I stared at the amber liquor in my glass. It didn’t matter how much of this I drank; not a single drop would make me feel.
I’d tried changing that last night, and the only thing it had earned me was a whopping hangover this morning.
I hadn’t wanted to work tonight.
I didn’t want to be in this fucking restaurant.
Shit … I didn’t know what the hell I wanted anymore.
But I knew I didn’t deserve even a syllable of the gratitude that Rachel had expressed. It was the staff who held things together, who had achieved almost the impossible tonight.
My presence had only ripped them apart.
I drained the rest of my glass and returned the tumbler to my drawer and got up, making my way into the kitchen. Thelights were still on. A few of my employees scattered about, finishing up their closing duties before they took off.
I hadn’t eaten a thing since I’d arrived, and my stomach fucking ached.
I went into the walk-in and grabbed a raw cut of rib eye and a small container of mushrooms, and I brought them over to the gas range. I liked my beef Pittsburgh-style, so I prepped the cast iron pan with extra butter, watching it sizzle from the fire. I could tell when the metal and dairy reached the right temperature—the bubbles in the butter peaked and popped—and I set the steak in the center. I got out a spoon and a few sprigs of thyme and rosemary, and when I estimated about seven minutes had passed, I flipped the beef, dropping the fresh herbs and vegetables into the butter, spooning the excess onto the meat.
I’d made this exact meal thousands of times. Not just for customers, but for myself.
I could do these steps with my fucking eyes closed.
I could look at a rib eye and know just when the center had reached the level of red I desired.
And with the way my stomach hurt, I would think I’d wait out the next seven minutes and then devour this meal like I’d intended.
But the sight and scent of it were making me sick.
I took the pan off the heat, and as I was carrying it to the sink, where I was going to dump it, I happened to glance through the shelves of the prep station, where the most gorgeous brunette was walking past.
A brunette whose familiar locks were wrapped tightly on top of her head. Whose blue eyes were wide as she looked at me. Whose petite frame had stopped dead in her tracks, as though she were a deer connecting with headlights.
It took a moment, a quick rewind of time, as my brain tried to process what I was really looking at.
Why the woman I’d spent two nights with was standing in the middle of my kitchen.
Why she was in a Charred uniform.
Why she was staring at me as though I was the last person she wanted to see.
I was trying to connect the pieces, but the questions were coming in too fast.
I set the pan on the range and went around the prep station, halting directly in front of her. “Sky?”
Maybe I was seeing things.
Maybe she had a fucking twin.
“Yes.” When she went to take a breath, I could tell the air wasn’t moving through her lungs, and she pressed against her chest, holding her hand there. “Yes … it’s … me.”
“But why? I … don’t understand what’s happening right now.”
“I wish I didn’t either.” She glanced down, her shoulders rounding, her body almost folding in. “My real name is Alivia.”
“Alivia …” Why was that so achingly beautiful, like her? “What are you doing here?”
She looked up and scanned my eyes from right to left, now clutching her hands in front of her. Her lips parted, but nothing came out of them. Her face was so full of expression; I couldn’t tell which emotion was coming through stronger.
