Last Chance at the Someday Café Page 16

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, he never told you? You are Tara, right?”

  Tara stared at the man she’d just learned existed a short while ago. The man who was a smaller, albeit just as feisty, version of Morgan. His brother, Jack.

  “Oh, that’s so...Morgan.” Jack laughed. A smooth, warm sound, unlike the roughness that characterized Morgan’s laugh—something she suddenly missed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She faced him, hands on her hips.

  “Have you ever tried to get my stubborn brother to admit anything he doesn’t want to?”

  Like where he went so suddenly yesterday? Or what happened? Or anything about what the doctor said?

  Not once had Morgan shared any of the things Jack was telling her now. Things Jack seemed to think she knew.

  But apparently, Jack knew about her. How many secrets did Morgan have?

  Tara returned inside, focusing on clearing tables, on any task to keep herself from feeling the betrayal that was a ridiculous reaction. She’d known Morgan only a few weeks. Why did she think he owed her any explanations?

  She froze when a hand landed on her arm. Why was she disappointed it was Jack?

  “Look.” He glanced around. “Morgan would kick my ass if he knew I told you this, but cut him some slack.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She didn’t like the fact that this stranger had read her so easily. Were the Thane brothers psychic or something?

  “Yes, you do. You’re thinking he’s a liar. He’s not. He’s the best man I know.” There was strain in his voice as if him convincing her was vital. “After Mom died and Dad, well, Dad fell off the face of the earth, Morgan took over.”

  Jack’s eyes grew distant. “He drove truck to put me through school. He fought dozens of fights.” His gaze came back to hers. “One of those fights? Someone nearly killed him with a choke hold. The damage to his voice is a reminder of that.”

  She froze, staring at Jack, whose face was so similar to Morgan’s. She’d noticed the rasp in Morgan’s voice but never really thought about it. It was who he was. But now that she heard Jack talk, it was more obvious. “Who would do that?”

  Jack laughed, harsh and dark. “You’re so sheltered,” he whispered. “No wonder he’s drawn to you.” Jack took a couple steps away. “If you have any influence, talk him out of this. Please?” He shook his head sadly before leaving the restaurant.

  Wendy stepped out of the kitchen just then, Jack’s change in her hand. “Where’d he go?”

  Tara refocused on the dishes. She heard Wendy go into the kitchen, mumbling to herself. Tara mentally cursed and sank onto the chair at the empty table.

  Now what?

  * * *

  THREE DAYS HAD passed since she’d last seen Morgan. Tara kept looking for him. Whenever the door opened, she’d look up. It was never him.

  When she walked to her car each night, she fought the urge to look over at the empty spot where his truck had sat.

  Every night, when she finally went to sleep—exhausted—her dreams filled with him. Of the hours with him in the truck. Of him sitting there at the counter.

  Was he ever coming back?

  After her third nearly sleepless night, she stood staring at her closet. During culinary school, Tara had spent a chunk of her hard-earned income on chef jackets, matching pants and various head pieces that fit all the images she carried of what a great chef should look like.

  Now, she stared at several hundred dollars’ worth of waste. Not ruined—wasted because she never wore any of it, aside from a chef’s jacket.

  Here, in the small-town diner, these staid, almost formal clothes seemed out of place. In the heat of a real kitchen, the fabric didn’t hold up any better than the comfortable clothes she’d always worn to cook. The steam, the heat, the spills—there wasn’t much difference.

  Except she’d spent a whole lot more money and worried more about the money she’d lose when they were ruined.

  It really wasn’t about utility. It had been about image. Should she get rid of them? Donate or sell them to someone wrapped up in that dream of what a chef was supposed to be?

  Or should she get back into who she’d always planned? Was this a way to get her focus back?

  Shaking her head, Tara tried to laugh at herself. Slowly, she took each item out and looked at it, realizing that she’d bought an awful lot of white clothing. Which was stupid. With her pale coloring and light hair, white made her look like death warmed over. Grimacing, she tossed all the white items onto the bed. She’d donate those.

  What was left were the few colorful things she’d barely worn, not wanting to stand out in school. Now? Now she was in charge and could wear whatever she danged well pleased.

  She stared at a bright maroon shirt for a long time. Big, silver buttons ran down the left side from a mandarin collar. It was similar to the one Morgan had—

  No! Do not go down that path. She focused on the shirt, on the here and now.

  She’d never even worn this shirt except when she’d tried it on in the shop. She’d kept telling herself—someday.

  Was today someday? That’s what the sign over her diner said.

  Holding the hanger up in front of her, she turned to the mirror. The bright-colored shirt still appealed to her, just as it had on that day in the store. She twisted and turned to see the varied angles. The darker color was a good contrast to her hair, and the reddish tone cast a faint pink tint to her skin. She liked it.

  Okay, today, she was going to take that step and leave all the boring white behind. She was going to do what she’d always wanted to do. She pulled the shirt off the hanger, tugged it over her head. She looked into the mirror again and smiled.

  Yes. This was the right thing. This was her taking control and focusing on what was important. Her business.

  She finished dressing and headed to the door, feeling better than she had in a while. Today, she was going to cook. She was going to make food the way she’d always wanted. And that’s all she was going to do.

  She didn’t even think about Morgan. Much.

  * * *

  WHEN TARA WALKED in the front door of her diner, the sun was barely up, and she froze. He was back. Figures.

  Morgan sat in his usual spot, a newspaper in front of him, a coffee in hand.

  “He came in about an hour ago,” Wendy said as she passed, carrying a tray of dirty dishes.

  She was not going to get sucked in again, Tara told herself as she walked across the dining room. She had a business to run, and Morgan Thane had no place in that plan.

  She headed toward the kitchen, letting the swinging doors swish behind her, hard. Normally, she caught them, but she just wanted to get away. Maybe hide.

  After dropping her things in the office, Tara stomped over to the baker’s table. Pulling the eggs out of the fridge, she smacked them against the side of the big bowl that perpetually sat there, ready to use. Crack, sploosh. The eggs fell into the growing puddle of yolks and whites.

  She didn’t have to look at the recipe. This was one of Mom’s, one Tara had made since she was a kid. She yanked a wire whisk from the rack above and proceeded to beat the eggs into a frothy mix.

  “I’m sorry.” Morgan’s voice startled Tara. She dropped the whisk, and the metal handle flipped over the bowl’s rim to skitter down the front of her pretty shirt.

  She turned and stared—or was she glaring?—at him. He took a step back. Glare, she’d bet. Looking away, she tried to control her features.

  “Sorry,” he repeated. “Again.” He stepped toward her, close, warm and smelling of the coffee he’d been sipping, the faint scent of the damp morning and something else. Something she didn’t even try to identify. It was the smell of Morgan—a man who drove her crazy.

  “It’s fine.” She gr
abbed a dish towel and mopped at the glop of egg on her shirt. At least it would wash out. The shirt wasn’t ruined.

  “No, it’s not.” He didn’t go away. “I shouldn’t have startled you. Among other things.”

  She fought the chagrined smile as she turned back to the eggs. Focus, she reminded herself, focus.

  “Can I help?”

  “Uh...no.” She wasn’t used to having anyone offer to help in the kitchen. Her staff, yes, but no one else. Not her brothers and certainly not customers. “Grab a chair from the office.” She pointed to the open door, since the industrial kitchen wasn’t normally a place people sat and there wasn’t much other choice. “I don’t mind the company.”

  Maybe he’d offer up that explanation he’d promised her. She refused to ask. He had to take the first steps here.

  Morgan came back with her mother’s chair, and she almost said something. It looked so small next to him. He spun it around, sat and stacked his big arms across the back. She should take a picture, except her phone was in her purse in the office.

  The silence while she worked was uncomfortable. Did he notice it, too?

  “I owe you an explanation,” he said.

  “Ya think?” She looked pointedly at him and he laughed.

  “Yeah, I do. About more than just the trip to the urgent care.” He paused as if thinking over what to say. “I left the other day and didn’t even say goodbye, and I’m sorry for that.”

  “I appreciate that.” She waited for him to continue. This was all on him.

  “I went home.” He paused. “Jack seems to have taken a liking to you.”

  “Really? He seems nice enough.”

  “Don’t let him fool you. He’s tough.”

  “That doesn’t make him bad.” Who were they really talking about here? Neither of them spoke for a long time.

  “I did some things I should have done long before now.” He paused, waiting until she looked over at him. “I saw my attorney.” He waited for that to soak in. “He’s going to file the divorce as contested. The authorities will be looking for Sylvie now. I won’t much longer.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean, much longer?” This didn’t sound good and the look on his face didn’t help.

  “My dad was an abusive asshole,” he said without preamble. “He treated Jack and me like punching bags. As soon as I graduated, I got out and on the road. I knew I needed money and fast, so I drove dangerous loads for extra money and started bulking up.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to make sure he’d never hurt Jack or me again.”

  She wanted to stop him but knew this was what he needed to say, and she needed to hear it.

  “I met people—” His eyes grew distant and pain-filled. “People who noticed, and I started fighting in back-alley matches. It was more money than I’d ever thought I’d make. It allowed me to get my brother out of Dad’s house and put him through college.”

  Then she realized what he was telling her. She carefully set the bowl aside and stepped over to him. “That’s what you did the other night? How you got hurt?” The bruises had faded, but they were far from gone.

  “Not exactly. I went there, yes.” He shot to his feet as if he couldn’t sit any longer. He paced the length of the pastry table, then turned to face her. “That’s how Sylvie and I originally met. At those fights. I heard of one here and I went to see if I could find her.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yeah?” His answer was more question than affirmation. He paced again. “I found her, but a guy called Bull got between her and me.” He flinched and rubbed his jaw with his hand as if it still hurt. “He’s a mean one. I’ve beat him before, but that was a long time ago.”

  “You can’t go back there,” she said, moving closer to him, knowing full well that’s what he intended. “I—” How could she tell him she wouldn’t let him? She didn’t control him. They barely had a friendship.

  “I am going back, Tara.” He stopped just inches away from her and put his hands on her shoulders. “That’s part of why I’m telling you this. I’m scheduled to fight tomorrow night.”

  “No!”

  “I’m committed. And before you get all upset, I’m not just going in there to find her. Another person I saw at home was a high school buddy of mine who’s a cop.” He laughed like that was a big joke.

  “What did he say? He told you not to do it, right?”

  “Not exactly. We talked, that’s all. I know I can’t continue fighting. Besides not wanting to, it’s only a matter of time before the cops find out. I can’t afford a record. But for now—” He shrugged. “It’s my only choice.”

  Jack’s words echoed in her mind. Talk him out of it. Morgan would think she was crazy if she laughed aloud instead of just inside her head. Yeah, it sounded so easy. Not. She put the finished batter into the cake pan, then wiped her hands on the towel at her waist.

  Morgan headed toward the door. She reached out, grabbing the loose fabric of his shirtsleeve, then moved her hand to curl around his arm. The splint was gone, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was really healed. Remembering how he’d looked after that last fight made her shiver.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and reiterated, “Stay here.”

  He looked at her hand, then into her eyes. “I’m not going to change my mind.” But he didn’t pull away.

  She stared at his throat, where there was no visual evidence of that long-ago injury. The rasp in his voice that Jack had mentioned stood out now. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? She’d never admit it to Jack, or even to Morgan himself, but that growl was part of what made him so appealing, part of what sent shivers up and down her spine.

  What else was damaged inside him?

  “I—I know.” She took a tiny step closer to him. “I mean now. Tonight. Stay here. With me.”

  Maybe she’d come up with something to convince him it was too dangerous or show him that the fight wasn’t worth the risk.

  “Don’t try to distract me.” He smiled despite the warning in his voice. “You’re not going to change my mind.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy trying.”

  He laughed and swept her into a loose embrace. “Oh, baby...I thought you’d never ask.”

  She considered that progress. For now.

  * * *

  WHAT WAS THAT god-awful buzzing sound? It took what seemed like forever for Tara’s brain to click into place and figure out that it was her alarm clock.

  It took even longer for her brain to realize the alarm was on the other side of the bed. And a very large, very sound-asleep body was between her and it. Of course, she didn’t grasp those implications fully until she was reaching across Morgan, and while the clock had been silenced, the heat racing through her had not.

  She wasn’t wearing anything more than she had been when she’d fallen into sated sleep. Rough, warm hands engulfed her hips, holding her gently in place. There was no mistaking the hard, hot length beneath the covers, nor the answering thrum of her heartbeat.

  “Do you usually get up in the middle of the night?” His hand slid up the curve of her bare back.

  “Y-yes.” He was distracting her. Delicious memories of how he’d kept her awake well past her bedtime flooded into her mind and washed over her body.

  “Ah the joys of all-night diners.” Morgan’s lips found the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “And all-night pharmacies.” He reached toward the nightstand—again.

  “How much time before you have to leave?” His lips found the side of her neck and she shivered as he tasted her.

  “Probably not enough.”

  He flipped her onto her back and settled the heaviness of his erection at the juncture of her thighs. “There’s always time enough.” His lips came down on hers, h
ard and insistent. She responded in kind, curling her fingers into his shoulders and holding on tight as he thrust quick and hard inside her.

  He felt so good, and she didn’t remember ever coming awake so fast. But she was wide awake now, her body wanting more, wanting all of his.

  And he wasn’t holding anything back. The strength she admired in him nearly overwhelmed her. His shoulders, wide and strong, made her feel small and yet protected. The muscles of his arms, so large and solid, made her feel weak and yet not, more like he acknowledged he could and should share his strength with her.

  “Come with me,” he growled in her ear and the pleading command was enough to push her over the edge.

  “Morgan!” His name tore from her lips and shattered in the air around them as she shattered around him. He trembled in her arms, collapsing on top of her as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Morgan,” she whispered his name, tasting it just an instant before he kissed her long and sweet.

  He didn’t let her go, instead turning over and pulling her with him and into his arms, snuggling her head in the crook of his shoulder.

  Time ticked by, but she stayed there waiting for the snooze to go off. She didn’t want to leave him.

  She needed to get up, but questions spun around in her head. Was he expecting to stay here? Why hadn’t they figured this out? She blushed. Like any of this was planned?

  Then she remembered tonight. All the heat left the room and she shivered.

  “You’re thinking again.”

  “No, I’m—” She was lying.

  “I can fix that.” Morgan rolled her over again, and he was right. She stopped thinking.

  * * *

  JACK SAT IN the back booth of Tara’s diner. The whole crew rushed around, refilling coffee cups, carrying out big trays full of meals, laughing, smiling and collecting payment. It was a beautiful insanity that intrigued him.

  He normally spent his day in an office staring at a computer screen. He had very little interaction that wasn’t through the computer or briefly with one of the drivers who dropped in. This place intrigued him like nothing else ever had.

  Wendy came over, her order pad ready. “Oh,” she said and smiled. “It’s you. How’s it goin’? Jack, right?”