Wrong to Need You

by Alisha Rai

  She ripped her gaze away from his butt. His rather nice butt.

  She was sure he’d always had one of those, but she hadn’t really considered it nice before now.

  Focus. No butts, no hands. Sex is reserved for the bar at night with anonymous consenting humans. This is not the place, and he is not the human. “What the hell is this, Jackson?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You. What’s your game? Loitering at the bar, coming here?”

  “There’s no game.”

  “There must be a game. You disappeared forever, and now you’re back and you honestly think you can walk in here and take—” She took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling. No, she was not going to lose control like she had last night.

  “There’s no game,” he repeated. “You need help. I can help you.”

  “Since when do you want to help me?” She couldn’t hide the bitterness, though she was proud of herself for not shouting.

  “Since I knew you needed help. I have no ulterior movies. This is a practical arrangement.”

  Goddamn it, it was like he knew she’d love anything that made rational sense.

  Because he knew her, or at least, had known her from the time she was a tiny human. Sadia had been a pretty easy target for teasing at their prestigious prep school—though she had two older sisters, her parents hadn’t really been up to speed on what was considered cool amongst American kids. Sadia had had to be on constant guard for people making fun of her hair and her lunch and her clothes.

  Until Jackson had gotten involved.

  Jackson had only had to lurk at her side, and bullies had scrammed. For most of her childhood and young adulthood, not one day had passed that Sadia hadn’t seen Jackson or Livvy or both of them.

  But then he’d left, and he’d deliberately ignored every overture she’d made to him. Her spine stiffened, that anger poking at her again. “No, thanks. I’d rather not. I—” Her phone rang, startling her.

  She glanced at the screen and frowned. “Hang on.” She turned her back and answered. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Ayesha said in her soothing voice. The girl would have an excellent bedside manner when she graduated medical school. “But, um, Kareem just threw up.”

  Oh, no. “God—”

  “He’s fine! Promise. I called Noor and she said there’s a stomach bug going around the school and it would probably go away in an hour or so. He’s curled up in bed right now, asleep again.”

  Their oldest sister’s son was in Kareem’s grade, so Noor would know, but Sadia couldn’t prevent the lurch of fear in her own stomach.

  “Jia has class right now, but I can stay until noon or so? Do you think you can get someone to look after Kareem by then?”

  A rush of love flooded through Sadia, so hard and fast she could barely speak. What on earth would she do without her sisters? “I’ll, um . . . I’ll figure out something for the afternoon. Let me call you back.”

  She hung up and tapped her phone against her thigh for a second. Her older sisters and parents would all be at work, and Maile was usually occupied during the day. Tani was still recovering from her broken hip.

  And she couldn’t leave because . . .

  Because they didn’t have a chef. Only they did right now.

  Son of a . . .

  She gritted her teeth and faced the man who was driving her nuts. “My son is sick.” The boy you’ve never even met.

  Jackson wiped his fingers on his stained apron. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He doesn’t get sick much.”

  Nothing, not even a peep of curiosity.

  She inhaled, trying to banish the hurt and anger in favor of rationality. “You can stay for the day. I’ll show you around this morning—”

  “Sadia, my name is on the door. You don’t have to show me around.” He touched the stove. “I learned to cook right here. I’ve cooked for you here before. Go home now and be with your son.”

  Her fingers twitched. Every instinct was screaming at her to run to Kareem, but she’d learned sometimes instincts couldn’t win. She couldn’t simply leave Jackson here, not without introducing him to the staff and making sure he really did remember the menu.

  Kareem was safe and snug in his aunt’s hands for a few hours. She’d take care of this portion of her responsibilities. “I’ll stay until noon,” she said firmly. The back door opened and she glanced at the kitchen door. “That’s Darrell now. Let me introduce you to him.”

  “How much staff do you have?”

  The question was sharp enough for her to frown. “Two or three people right now. I’m trying to hire more.”

  His face tightened as heavy footsteps sounded on the tile outside. “Hm.” He turned to the stove.

  Away from the door.

  She stared at his back, and the way he’d folded his shoulders in. What was he doing?

  Darrell walked through the swinging doors, looking far fresher than her, but he was barely nineteen, so that was acceptable. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a casual button down, with bright orange sneakers. Sadia had cut out the uniform policy a few months ago, mostly because she hadn’t been able to afford purchasing uniforms and she hadn’t wanted the staff to have to do it. He smiled at her and pulled his earbuds out of his ears. He was currently taking a gap year between high school and college. Most importantly, he was sweet, dependable, and customers liked him. “Hey boss.”

  Oh, and he treated her like a boss, and not Paul’s incompetent widow. Paul’s employees had been loyal to him, and adjusting to her had taken some time. Some of them had quit. She knew she was in a high turnover industry and the employees coming and going weren’t a reflection on her abilities, but she couldn’t help but feel a little twinge.

  Darrell raised an eyebrow at Jackson. Or his back, rather. “Uh. Who’s this?”

  “We got a chef. Just for the day,” she hedged. “This is—”

  “Jay,” Jackson cut her off before she could say. He didn’t turn around.

  Darrell seemed unfazed. “Nice to meet you. I’m Darrell.” He went to the cooling racks and grabbed two trays of baked goods. “I’ll put these in the case. They look awesome.”

  Sadia sniffed. She knew that wasn’t a dig at her cooking. Jackson’s buns did look objectively awesome.

  His cinnamon buns. Gawd.

  Darrell paused at her side. “You can go do whatever you need to do, boss. I’m sure me and Jay can handle things for a while.”

  Sadia glanced between him and Jackson, who hadn’t bothered to look Darrell in the face once. “I’ll be in my office for a little bit, and then I’ll have to leave before lunch, probably. Let me know if you have any problems.” She’d cram in as much paperwork as she could in between checking up on Jackson. If he could manage the breakfast crowd, he would be able to manage lunch without her.

  After Darrell left, she reminded Jackson, and herself. “It’s only for today.”

  Jackson dug his hands into the dough, his long fingers manipulating the flour.

  Gah. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong person.

  He stretched the dough out between his strong, capable hands. “Whatever you’d like.”

  Chapter 4

  Only for today? Not a chance.

  Sadia needed him, maybe more than she knew.

  Jackson twisted the knob to turn the right burner on and cursed. Still nothing. The kitchen only had two functioning burners. How was any chef supposed to work efficiently without the proper equipment?

  Granted, the crowd wasn’t as busy as he remembered it being for breakfast. He and the kid in the front had easily handled any food orders, the teen calling them out and Jackson pushing them through the pass-through. He’d slipped into his place in the kitchen as easily as a person slipped on a pair of jeans.

  All of the Chandler and Kane kids had been expected to work when they were young, despite each family’s wealth. Robert had assumed both his sons would take the lead in the C&O empire he’d
married into, so he’d been more than a little disappointed when Jackson had chosen to work with Rick.

  Jackson consciously unclenched his teeth. He wished he could have had the kind of uncomplicated relationship with Robert that Livvy had had. Their father had been more than ready to indulge his only daughter. His sons were supposed to be strong, successful men, and Robert had really only had one idea of what strength and success looked like. Paul had fit that mold. Jackson had not.

  He’d had his mother, however. They’d been similar, both quiet and reserved. Jackson swiped at the back of his forehead with his hand, shoving thoughts of his mother away.

  It was hot in the little kitchen. He’d scoped out the A/C unit in the back during a break, a decrepit compressor that needed a new tune up. Had Paul changed anything in this place?

  Don’t second-guess me, little brother.

  He froze, his brother’s firm voice echoing in his head like he was standing in the room with him.

  Only he wasn’t there. He never would be again.

  Jackson and Paul hadn’t exactly been friends. In a lot of ways, Paul had been closer to Nicholas than him. But they had been brothers, separated in age by only three years. Jackson had no idea what their relationship would have been as grown adults, but as kids and young adults, Paul had seemed all-knowing and wise to Jackson.

  Jackson’s phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. So few people had his number, which was exactly how he liked things. His own list of contacts was laughably short.

  He answered the phone, mainly because he knew this particular caller wouldn’t stop calling until he did. “Yeah.”

  “Jackson, my love. Not eaten by Bigfoot yet?”

  Ariel Nelson was Jackson’s partner, manager, ringleader . . . everything? After nine years of friendship and business partnership, Jackson wasn’t sure yet what her title was, but she kept him and the rest of their team functioning. “Hello Ariel. Not yet.” Ariel had been born and raised in London so anything that wasn’t a major metropolitan city might as well be the Wild West as far as she was concerned.

  “Good. I would be highly disappointed if my golden goose went and got himself eaten.”

  Jackson’s lips edged up at the corner. Ariel had met him when he was a scared but talented twenty-one-year-old. She’d hired him as a sous-chef in her tiny restaurant in London.

  When he’d left home, he’d lost his mother and his aunt, the two maternal forces he’d been closest to. Ariel had stepped right into that role so seamlessly he’d barely noticed that he’d tangled himself up in her until it was too late. She knew more about his past than anyone, save his family.

  When he’d gotten too itchy in England, she’d been the one to propose a new business venture: a pop-up food establishment that could travel the world, on their schedule.

  He’d only asked for anonymity as chef, and she’d agreed. In the beginning, they’d cooked together, but as he grew more skilled and developed his own style, she’d ceded the kitchen to him entirely. Without her organizational mind and business acumen, though, he’d be nothing.

  “So what do you need? Are you ready to head to New York City? Done and done. You have a hotel room booked at—”

  “No. I’m staying for a while.”

  Ariel was silent for a moment, and then came a gusty sigh. “Oh love, what are you doing?”

  “I’m . . .” He looked around the kitchen, but it was quiet. Sadia was in the office, Darrell and his sister Kimmie taking care of any stray customers. “Helping out an old friend,” he mumbled.

  “I thought you were only going to be there long enough to check up on your sister.”

  “I’m still checking up on her.” He hated that he sounded so childishly defensive, but something about Ariel made him regress. Maybe it was because she reminded him of his aunt. Same powerful, dynamic, but kind personality.

  His lips twisted. Twice he’d driven past his aunt’s home in the dark of night and been unable to knock on the door. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to.

  “Uh-huh. Let me guess, the friend you’re helping out . . . it’s your brother’s wife, yes?”

  Of course she’d known. “Widow.”

  By Ariel’s huff, he knew she’d caught the speed of the correction. “The one you’re madly in love with.”

  Jackson straightened, his gaze shooting around the room, as if someone could have actually heard that. “I was a kid then, Ariel.”

  “Feelings don’t turn off.” Her voice changed, and Jackson knew she was thinking of her late partner. “I know. Trust me.”

  “This is different,” he insisted.

  “The hell it is. That place is not a good place for you.”

  Hadn’t he just told his sister the same thing a few weeks ago? Told her to hurry up and resolve whatever she needed to resolve and get the hell out of town?

  He couldn’t listen to his own advice. Probably because he didn’t have the faintest clue as to what he was trying to resolve.

  I don’t expect you to stick around. “I’m lending a hand.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ariel said, and she didn’t sound at all convinced. “She has a child, does she not? What’s your nephew like?”

  “Sick at home.” It had been hard not to demand answers to what kind of sickness Sadia’s son had. Sadia had sent him so many pictures of the boy over the years, from the moment he was a tiny, squalling infant.

  But pictures meant nothing. He didn’t know the child, and the child didn’t know him. “I haven’t met him yet.”

  “You’re going to, though.” Ariel’s tone softened. “Jackson . . .”

  “It’s fine. All I’m doing is working at my grandparent’s old café, is all.” He pressed the phone tighter against his ear when she snorted. “She needs help, I have nothing else to do, and damn it . . . I owe her, Ariel.” He wasn’t here because he was still in love. No matter how beautiful she looked today in her relaxed sweater and skinny jeans, skin dewy and fresh, eyes somehow darker and more mysterious, bright red gloss slicked across her lips.

  Don’t think about her lips.

  “I don’t want you hurt, my love. You feel so deeply.”

  His fingers clenched around the phone. He had felt deeply once, but he’d learned his lesson. With deep feeling came deep pain. Selective memory and numbness had protected him for a decade. His heart was like a black-and-white television. It beat. It didn’t feel.

  I don’t expect you to stick around for me.

  Ariel was right to be worried. If he was thinking clearly, he’d be worried too.

  Ariel made an unhappy noise. “Have you seen many townspeople? Is that angry mob treating you poorly?”

  “No. I’ve barely had to see anyone. And no angry mob chased me out of town when I was a kid.” More like quiet never-ending whispers, a trickle of awareness of people staring at him.

  Jackson was so used to cooking behind a team of people who were dedicated to protecting his identity, he hadn’t considered he’d have to interact with Sadia’s staff if he worked here. He couldn’t exactly swear them to secrecy. If Darrell had recognized him, he’d played it cool. Hopefully, that would continue.

  It didn’t take long for rumors to spread in this place, though. He’d have to think about that, once he got Sadia to agree to let him stay.

  “You certainly made it sound like an angry mob. With pitchforks.”

  “No pitchforks.” He turned around at the sound of the door opening, expecting to see Sadia, who had been checking up on him sporadically, if curtly. Instead, his gaze met the blue eyes of a woman he vaguely recalled from his youth.

  Recognition crossed her face, and a shriek escaped her mouth, the tray of glasses she was holding crashing to the floor. “You?” she shouted, and pointed a finger at him. “What are you doing here?”

  Jackson kept his gaze on her, wary, but not alarmed. Yet. “I’ll call you back,” he spoke into the phone.

  “Who is that?” Ariel asked.

  “Might be a mob rep
resentative.”

  Jackson was a dream hire.

  He knew exactly what he was doing, every dish was prepared better than anything she or even Rick had managed, he was efficient and capable. All morning, she’d been able to tackle her mountain of paperwork and trust he was handling the kitchen.

  She was going to cry tomorrow.

  Why do you have to let him go again? Keep him.

  Because . . . because . . . because she didn’t trust him, because she didn’t know him now. He might say he was going to stay for weeks and then bolt and she’d never hear from him again, no matter how many times she tried to—

  She blinked at the computer screen and started typing again. She’d consider today a brief reprieve of at least some of her responsibilities and tackle tomorrow when tomorrow came.

  She finished her email to their coffee bean supplier and hit send just as a crash and a high-pitched yelp came from the kitchen. Sadia shoved her seat back, worried over what she would find.

  Which was Harriet, standing right inside the kitchen door, her hands over her chest. There was a tray of glasses shattered on the floor, Jackson crouched over, picking them up. Sadia tried not to think of what those glasses were going to cost her. She’d factored in a cushion for waste so she wouldn’t obsess as much over tiny costs. “Is everything okay?” she demanded, and stepped inside, the door closing behind her.

  Harriet whirled around to face her. The woman, like Rick, had been working at the café since the Kane grandparents had been alive. Her graying brown braid swung over her shoulder, her petite, almost fragile body vibrating. She stabbed a finger at Jackson. “What on earth is that criminal doing here?”

  Sadia’s mouth dropped open. Jackson kept his head lowered, face hidden. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she noted the almost imperceptible tensing of his shoulders.

  Before Sadia could speak, Harriet pointed to the kneeling Jackson again. “Did you even know he was here? Did he break in?”

  Sadia jolted to attention. Harriet’s voice was loud enough to carry to Darrell and the customers, but more importantly, Jackson was right there.