“Evan, I want to know what happened, but I have a life now and you need to know…” She trails off, her eyes darting away from mine.“What?”

Gazing up at me, she continues, “Whatever you have to say, it’s not going to change a thing. We’re over.”

My heart twists and breathing becomes difficult. Mother fuck, her words cut deep, hurting even though they aren’t true. Sure, she believes them on some level—she had to, in order to get through what I did. Yet, along with the hurt and disappointment swimming in her eyes, there’s also tenderness and love.

“Tell me you’re happy and I’ll walk away.”

We always pushed each other, challenged the other to face our fears, to be honest with ourselves, with each other. I need to hear her say it. I don’t believe it, but if she is over me, I need to hear it in her voice and see it in her face—not because I want to, but because it’s the only way I can even begin to accept that we’re over. Even then, it’s not possible.

“I’m happy.” Her tone is laden with bravado, but no true emotion. Even her gaze, which never wavers from mine, is flat.

Shaking my head, I briefly cast my eyes downward to suppress my smile. “No, you’re not.”

“Van.” I flinch at that fucking name.

As a child, I thought it was so fucking cool to have a nickname that only my best friends would call me. Now, hearing “Van” from her pretty lips, I want to obliterate the word from her vocabulary, fucking kiss the word out of her.

“You can call me asshole for all I care, you’re not happy,” I retort in frustration. Catching my tone, I breathe deeply and loosen my fists to relax. “Don’t lie to me, and most of all, don’t lie to yourself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You want to see what you want. I’m with Greg, and we’re happy.”

She grimaces infinitesimally, then averts her eyes from me. Unable to read her, I’m not sure if it’s because she means it and doesn’t want to hurt my feelings or if the lie tastes nasty in her mouth.

“Sweetness, I know everything there is to know about you, without apology. You can’t lie to me.”

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Burned by love once before, divorcee Olivia Cassidy isn’t looking for a recipe for “happily ever after”. The first time she thought she found forever, it turned out to be a marriage with no sizzle and no spice.

Busy starting up her own business and raising two older children, love is the last thing Olivia is looking for—but when the sexy young chef Samson Beaulieu comes into her life, he’s suddenly mixing up something new.

Now it’s up to Sam to show Olivia how delectable their future can be. He may know how to heat things up—both in the kitchen and in the bedroom—but is Sam really made to love her?

“Ladies, you left without saying goodbye,” he playfully admonishes, holding his hand over his heart like he’s wounded by our callous departure.“We’re so sorry,” Erin purrs, stepping out from behind me to plant her palm on his forearm.

Sam briefly flicks his eyes to her before shifting to pin them on me, their sea green depths shimmering with something akin to hunger.

“Olivia, can we talk for a moment?”

Fits of giggles erupt from both Sin and Erin. Yes, these are my best friends, although I’m seriously reconsidering that at this moment as the two grown-ass women act like a bunch of star-struck teenagers.

Hanging my head in sheer embarrassment, I mutter, “Would you please leave us alone?”

Sam confidently inches closer to me, then it hits me—my friends’ lame outburst has diverted my attention from the real concern. Sam. I’m wildly turned on by this hot young man standing before me.

Stepping back, out of the circle of light, I’m plunged into darkness. Moving into the same spot I just vacated, his striking frame is illuminated by the fluorescent glow from above, like a spotlight beaming down on the main attraction. If I didn’t know he was a chef, I’d swear he was a model.

“I don’t usually do this,” he says.

“Do what?” I’m confused, my mind reeling and heart battering.

“Chase women.”

I snort. Real attractive, Olivia.

“Is that what you’re doing?” I quirk an eyebrow in question. He nods once, his smile still in place. “Well actually, come to think of it, of course you don’t. They usually fall at your feet,” I sarcastically add at the memory of the evening’s revolving door of women surrounding the kitchen. I bet tonight was an average turnout for him.

“Fall at my feet?” He chuckles, one side of his lips tipping up in amusement. “I must’ve missed that because I don’t remember any women at my feet. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”

“I guess we see things differently,” I quip. “What do you want, Sam?”

“I want you to go out with me.”

 

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