My pulse stuttered. “Braxton mentioned that?”
“Yes. He said his sister is a fan. Evidently she would buy such a book. And I thought, well. Who better to collaborate with than someone who knows my style. Someone I trained.”
Trained. The word made my hand curl slightly around the edge of the counter in an effort to ground myself.
“I don't know if I could do something like that,” I replied non-commitally.
He moved closer again, into my space. “Of course you could. You and I always worked well together. Imagine what we could create. Something warm. Something genuine. Like old times.”
Old times.
The phrase hit me in the chest with a dull ache.
I remembered his voice in his kitchen, the way he used to lean in, just like this, to compliment my work in front of others. I remembered thinking it meant something. How proud I felt the first time he rested his hand on my back to guide me past another chef. I remembered the night he handed me a plate and whispered that I made him look good.
“You always had a crush on me,” he said now, his voice dropping lower. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel the spark we had.”
My throat tightened. He was wrong and he was right. And I hated that both could be true.
I stepped back, but he stepped forward.
“Janie,” he said softly. “We could make something incredible together. Just like we used to do.”
I remembered thinking we were together and being naive enough to tell my family. I recalled waiting for him after workwhile he stayed late with a hostess I never saw again. When I overheard him say I was delusional, that I meant nothing to him. I remembered him firing me the next day with a small smile that had felt like a slap.
I froze. My body remembered too much. My heart remembered too much. And all of it twisted together into a tight, small feeling I could barely breathe around.
His hand came up, trailing a finger down my cheek. “I missed you.”
Then I heard footsteps.
Braxton entered the kitchen carrying a box, no doubt from the delivery truck that was scheduled for this morning. He stopped when he saw us. His expression shifted. It was subtle. A small tightening around his eyes. A change in the way he held his shoulders. But I saw it.
He saw James standing too close. He saw me frozen. He saw something he misunderstood.
“Morning,” he said politely. He didn't look at me the way he usually did.
James stepped back just enough to appear casual. “Braxton. You can set that box on the counter.”
I opened my mouth to explain. Nothing came out.
Braxton nodded once. “I see. Well. I should let you continue.”
He set down the box and left before I could make my tongue work. The sound of the hallway door closing was soft, but it slammed on my emotions.
James watched him go. “Does he always interrupt conversations? He seems to be around a lot.”.
“No,” I said, though my voice sounded thin.
“You seemed happy to see him yesterday. I thought perhaps there was something there,” James observed, narrowing his eyes.
I remembered how James could be when he thought he didn’t have my undivided attention. He had been cruel to anyone he saw as a threat. He had money and power and blacklisted more than one staff member from the industry.
I stared at the countertop. “There’s nothing.”
“Good,” he said. “Then we can talk about the cookbook without distractions.”
He reached out and touched my arm, resting his fingers lightly against my skin. Every part of me recoiled on the inside.
