If the Sun Never Sets

by Ana Huang

  Blake was sick of playing games.

  So he chose Truth.

  “I want you.”

  “That’s what I’m offering.”

  “Not your body.” Blake closed the gap between them once more. The rug muffled the sounds of his footsteps, and he could hear Farrah breathe, fast and shallow. “I want you. All of you. Heart, body, mind, and soul. I want what we had.” His voice thickened. “I messed things up between us in Shanghai, and I’m so fucking sorry. I was young and stupid, and if I could do it all over, I would. But I can’t. All I can do is stand in front of you and ask for another chance. I know I broke your heart, but if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life putting it back together.”

  There it was. All his cards laid out on the table for her to see.

  Blake hadn’t had the guts to say those words out loud before, but they’d been there, waiting to spill forth at the first command, for five years.

  Now, they hovered in the air, waiting for a verdict.

  Farrah was the judge, jury, and executioner, and as Blake spoke, her breathing picked up until her chest heaved with each intake of oxygen. Her face was smooth and still as a pane of glass, but a hurricane brewed in her eyes. Emotions flickered through them at such a rapid pace Blake couldn’t pin them down.

  The seconds stretched into eternity, prolonging his torture. Blake couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat. Every nerve of his body stood on alert while his heart paced in his chest, faster and faster until he wanted to throw up from the anticipation.

  “I can’t give you that.” Farrah’s rejection sliced through the space between them, turning Blake’s confession into desolate scraps of confetti that fluttered into a heap on the ground. The glimmer of foolish hope in his heart crumbled into ash, filling his airways and choking him. “I can give you one night. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  1 month later

  The sun beat down on Farrah with fierce intensity, scalding her skin and causing rivulets of perspiration to snake down her face. The heat was merciless, almost angry, as if punishing her for her heartless behavior.

  Not heartless, smart, she corrected herself. What she did in Syracuse a month ago was smart, safe, and logical. As the saying goes, fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

  Farrah wasn’t going to let Blake fool her again with his pretty words and promises of forever. She’d made that mistake once, and it almost broke her beyond repair.

  But if she did the right thing, why was she so miserable?

  “Thank God. I was dying out there,” Olivia said when the hostess waved them into the restaurant. Leyla was the hottest new brunch spot in town, and it didn’t take reservations, which meant you had to wait at least an hour for a seat on the weekends. Olivia hated lines more than she hated wrinkled shirts, but Farrah knew she’d make an exception for food. “It’s so freakin’ hot today.”

  Farrah murmured in agreement as she followed the hostess to their table.

  “Who’s this mystery friend that’s supposed to meet us?” Olivia examined the single-page menu. “They better be good, considering we waited in line for an hour and they’re not even here yet.”

  “Uh, well, you know him.”

  Olivia lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “He’s right there.”

  Farrah waved at her friend and braced herself for the fallout. Olivia turned, then whipped around to face Farrah again with fury oozing out of every pore.

  “Are. You. Kidding me?”

  “Remember Ken?” Farrah said quickly. “I forgave you for that.”

  “That’s different! That was an innocent mistake on my part. He’s perfectly respectable in the office. I didn’t know he was such a jerk outside the office. But this, this is an act of utter betrayal—”

  “Hey.” Sammy stopped next to their table. He looked even more handsome than usual in a pale blue button-down that set off his tan and a pair of dark denim jeans.

  His face lit up with surprise and anger at the sight of Olivia. He was too much of a gentleman to say anything, but the displeasure wafted from him in waves.

  “Hi!” Farrah chirped. “So glad you could make it. Take a seat.”

  Sammy bypassed the empty seat next to Olivia and sat beside Farrah.

  Both he and Olivia pinned Farrah with steely glares.

  Hmm. Maybe tricking them into brunch with each other wasn’t the best idea.

  But Farrah was sick of the animosity between her friends, and she wanted them to make up already. It’d been years since their breakup.

  She realized the irony of the situation, given her refusal to give Blake another chance, but that was different. Sammy and Olivia’s breakup had been mutual, and one of them hadn’t confessed they still had feelings for the other.

  Allegedly still had feelings. Farrah wasn’t going to take Blake’s words at face value.

  “I’m so happy we’re together again.” Farrah tried to get the conversation going. “It’s like old times.” Minus the rest of the group, but that was a minor detail.

  “Just like old times.” Sarcasm dripped from Olivia’s voice.

  Farrah kicked her under the table and winced when Olivia kicked her back. They glared at each other.

  Farrah tried her luck with the more reasonable person at the table. “Sammy, how was your meeting?”

  Sammy had texted her when he returned to New York a few days ago—this time, hopefully, for much longer than three days.

  He’d had a “casual coffee” with a potential business partner this morning, which was why he couldn’t wait in line with them. It was a Sunday, but Farrah swore half the deals in the city took place during “casual” weekend meetings.

  “It was good.” Sammy’s shoulders remained stiff, but his grudging tone indicated he was well on his way to forgiving Farrah for the ambush. “We signed the deal.”

  “That’s great!” Farrah almost knocked over her coffee in her excitement. “Sammy’s opening a pop-up bakery at Convention,” Farrah explained to Olivia. Convention was a trendy Soho storefront known for its revolving calendar of pop-ups. Every four months, it transformed into a new restaurant, bakery, or cafe headed by a Michelin-starred chef or food celebrity. The variety and star power made Convention catnip to Manhattan’s fickle culinary elite. “New York’s finally getting a Crumble & Bake! For four months, at least.”

  “Great.” Olivia downed her mimosa in one long swallow. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” Sammy said.

  Their coldness hardened into invisible icicles that hung between them like swords waiting to drop.

  The waiter brought out their food. They dug in, once again lapsing into silence.

  “Where are you staying in New York?” Farrah was determined to get the conversation back on track, no matter how difficult her friends were being.

  “Williamsburg. My sister’s friend has a house there, and he agreed to let me rent a room at a discounted price.” Sammy cut into his eggs Benedict. “The pop-up doesn’t open until next month, but I have to get everything ready.”

  “Why is everyone opening branches in New York?” Olivia sipped her second glass of freshly poured orange juice and champagne. “First Blake, now you.”

  “Well, New York’s a pretty big market,” Sammy deadpanned.

  Farrah choked back a laugh.

  Olivia ignored his answer and addressed Farrah. “Speaking of Blake, how’s the design project going?”

  The mirth disappeared. “Fine.”

  As far as the project went, Farrah couldn’t have asked for a smoother rollout. She’d rented a storage space to house the furniture shipments trickling in—as well as the chest they’d bought in Syracuse—until the contractors finished the wall tiling and floors. As long as there were no delays or mishaps, she should finish the apartment in time for the Mode de Vie shoot.

  Her relationship with Blake, if you could call it that, was another matter. After she g
ave him her ultimatum in the B&B, he’d walked out of the room without another word. She didn’t know where he went, but she’d pretended to sleep when she heard the door creak open past midnight.

  The next morning, they’d checked out and driven back to the city. Blake dropped her off, and that was that. Neither said a word during the four-hour drive, and Farrah hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

  Her gut twisted. Had she been too harsh on him? Thinking back, her words had been a little cold, but she wasn’t the one who’d lied and cheated. She had no reason to give him another chance.

  Farrah gnawed on her lower lip until she drew blood.

  “Have you seen him since Syracuse?” Olivia asked.

  “No.” Farrah stuffed a piece of French toast in her mouth, so she didn’t have to provide a longer answer. Olivia knew Blake and Farrah had stayed in the same room in Syracuse; she didn’t know about them nearly having sex, or about Blake’s confession. Out of all the things Farrah had expected him to say, asking for a second chance had not been on the list. She’d thought he wanted a wild night of sex. Maybe a casual fling. Not a sequel to their doomed relationship.

  Farrah forced herself to swallow. The toast tasted bitter.

  “Good. The project will be over soon, and you won’t have to see him again.” Olivia flicked her gaze toward Sammy. “He’s bad news.”

  “No, he’s not,” Sammy countered. “He’s made mistakes, but he’s a good guy.”

  That was Sammy—loyal to a fault. To all sides.

  “Please.” Olivia snorted. “He lied and cheated. Not my definition of a ‘good guy.’”

  “He didn’t—I mean, he did, but you don’t know the whole story.” Sammy appeared to regret his outburst the instant the words left his mouth.

  Farrah and Olivia snapped their heads in his direction.

  “What do you mean, whole story?” Curiosity lit up Olivia’s dark eyes. “What do you know that we don’t?”

  “Nothing. That just slipped out.” The color of Sammy’s face matched that of Farrah’s dragon fruit smoothie.

  “Bullshit. I know a cover-up when I see one.” When Sammy didn’t budge, Olivia switched tactics from vinegar to honey. “Come on, you’re among friends,” she cajoled. Apparently, the thrill of a good secret was enough to make her put aside her animosity toward her ex.

  All the while, Farrah’s heart jackhammered against her ribcage. She shouldn’t care, but a tiny, hopeless part of her was desperate for anything that’d prove Blake was telling the truth.

  Pathetic.

  Sammy shifted his gaze away from Olivia’s sweet smile. “It’s not my place to tell.”

  “It’s your moral obligation to tell. This is Farrah. One of your oldest friends.” Olivia waved her hand over Farrah like she was showing off a prized pony. “Blake is back in her life, and if you have something to say that could prevent him from hurting her again, you better say it.”

  Sammy muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “She’s not the one I’m worried about.”

  Olivia frowned. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sammy.” Farrah placed a hand on Sammy’s arm. “Please.”

  She had no desire to dredge up the past, but it was already peeking out from the box she’d buried it in. Might as well let it loose so it could expend its energy before she locked it up again.

  Sammy sighed. “Like I said, it’s not my place to tell. But don’t be so hard on Blake, okay? He’s been through some shit. And if he wants to tell you…” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “The next time you see him, ask him about the night you lost your necklace.”

  Farrah’s hand flew up to her pendant. It was the last gift her father gave her before he died. Blake was the only person who knew about its significance unless he’d told Sammy, which he had no reason to. “What does my necklace have to do with anything?”

  Sadness crept into Sammy’s eyes. “It has to do with more than you think.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  When it rained, it poured.

  After a months-long streak of golden luck, Blake’s professional life started shitting on him as much as his personal one.

  His restaurant manager ran off to Greece to chase a girl he’d fallen in love with at a wine tasting and sent Blake an email from Santorini, apologizing profusely but making it clear he wasn’t coming back to New York anytime soon.

  There was a plumbing issue in the bar’s second-floor bathroom that cost an arm and a leg to repair.

  And Mode de Vie canceled his feature spread because they’d landed a last-minute, exclusive interview with the notoriously press-shy Crown Prince of Eldora and his fiancée—an American flight attendant and newly minted fashion icon whom the prince’s family reportedly loathed.

  Blake didn’t care so much about Mode de Vie, although it would’ve been great publicity for the bar. He did, however, care about Farrah, who’d worked herself to the bone trying to pull his apartment together for the shoot. She’d never said it, but he knew how excited she’d been about making her magazine debut. He’d caught her Googling a list of interior designers who’d appeared in Mode de Vie when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  Now, he had to tell her it wasn’t going to happen.

  “What’s the status on hiring a new restaurant manager?” Blake asked Patricia, who tapped away on her phone as though her life depended on it.

  “We’ve narrowed it down to three candidates. You have interviews scheduled with them next week,” Patricia replied without looking up. “I also confirmed an interview with City Style to replace your Mode de Vie shoot. It’s not the same caliber, but it has decent readership amongst our target audience.”

  “Is it going to be shot at my house?”

  “No. It’ll be in their studio. They never do on-location shoots for personal features.”

  Blake sighed. “Okay, thanks.” He checked his watch. Almost eight p.m. He’d been up since five in the morning. Awake since three. His head swam with exhaustion, but he’d promised Landon he’d meet him for drinks at The Egret. He’d been so knee-deep in shit and self-pity he hadn’t seen his best friend in weeks. “Let’s wrap it up. Get some rest.”

  “I’m going to send a few more emails first.”

  “Patricia.”

  “Blake,” she mimicked. His chief of staff rolled her eyes at his glare. “Fine. I’ll leave after I send one more email. Good enough for you?”

  “You should be glad I’m such an understanding boss,” Blake grumbled. “Otherwise, I would’ve fired you a long time ago.”

  “You’ll never fire me. I’m the best chief of staff you could have.”

  Dammit. She was right.

  After another reminder about not working too late, which Patricia waved off, Blake exited Legends and took the subway uptown. Since it was a Tuesday, The Egret wasn’t too crowded, and he spotted Landon chatting with Justin at the bar right as he walked in.

  “Sup.” Blake plunked his ass on the seat next to Landon and tilted his chin in greeting before addressing Justin. “Why is it every time I see you, you’re not working?”

  “Do you see anyone else sitting at the bar, jackass?” Justin whipped his towel at Blake. “Besides, last time you were here I was working. So much so you lasered me in half with your eyes when I was slower than usual to bring you your beer.”

  “It had nothing to do with the beer.”

  “What did it have to do with?” Justin smirked. “Wait. Let me guess. Asian, long dark hair, lips that look like they’re made for s—”

  “Finish that sentence and your face will meet my fist,” Blake growled.

  The bartender seemed unfazed. “Maybe not, because you clearly need to get laid. You’re wound tighter than a British lord with a stick up his ass.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Blake’s night with Farrah in Syracuse had left him with a cracked-open chest and balls bluer than a Smurf. His right hand helped, but not much. He could go out and find a willing body to sink
into for the night, but every time he contemplated the option, it sounded as appealing as sticking his dick in a hornet’s nest.

  Farrah had, for all intents and purposes, ruined him for other women.

  “One day, J, someone will hand your ass to you and you’ll deserve every second of it,” Landon clapped Blake on the back. “Bring the uptight one here a burger and a whiskey. On me.”

  Within an hour, the bar filled up, which Blake didn’t mind. It meant Justin had something to do other than butting into his conversation.

  “Everything’s going to shit.” Blake stared at the amber liquid in his glass until it blurred before his eyes. “I swear, it’s karma.”

  “For what?”

  Blake shrugged.

  As usual, Landon read his mind. “That wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. Cleo, the police, your family…no one blames you.”

  I do. “Her dad does.”

  “Her dad’s a jackass.”

  Blake’s eyebrows shot up. Landon almost never cursed. Too uncouth for the $500 million heir.

  He grimaced the second the thought crossed his mind. I’m the jackass. Landon may be rich, but he wasn’t one of those stuck-up, my-shit-don’t-stink types. They met when Blake accidentally kicked a soccer ball in Landon’s face when they were seven. Blake’s mom apologized profusely, and Landon’s nanny freaked out, but Landon just laughed and bet Blake he couldn’t beat him in a one-on-one match. Blake did—the first time around. Landon beat him the second time. They’d been best friends since.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Landon said. “You of all people know how impossible Cleo’s father can be.”

  True. Cleo’s father made Blake’s dad look like a basket of fuzzy newborn golden retrievers. He’d nearly ripped Blake’s head off and fed it to his Rottweiler when he found out Blake had impregnated his only daughter before marriage.

  “I don’t want to talk about Cleo’s father or anything related to Austin,” Blake said, even though a ticket confirmation for his flight home was burning a hole in his inbox. He’d caved and bought a flight home for his dad’s birthday after all—not because he had a particular desire to see Joe, but because he owed it to his mom and sister. “I have enough present shit going on without digging up past shit.”