“But Grant—”
“He will come around,” Van whispered, searching her eyes with his. The emerald green of his eyes was fringed with blondelashes. She could stare at him for a lifetime and never get tired of looking at him. “Please, Hope. Don’t make me say good-bye yet.”
Chapter Ten
Heart still pounding erratically in his chest, Van escorted both women back through the tunnel and up the sidewalk toward the restaurant.
When Grant had stepped into the kitchen and said his name, Van had held up a finger, in the middle of speaking to his cooks on the other side of the line. He’d felt Grant step up next to him, but had ignored him until he was done giving instructions.
“Van—” Grant had grated, the deep, gravelly tone of his voice breaking through his concentration. Turning to look at him, panic had assailed him at the whiteness of his friend’s face. Like he’d seen a ghost, or was ready to pass out.Fuck, was it—
Reaching one hand out, he demanded, “Grant, are you okay—”
But Grant had shaken his head, pinning him with a stare that could level a room. “Hope.”
If he hadn’t known any better, he could have sworn that his heart had stopped as he’d stared at his friend, their eyes having more of a conversation than their mouths. “Where?”
“Table fifteen.”
Pushing past Grant, he’d fairly sprinted out of the kitchen. He beelined for table fifteen, but didn’t see anyone with long blonde hair at the table. Turning in a circle, his eyes scanned every single face in the room. Anxiety made his chest tight. Not seeing her, he’d rushed back to the kitchen, dragging Grant away from everyone else. “She’s not out there. Are you fucking sure?”
Grant shoved at his chest, hard enough to knock him back but not enough to send him sprawling. “Yes, I’m fucking sure! She was here.”
Spearing the fingers of both hands up through his hair, he swore, turning to put his back to Grant. Addressing the kitchen as a whole, he shouted, “Derek is in charge, I’ll be right back!”
A chorus of “Yes, Chef” rang out and he nodded before exiting the kitchen again.
Striding to the hostess stand, he’d asked, “A woman with blonde hair, did she just leave?”
Jenny nodded, pointing to the door. “I think I saw her go right, Chef. Is everything okay? Is she in trouble?”
“Everything’s fine,” he called, rushing out the heavy wooden door and down the brick paved walkway to the sidewalk. Turning right, he jogged, glancing every direction, looking inside parked cars as he passed. Up ahead, the tunnel that burrowed beneath the highway separating the gaslight district and the Bay Front Park was lit from inside. As he got closer, his chest seized when he could hear the deep, wracking sobs that echoed from inside, and he rushed forward. Rounding the corner into the tunnel, he’d stumbled at seeing her for the first time in six weeks.
And then he’d had her in his arms. Heard her voice, felt her body beneath his hands, against his chest, smelled the blueberry and honey scent of her. Nothing had prepared him for seeing her again.
Now, as he walked the two women toward the restaurant, Hope stopped at the walkway toward the front door, and he sensed her panic without her saying a word.
“We can go in through the back,” he said gently, his hand never leaving hers. He looked over to her sister. “I’ll take care of her. Please, enjoy your evening with the girls. I’ll inform your server that your table’s tab is on me, tonight.”
“No, that’s really not necessary—” Hope’s sister protested, but he raised his eyebrow and she stopped, before saying, “Thank you. That is very kind of you. The other ladies will be smitten.”
She reached out and squeezed Hope’s other hand, staring at her for a long time before releasing it and heading back into the restaurant. Van raised her fingers to his mouth, pressing his lips to the back of her fingers briefly. “Come on. I’ll sneak you in the back.”
They made it into the back side of the restaurant without encountering anyone else, to which he was grateful for, if only to give Hope the chance to collect herself.
His brain still hadn’t completely wrapped around the fact that she was here, standing with him, her hand tucked into his. He could smell her, feel the heat of her skin against his. He was terrified that if he closed his eyes, if he even so much as blinked, she would disappear. That somehow maybe he’d had a psychotic break and was hallucinating the entire thing.
Opening the door to his small office, he entered, pulling her with him. One lamp had been left on where it sat in the corner of the room. “Have a seat, little one. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, staring at him with those wide blue eyes. He smiled gently and cupped her cheeks in both of his hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a long heartbeat, before pulling away and stepping back.
Stepping out of the office, he made it down the hallway and opened the door to the main restaurant. Skirting the tables quickly, he stepped toward the bar and when Jackson, their head bartender, noticed him he hurried over. “Chef, what do you need?”
“A glass of water and a cup of coffee. Use the French vanilla cream, please,” he said, pushing his fingers up through his hair, remembering how she liked her coffee from Chicago. He glanced around. “Where’s Grant?”
Jackson was already working on the water and then stepped back to pour a cup of coffee. Van watched as he swallowed hard. Not good. “I’m not sure, Chef. He was in the kitchen last I knew. He uh… he made Jenny cry.”
“Fuck,” Van muttered and shook his head. He picked up the water and coffee. “Okay. I’ll find him. Thank you.”
