sighed through a small smile. “It does, yes. But… that’s not what has me worried. I took out a loan to match Grace’s investment. She’s covering rent and the bookstore renovation; I’m covering well… everything else. For now. It was all going to be fine. More than fine. And then—”
“The fire.”
She nodded. “The fire.”
“How bad is it?”
She met his stare. “Bad.”
He let out a low whistle. It was exactly the kind of situation that made Hastings so appealing. The place was paid up; they owned it outright. A new venture, of any kind, could never offer the same security. One day it could be booming, the next…
“Does Grace know?”
“No,” she said quickly, “and I don’t intend to tell her.”
He leaned into his elbow. “So what’s your plan, then?”
She looked at him quizzically. “I intend to win this contest!”
He burst out laughing, hearing his own foolish desires in her preposterous statement. Until now, winning had been a vague notion, not something he was banking on, but hearing her say it aloud, a desire to not only compete but to win made him suddenly believe it was possible. That anything was possible.
“I do intend to win!” Anna cried, but even she couldn’t stop from laughing. The sound rolled through the room and pulled at his heart, filling holes he didn’t even know were there.
He didn’t realize he’d stopped laughing until she did. The air went still, punctured only by the sound of his heart beating in his chest, and he knew he couldn’t hold back any longer. Without thinking or daring to consider the consequences, he leaned into her. Her eyes flashed with surprise, her lashes fluttering quickly as he slid off his stool and closed the distance between them.
A gasp of surprise escaped her throat as he brought his lips to hers and his hands came around her waist, pulling her close to his chest until he felt her body relax on each kiss. He sensed her hesitation, but he couldn’t pull back, not when her lips were on his, her sweet taste filling his senses. She parted her mouth, and he pulled her closer, feeling the soft swell of her breasts against his chest. His groin pooled with warmth as her thighs rubbed against his. He pressed his palms deeper into her back, and lower, resisting the urge to explore her hips, knowing if he did he wouldn’t be able to stop. And he should stop—he should. But… he couldn’t.
He kissed her, as if for the first time, tasting the forbidden fruit, knowing it was wrong, wrong, wrong, even thought it felt so damn right. He tore his lips from hers, letting his mouth roam her neck, burying himself in her hair, that coconut-scented hair, and breathed into her ear, wondering if she would run, if she’d push him back, tell him to go.
He pulled back, watching the way her eyes searched his. He should say something, explain himself, but there was nothing to say.
Anna’s cheeks were dotted with pink as she picked up a knife and pulled the vegetables from the basket. His gaze lingered her on a few moments more, watching the way she expertly chopped and diced, the way they’d been instructed in school, fingers tucked.
“Anna.” His voice was low and husky.
He should tell her it was a mistake, that it couldn’t happen again. That he wanted to be friends, to make her understand once and for all that it was all they ever should have been.
“We should get to work,” she said abruptly, and he hated the slight quiver in her voice. “We still have a lot to do and we leave for Cedar Valley tomorrow afternoon.”
They’d be at the lodge for two nights; he’d have time to talk to her then. For now, she was right. It was time to get to work, put all personal matters aside, and focus on winning this contest. And getting what they wanted at long last.
CHAPTER
22
Eighteen hours later, Anna stood on the front stoop of her apartment building, feeling even more nervous than she had last night when they tasted their recipes for the final time, the heat of that kiss still lingering in her mouth, on her lips, confusing her palate nearly as much as her judgment.
Her stomach twisted a little tighter. She told herself it was the stress from the contest tomorrow, and everything riding on it, but something told her it had a lot more to do with Mark’s kiss than perfecting their maple glaze for the salmon. She’d avoided the diner again this morning, baking quick breads and scones and preparing cookie dough that Grace could pop into the oven tomorrow and Sunday. She’d kept busy, baking and cleaning and packing, but try as she might, Mark was never far from her thoughts.
She brushed a finger idly over her lips. After all these years, she’d never forgotten what it felt like to kiss Mark… and now she didn’t stand a chance of forgetting. Even though that was exactly what she should do. Forget their past. Forget the kiss. Forget Mark.
Just tell him it was a mistake. A casual slip. Whatever it had been, it couldn’t be repeated. She knew Mark, and what he was capable of—it was attraction, nothing more. They’d spent too much time together these past few weeks, fallen back on old habits.
Her heart skipped as a car rounded the bend at the edge of the road, but her shoulders relaxed when she recognized the vehicle. Rosemary’s car was unmistakable: cranberry red and fit for two; she loved to drive the sports car with its top down in warm weather. The sun shone bright, and Rosemary had wrapped a leopard-print silk headscarf over her hair. Her oversized sunglasses shielded her face, and she plucked them off the second she rolled to a stop.
“I thought I’d come to see you off!” Rosemary sprang up the tulip-lined path with quick, graceful movements, her blue eyes glittering. “Is Mark picking you up?”
Anna nodded and pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the hard knot beneath its surface. “Yep.”
“Oh, good!” Rosemary clapped her hands, beaming, and then seemed to freeze. “I mean, you wouldn’t want to be late.”
“I’m sure we’ll get there on time. The drive isn’t to
o long.” Anna glanced anxiously down the street. “He should be here any minute.”
“Oh, well, don’t let me interrupt anything.” Rosemary wiggled her eyebrows and stared at her, and Anna tipped her head in confusion. She knew Rosemary was excited about this contest, but she still couldn’t understand why. Grace, she could understand, or even Jane, who had a hint of the financial pressure Anna was under.
Anna dismissed her suspicion. Mark was Rosemary’s nephew; she probably wanted the best for him.
Rosemary thrust a gift bag at her. “What’s this?” Anna asked in surprise.
“Oh…” Rosemary shifted her eyes. “Just a little something to mark the occasion.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything!” Anna grinned, and reached through the hot pink tissue paper to retrieve the present. Rosemary began taking great interest in a potted geranium on the top of the porch banister.
“Knowing you, I’m sure you have all your ingredients lined up and ready. You never know, though. This might come in handy…” She tore a dead leaf from the plant.
“Oh, well, this was so thoughtful of—” Anna stared down at the bottle in dismay, frowning as she read the label. “Massage oil?”
“Is it?” Rosemary leaned forward and inspected the label. “So it is. And here I thought it was cooking oil. Oh dear.”
“That’s okay.” Anna gave a half smile and tucked it into the paper bag. She wasn’t sure what was going on with Mark, but if Rosemary thought she could step in and help things along, she didn’t know her nephew very well. Mark did as he pleased when it came to matters of the heart.
Anna frowned, feeling her stomach tighten with unease. “It’s the thought that counts. Thank you.”
She reached for the door handle, but Rosemary stopped her before she could turn the knob.