His reply was soft, devastatingly gentle. “Go make your tea.”
My eyes never left the steam rising from the small teacup I’d set out for Ash as I took a sip from my own. The sweet but subtle notes of dandelion root floated across my tongue on a wave of raspberry and honey. On instinct, my eyelids lowered, a sound of utter bliss and contentment leaving me as I let my body sink farther into my side of the couch. Tipping the teacup back down, I let out a heavy sigh, feeling the aches in my neck and shoulders. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”
“You should’ve let the paramedics take you to the hospital,” he noted.
I stiffened. Having to go to a clinic once a week for my insulin was one thing, but a hospital? It would draw too much attention. A voice, one I hadn’t heard in two years, echoed in the back of my mind, triggering a memory.
You’re free to live your life but be cautious. This fight isn’t over yet.
A rough, low sound came from Ash. “You’re going to be sore for a week, at least. If your pain worsens, you need to go to your doctor.”
I opened my eyes, finding him in the same spot I’d left him in when I ventured into the kitchen a few minutes ago to put the kettle on. “I will,” I murmured, holding his dark eyes framed by even darker lashes. “I promise.”
His cheek moved, a muscle jumping under the skin. “How’s your tea?”
“Amazing. A cup of warm tea has never let me down.” I hummed, taking another sip. “Just what I needed after today.”
He shifted, leaning forward in my armchair, putting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped between them. “Something else happen today?” he asked.
“My sous chef is quitting,” I said, blowing out a breath. The conversation Felix and I had in Marg’s office replayed in my head, though now it felt as if it happened days ago. That was something I noticed. When I was with Ash—at least during the three experiences I’d had with him—time always seemed to slow down. “Which is horrible, but what makes it worse is that he recommended that I take his place.”
Something flashed over his features, but he recovered quickly. “You’re a chef?”
“Pastry chef,” I corrected. He said nothing, waiting for me to give him more. With a sigh, I sat up, took another sip of tea, and cradled the cup in my lap. “I went to culinary school and had every intention of going off and working under talented head chefs. Then eventually, maybe, opening my own restaurant. I had dreams, but then those dreams faded away and I had to settle.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
He lowered his voice. “Why did your dreams fade away?”
My chest tightened, old wounds threatening to be cut open. “You know why,” I rasped, watching his nostrils flare, his gazeturning cold. He broke eye contact, looking out the window beside him, staring in the darkness for some time.
“Ash?”
“Do you want to be a sous chef?”
Pressing my lips together, I bent my head, watching the ripples in my tea. “I don’t know. Everything has changed. I’m not the same woman I was ten years ago.”
To that, he gave me nothing, instead turning the conversation back to why I’d asked him to stay. “Tell me what you want to tell me.”
“Well—”
“I know you’re trying to be nice,” he said, tipping his head to the tea set on the coffee table, “and while I want to love it, I can’t. So please, Angel, say what you need to say so we can both move on.”
Right.
Of course.
My hand shook as I reached out to put my teacup on the table. The firewood crackled and shifted in the hearth across from me. “I should have never told you to stay out of my life.” His gaze collided with mine, the air in the room becoming charged, and his brow slowly furrowed as the words kept spilling from me. “When I came into Astoria to start a new life, I did it at the expense of yours.”
Because I thought you weren’t allowed to be in mine.
My new freedom came with stipulations.
He started rising from his seat. “Angel—”
“You left town. You left…everything. Youdisappeared. For a while, I was scared to leave this house because of the risk of running into you, and then you were nowhere to be found. I thought…I thought I would feel relieved when I heard that you’d left. But I wasn’t. Instead, I was hit with this horrible guilt. I avoided your friends and their kindness because I knew,deep down, they blamed me for running you off,” I pushed out, looking up at him as he moved to the center of the living room. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry for forcing you—pushing you away—when all you’ve done is save me.” I could hardly breathe; the air was so thick. The fire crackled, the glow of it dimming and brightening all around him. “I just, I just wanted to live a life free of my past,” I pushed out. It was all I could give him.
