by Nina Lane
Part of me wants Dean to look up and see me standing here. I imagine this great, romantic movie moment when our eyes meet and he pushes his chair back and runs out to haul me into his arms.
But he doesn’t. He’s busy talking with his students about their essays and research. He leans forward, listens, looks each person in the eye when he’s speaking. I can almost hear the steady, measured cadence of his voice, underscored by confidence and authority. Even outside of class, he’ll take the time to meet with a group of students and provide whatever help they need. His dedication is boundless.
Just one of the many reasons I will always be in love with him.
The week before Christmas, I arrive at the Epicurean cooking class half an hour before the last class starts. Tyler Wilkes is at his station, getting everything ready for tonight’s demonstration. I watch him for a moment, noticing the confidence of his movements, the way he organizes his knives and pans with purpose. He makes it all seem so easy.
“What’s on the menu, Chef?” I ask.
His head jerks up at the sound of my voice. “Liv!”
“Hi, Tyler.”
He approaches, then stops and glances behind me. “Uh, is your…”
“Dean didn’t come with me. He sends his regards, though.”
“Oh.” He looks perplexed.
I almost smile. “I’m kidding. He won’t bully you again, but… well, he’s not going to mail you a Christmas card either.”
“Understood.” Tyler gives me an abashed grin and clears his throat. “So, hey, I never had a chance to ask you how your hand is. Charlotte’s been emailing us all with updates, so I knew you were okay but… well, I wish I could have contacted you myself.”
“No. I’m glad you didn’t.” Really glad. “I’ll be fine. The doctor is a little concerned about nerve damage, but I guess that can heal in a few months.”
“Good. I was… I was pretty worried. I’m glad you’re okay.”
I reach into my satchel and remove the clean, folded chef’s jacket. “I wanted to return this.”
“Uh, thanks.” He scratches his ear. “So what happened with the class? I’m sorry you couldn’t finish the semester.”
“I talked to Natalie, and she offered me a prorated refund,” I explain. “Or she said I can put the money toward next semester’s class.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Tyler looks at the floor. “Did she tell you I’m not teaching the class next semester?”
“She did.”
“The instructor is a great chef,” Tyler says. “Lila Hampton. She owns two restaurants in Rainwood and one in Chicago. She’s a four-star chef. You’d learn a lot from her.” He pauses, then adds, “I wish you’d take the class again, Liv.”
“You do? Why?”
“You just… I don’t know. You seem to have changed so much since that first day. Kind of… kind of blossomed, you know?” He flushes. “And even though I… well, I guess it’s obvious I’m attracted to you, but even if I wasn’t, I’d be impressed with how you’ve improved. You’ve gained confidence. You should have seen the way your face lit up when you made the perfect soufflé.”
That was a damn good feeling.
“You should take the class again, Liv,” Tyler says. “Not for anyone else. For you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I promise. “And if everything you said is true, then it’s also because of you. You’re a great teacher. I’m glad to have known you.”
He smiles faintly. “That sounds… final.”
“It is. I came to thank you, Tyler.” The tension around my heart loosens a little. “And to say good-bye.”
Tyler nods, rubbing one finger against the counter. “I wish…”
Before he can say more, I step forward and take his hand in mine. “Thank you. I wish you nothing but the best.”
“You too, Liv.”
Our hands tighten for an instant, and then we both let go. I leave the classroom and head through the kitchen store toward the parking lot. Racks of stainless steel pots and pans gleam around me, stacks of white dishes, shiny expensive blenders and mixers.
My breath is easier now, knowing this closure is final. That Tyler Wilkes is in my past.
I stop before a display of baking equipment and pick up a large porcelain dish with fluted edges.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” A salesgirl looks at me expectantly from behind the register.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll take this, please.”
I walk to the counter and hand her the soufflé dish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
December 22
THESE ARE ALL RETURNS.” ALLIE BLOWS a curl of hair off her forehead as she dumps another box beside the front counter. “The UPS guy will pick them up tomorrow.”
“Hey, have you thought about adding a section for used books?” I suggest. “That might help draw in customers.”
“Maybe.” Allie puts her hands on her hips as she studies the dwindling number of books on the shelves. “Or I was thinking of expanding the toy section to bring in more kids. Except there’s that huge toy store over on the other side of town that I probably can’t compete with. Definitely have to come up with something, though.”
She heads back to the office while I mull over a few other ideas for her—selling local artwork, adding a café section, working out some programs in conjunction with the library. I do some Internet searches to find out about what other bookstores are doing to improve business.
As usual whenever I’m on the Internet these days, I check my email to see if there’s a message from Dean. As usual, there isn’t. We haven’t even acknowledged that Christmas is just a few days away.
The bell over the door rings. I glance up as a handsome young man with curly, light brown hair enters.
“Welcome to the Happy Booker,” I say. “Can I help you?”
“Hi there. Is Allie around? Are you Liv?”
“Oh, you must be Brent. Nice to finally meet you.” I give him a quick once-over. “Hold on, I’ll get Allie for you. Is she expecting you?”
“Nope. I just got off work and thought I’d see if she wanted to grab a late dinner.”
I go to the back office where Allie is working at the computer.
“Brent’s here,” I whisper. “And he’s cute. I approve.”
She grins. “Good. How do I look? Do I need lipstick?”
“You’re gorgeous. Just get that smudge of ink off your cheek.” I grab a few tissues and hand them to her. She does a quick primping before we return to the front counter where Brent is leafing through a car magazine.
“Hey, Allie.” He smiles at her, his eyes lighting up with an affection that makes her glow.
It’s nice to see. Makes me happy for them.
“Can you take an hour or so for dinner?” Brent asks.
“No, sorry.” Allie looks disappointed. “We’re open until midnight.”
“Go ahead.” I glance at the clock, which reads five past eight. Even with the bookstore’s extended hours, we haven’t managed to attract many last-minute Christmas shoppers.
“The next movie doesn’t get out until ten-thirty and the play down the street won’t be over until at least eleven,” I tell Allie. “Plus we’ve been slow all evening. I can hold down the fort for an hour or so.”
“I don’t know, Liv. I hate leaving you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. We’ve only had six customers all evening. If we get a crowd, it’ll be after the movie lets out.”
She’s wavering, her gaze going from me to Brent. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” I grab her bag from beneath the counter and wave them both toward the door. “Just bring me back some sort of dessert.
Chocolate.”
“Okay. We won’t be long.”
Brent beams at me as he holds open the front door for Allie. Their anticipation and happiness reminds me of those early days when I’d get all fluttery inside the minute Dean walked in the door of Jitter Beans.
Ignoring a twinge of heartache, I straighten out the supplies on the front counter, then spend the next hour arranging the books to make the shelves look more well-stocked. I clean up the toys in the kids’ section and talk with a couple of customers who come in to browse.
As I’m reshelving a few misplaced magazines, the bell over the door rings. Several male voices boom into the store. A sudden tension constricts my chest.
I move behind the counter and watch as three young men enter. College boys, by the looks of them. Two of them are big, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts beneath their jackets, and the third is tall and skinny with a mop of shaggy blond hair.
I do a quick scan of the store. The other customers have all left. It’s nine-fifteen. My heart is beating too fast.
“It was third and twenty-three, dude.” The one wearing a King’s sweatshirt pauses by the front table to flip through a pop-up book. “No way he should’ve got that pass off, you know?”
I’m starting to shake. Sweat trickles down my sides.
“Amazing because they’re a shit team this year,” the other guy responds. He stops in front of the magazine section. “If they’d get rid of Samuels, they might have a shot. Oh, hey, check this out. Fantasy football depth chart.”
He tosses a magazine to his friend. “Scott, you going to Chicago for the Super Bowl party next semester?”
“Yeah,” the skinny guy says. “Frat’s renting a bus. You?”
“Can’t. Academic probation. Asshole Dennison failed my last paper.”
They all snort with derision. The skinny boy wanders past the counter and shoots me a grin.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
Cold freezes the blood in my veins. I force in a few breaths and consciously try to relax the stiffness in my shoulders. My spine feels like it’s about to snap in two.
“Hey, look, that’s Vanessa Fairfax.” The King’s sweatshirt guy holds up the magazine so his friend can see a photo of a sexy brunette lounging against a car. “Remember I told you I saw her at the Dax concert? She’s so fucking hot.”
“Speaking of hot, what happened with that girl you hooked up with last weekend?”
“Oh, man, that was awesome.”
Without thinking, I grab my cell phone and speed-dial Dean’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Hello?” he says.
I can’t speak past the tightness in my throat. I clench my fingers on the phone.
“Liv?”
“I’m here,” I manage to whisper. The college kids are still talking, their voices and laughter growing louder and clashing with the sound of my heartbeat.
“Liv, what’s wrong?” Alarm spikes the question.
“I’m…”
“Where are you?”
“B-bookstore.”
“Olivia, listen to me.” Dean’s voice settles into a firm but reassuring tone. “Breathe. I’m on my way.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end. “Count of two, okay? One, two.”
I inhale a breath. My vision blurs, my throat constricting. He repeats the count. I force myself to exhale.
“Hey, do you have the spring semester calendar in yet?” The King’s sweatshirt guy stops in front of me and leans his elbows on the counter. His face is too close to mine.
I step back until my hips bump the other side of the counter. “No. Not yet.”
“When do they come in?” he asks.
“Liv?”
“Just a… a customer,” I tell Dean. A wave of dizziness hits me.
“Keep breathing. Count of five now.”
“When do the calendars come in?” the sweatshirt guy repeats.
“Beginning of January.”
He straightens, his gaze still on me. “You go to King’s?”
“No.” God in heaven, go away.
“Hey, dudes, look at this.” The skinny guy approaches from the kids’ section with a topsy-turvy puppet that changes from Little Red Riding Hood to the wolf with one flip. “Little Red has a wolf under her skirt.”
Their burst of laughter scrapes my insides like nails. The panic intensifies, tilting the world into a crazy spin. My husband’s voice is a steady, deep stream as he instructs me to breathe to the count of eight.
I force air into my lungs. Time has stretched to the point of breaking.
“Stay with me, Liv,” Dean says in my ear. “I’m turning onto Emerald right now.”
I pray the guys will be gone by the time he arrives, but the three of them move deeper into the store to lift the skirt of the Little Red Riding Hood puppet.
Dean walks in the front door, his stride long and rapid. Tension lines every muscle in his body, and concern burns in his eyes.
I drop the phone with a clatter. He rounds the corner to where I’m standing and puts a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Sit down. You’re okay.” He glances to the back of the store when the sound of male laughter rings out. His expression hardens, but his voice remains steady as he turns to me. “I’m here. Breathe, Liv. Count of ten.”
I inhale on his count, then exhale. Again and again until finally I’m able to take an easier breath. My dizziness lessens a bit, and the room starts to steady into balance.
Dean rummages underneath the counter and finds a bottle of water. He cracks it open and holds it to my mouth. After I manage a few sips, he nods toward my hands.
“Flex your fingers.”
I stretch my fingers out and flex them a few times, the activity a distraction from the tightness in my chest and throbbing heartbeat.
The boys’ voices get closer. Dean steps in front of me, blocking them from my view.
“Hey, Professor West, what’re you doing here?” It’s the skinny guy’s voice. “I’m Scott Kenner. I took your class last semester. Cool stuff.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s tone is short and clipped. He tilts his head to the door. “You guys heading out now?”
“Yeah, we’re going to a Christmas party down by the lake.”
“Good.”
The guys hesitate, thrown by Dean’s unfriendly demeanor, but then they mumble a goodbye and shuffle out. When the door clicks shut, Dean turns back to me.
I take another swallow of water. The panic is subsiding, like a wave receding slowly from a beach. Exhaustion takes its place, draining my muscles of strength.
Dean reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from my forehead, his fingers lingering against my skin.
“Been a while,” he murmurs.
I nod and draw in another breath. I haven’t had a panic attack since long before we were married. My throat aches.
“You’re here alone?” Dean asks.
“Allie went out with a friend for a quick dinner.” I wipe a trickle of sweat from my temple. “She’ll be back any minute.”
The thought of Allie and Brent returning to find me a total mess is enough to get me to my feet. I go into the bathroom to splash water on my face and brush my hair, then emerge feeling calmer and more in control.
“Triple chocolate fudge cake.” Allie waves a cardboard container at me as she and Brent come through the door. “From Abernathy’s just around the corner. Oh, hi, Dean.”
Even with Brent there, Allie blushes when she looks at Dean. That makes me smile a little. The remnants of my panic fade, though I’m weary to the bone.
I take the sweet-smelling box, aware of Dean speaking to Allie in a low voice. She glances at me with concern.
“Go get some rest, Liv,” she
says. “I didn’t know you have migraines.”
Grateful that Dean didn’t divulge the real reason for my sudden breakdown, I give Allie a weak smile. “I don’t… I don’t get them very often.”
“I’ll stay with Allie until the store closes,” Brent offers.
Allie gets my satchel and coat, then ushers us out the door with instructions for me to get a good night’s sleep. Although I’m exhausted, part of my brain is prickling with unease and fear.
I can’t look at Dean as we head home and go up the stairs to our apartment. All I want to do is throw myself into his arms and cling to him. But I no longer know if I have the right to do that.
I shed my coat and go into the living room. Everything looks the same as it did before I left. Christmas tree, holly-covered mantel, mistletoe. The curtains are open, the town lights shining, the lake an expanse of black in the distance.
“Liv.”
I turn. Dean is standing by the door, looking every inch the man I have loved for so long. Dark, rumpled hair, a thick rugby shirt, worn jeans torn at the knee. Those beautiful, gold-flecked eyes fixed on me.
Without a word, he holds out his arms.
A cry breaks loose from the dark pit in my soul. I fly across the room to him, my tears overflowing when his arms close tight around me. I press my face against his chest as sobs wrench my throat and my heart shatters with relief.
He sinks to the floor, never loosening his hold on me, and pulls me onto his lap. The low sound of his voice rumbles in my ear. Tears spill down my face in unending streams. I clutch a fistful of his shirt and cry and cry and cry until my whole body aches.
His arms tighten around me, strong as steel and warm as sunlight. My mind empties of thought, and there is only us again, my body fitting against his, his grip on me unbreakable. All the heartache and fear of the past few months pours out of me, the wrenching torrent of a broken dam, until finally my flood of tears begins to slow.
Dean presses his mouth to my forehead and strokes my tangled hair away from my face. I burrow against his chest and exhale a long, shuddering sigh. My body quakes with lingering sobs.