If Tomorrow Never Comes

Chapter One Elliott

Chapter One

Elliott

On the evening before her untimely demise, Elliott Holland went on someone else’s date.

Okay, possible demise.

The mortality rate for what she was about to do was around 30 percent, so her odds were decent. Still, people rarely walked around knowing their exact chances of being alive three months from now, so it was hard not to ruminate on it, at least a little.

Tomorrow morning, she’d show up to the hospital at eight o’clock sharp for a week’s worth of massive doses of chemotherapy. Enough to completely obliterate her bone marrow, which would kill her if some Good Samaritan hadn’t donated their stem cells to repopulate her body’s blood supply.

It had sounded scary at first, but her innate bone marrow was complete shit. Had gone haywire twice and would likely progress to leukemia a third time if she didn’t go through with a transplant. The goal was to get rid of her own marrow, like digging deep to scrape out the roots of a dead tree, then refill it with someone else’s healthy cells.

It still sounded scary, honestly. But she had no choice. If she didn’t go through with it, she’d probably die of leukemia, and she wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

She also wasn’t about to walk into that mess without a little fun first, which was how she ended up in a cooking class, making a fancy soufflé with a hot stranger named Jamie. An hour ago, she’d been at a bar in the Old Market district of Omaha, wearing her cutest jeans and holding a cocktail in her hand. She’d be wearing a glorified sheet with her ass hanging out for the foreseeable future and wouldn’t be able to drink alcohol for even longer, so ... priorities.

“You sure you don’t want me to come?” her mom had asked earlier that evening, lounging on the hotel bed while Elliott swiped mascara across her lashes.

“If this will be anything like the other times I’ve been hospitalized—and I’m expecting it to be worse—I won’t have a moment of peace for the next few months.” She wouldn’t so much as fart without someone seeing it on a monitor. Even if things went well after the first few high-risk weeks and she was allowed to go back home to Lincoln while she recovered, her parents would hover like teenagers with backstage passes at a Harry Styles concert. “This is my last chance for some alone time.”

Her mother, bless her, though clearly disappointed, didn’t argue.

Once Elliott exited the hotel lobby and crossed the street, she passed several restaurants and wine bars with lilting music and muted conversation. A couple of them had potential, but she ultimately kept walking until drawn by the sound of laughter.

Tonight, she needed happiness and distraction, not solitude or a quiet that would lead to introspection. She’d have plenty of time for that.

She landed in front of a swinging wood door with the word Tavern etched across it. Single scraps of paper littered the window just to the left, blocking her view inside but advertising live music, trivia nights, and other themed events.

She pushed through the door, her eyes going wide with wonder. She’d expected a dim dive full of dark wood finishes, leather booths, and an impressive line of draft beer behind an oak bar. Instead, a trio of chandeliers sparkled back at her, casting starlight across the long, narrow space. Several customers sat at a sleek black bar top with bright teal and gold tiles cascading to the floor. Dozens of tiny alcoves lined the wall behind the bar, each filled with bottles of liquor and wine. A white ledge bordered the ceiling, and lush green leaves spilled over from colorful pots harboring several types of plants her mother probably would have known the names of.

The vibrant atmosphere was perfect for tonight. She considered claiming a two-top table, just to see how comfortable those emerald-velvet-covered armchairs were, but opted for the bar. Better for a single, and better for people watching.

She took her time perusing the cocktail menu and ultimately ended up asking the bartender, a burly man named Gus with full-sleeve tattoos and a bright-red beard, to surprise her with something floral and sweet. Her hopes weren’t high since he seemed more like the kind of man who knew his way around bourbon rather than vodka, but he flipped her unfair stereotype on its head when he brought her a beautifully concocted, pale-pink cocktail with a sprig of lavender.

She took a sip and stared at him. “This is the best drink I’ve ever had.”

He graciously ignored the surprise in her tone and swiped a towel across his side of the bar top. “It’s all in the garnish.”

The room filled quickly, and by the time she’d made it halfway through her drink and started on a plate of hummus and pita bread, a band began warming up on the stage in the corner.

Her phone buzzed and she smiled at the candid photo on the screen before putting it to her ear. “I wish you were with me right now.”

“Ooh, where are you?” her best friend Yuka asked. “I expected your mother’s sobbing in the background, but I hear music. Ergo, I wish I was there, too.”

“‘Ergo’?”

“It felt right.”

“I found a bar near the hotel. You’d love it, even if it’s way too cool for me. Mainly it just met priority number one in that my mother isn’t here.” She loved her mom, truly. And Elliott would never be able to repay everything she and her dad had done for her during her diagnosis (both of them) and everything that came with it. Some days she got the feeling being the parent of a child with cancer was worse than being the patient.

Other days she called foul, believing nothing could be worse than the hand she’d been dealt.

“Fair.” Yuka knew better than anyone how suffocating parents could be. When Elliott first met Yuka in the pediatric cancer ward at the tail end of her successful neuroblastoma treatment, Yuka had never been unaccompanied. One or both of her parents had always been around. “A bar, though? Proud of you. Any cute men?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really looked.”

“I’ll wait.”

Elliott snorted. “What would I do if there was? You know what happens tomorrow.”

“Yeah, tomorrow . You’ve got all night to be something other than a cancer patient for once. What have you got to lose? Live it up, honey.”

Some days Elliott wished she had Yuka’s devil-may-care attitude. But be something other than a cancer patient? She wouldn’t even know where to start. “Not likely.”

“Could you try to surprise me just once, Ellie? Literally, all I want in this life is for you to call me one day and tell me you did something completely wild. Threw caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they may.”

“Like the time you snuck into that exclusive club in Denver and ended up in a six-week whirlwind romance with a guy who played for the Rockies?”

“God, yes. Ten out of ten recommend.”

“Not gonna happen. And it’s not my fault you’re impossible to shock.”

“That’s not true. Remember the time you told me you think cheesecake is pie, not cake?”

“Cheesecake is pie.” She’d die on this hill.

“We’re not having this conversation again.”

“You brought it up,” Elliott said, smiling even as she shook her head. Yuka would arrive next week to spend a few days at the hospital, and it couldn’t come soon enough. She missed her laugh already. “Was there a reason for this call?”

“Is there ever? Just calling to check in. How are you feeling? Nervous? Excited? Did you forget anything? I can run by your house before I come up on Friday.”

Nervous? Yes.

Excited? Not quite.

“I think I got everything, and honestly, I’m just ready to get it over with.”

“I get that. This time better be the last with this bullshit, yeah?”

“So they say.” She’d been in remission before, and it hadn’t panned out. Despite better odds for a transplant to finally cure her for good, it wasn’t guaranteed. Her hopes weren’t terribly high.

“Worth a shot and better than dying.” Only a fellow cancer patient would speak so candidly. “I’ll talk to you or your mom tomorrow, and see you soon?”

“Yep.”

“Hey,” Yuka said. “Do me a favor before you go.”

“I’ve already told you I’m never getting a tattoo.”

“Scan the room. Just once. Check out your options.”

“Yuka.”

“I’m not hanging up until you do.”

Elliott rolled her eyes. She stared at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar and took the final sip of her drink. “Fine, I did it. No one to write home about.”

Yuka sighed heavily. “Damn.”

“Bye, friend.”

Elliott ended the call and set her phone down, regarding the darkened screen with a small smile. Cancer sucked on virtually every level, but it had led her to a lifelong friend all those years ago. There were some things outsiders would never understand, and while Elliott would never wish the disease on anyone, sometimes it was nice to have someone around who knew exactly what she was going through.

“Sorry to eavesdrop,” a deep voice said from her right, bringing Elliott out of her thoughts. “But did I just hear you say cheesecake is a pie ?”

It took her a second to process they were speaking to her, and she turned to regard the person two seats over. She went still, breath catching in her throat. A very, very attractive man with wavy, dark-blond hair and light-colored eyes looked back at her. Thick-framed tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose, and a slight smile curved his lips.

Well. She’d just told a big fat lie because she’d 100 percent write home about this man.

She blinked, recovering. “I did.”

The man’s expression transformed to something with mock severity, but one corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re wrong.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Sorry?”

“Cheesecake isn’t pie.”

Her spine straightened. “It most certainly is.”

“How do you figure?”

She’d have been thrown off by the conversation if she hadn’t argued it repeatedly with Yuka over the years. “I don’t care if it’s in the name; it’s not a cake. Cakes are bread-like and have batter that rises. Cheesecake is neither of those things.”

“You’re right,” he conceded, but before she could say I know , he added, “It’s not pie or cake.”

She opened her mouth, then paused for a second. “What is it, then?”

“A tart.”

“A what?”

“Tart.” He grinned then, transforming his face into something even more beautiful, which was really saying something. He seemed pleased with himself in a way that, strangely, didn’t seem arrogant. He just looked ... happy.

Elliott couldn’t help but smile, but narrowed her eyes and crossed her legs. His eyes dropped briefly as she did. “Do tell. How did you come to that conclusion?”

She tilted her head as she half listened to his monologue about pastry shells, custard, and a lack of pastry layering on top, inconveniently cataloging details of this man to memory. He looked to be around thirty, give or take a few years. His hair was slightly disheveled in that I-know-it-looks-good-and-I-don’t-care-enough-to-fix-it kind of way, and on closer inspection, his eyes were a muted green, like the needles on the pine trees at her parents’ house. Hazel, maybe? His nose was straight and speckled with a few tiny freckles, and his cheekbones sloped to an angular, defined jaw. A tiny dimple dented his skin on the left side of his mouth as he smiled and took a pull from his beer, waiting for her response.

For a second she thought he might have bested her, which she’d never admit, but then something came to her. “What about pecan pie? It doesn’t have a pastry layer on top. No one questions its identity as pie.”

“Ah, but pecan pie isn’t filled with custard.”

“What about pumpkin?”

His expression faltered for a second. “Pumpkin pie may be in question, you’re right. Maybe it’s a tart, too.”

She cocked a brow. “Or they’re both pies, like I said.” But none of them are cakes, she wanted to tell Yuka.

Also, who was she right now? Elliott wasn’t shy, per se, but she wasn’t normally the type to kick off an argument with a complete stranger. Yet here she was, and thoroughly enjoying herself, too.

“Jamie, are you mansplaining cheesecake to your date?”

Elliott startled at the boom of the bartender’s voice. His eyes were on the stranger beside her, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

Her seatmate darted a glance at her. “Damn, Gus. She’s not, um—”

“He ... Jamie?” She paused in question; was that what the bartender called him? Gus nodded. “ Was mansplaining. But we’re not on a date.”

Gus blinked at her, then frowned at Jamie. “When we talked earlier, I thought you said ...?”

Jamie’s neck flushed. “This isn’t her. I think I got stood up.” He checked his watch. “Twenty-five minutes is late enough to call it, yeah?”

Elliott winced and Gus nodded sagely. “Probably. Sorry, man.”

Jamie shrugged, draining the final drops of his beer. “It’s fine.” He slid his bottle forward. “Give me another on the house, will you? Now that you’ve embarrassed me in front of a pretty woman.”

Smirking, Gus took the bottle. “I think you were embarrassing yourself, but okay.”

He stepped away and Jamie turned to her, a sheepish grin on his face. “I wasn’t trying to be a dick. It’s just, my sister owns a bakery, and she has strong opinions about cheesecake. She’s made me listen to that speech five times at least, and apparently I’m carrying on the torch.”

His voice was appealing, too. Deep and smooth and ... Dammit . She ignored the dimple and the flutter it caused in her belly. Forced her brain to blow right past the pretty woman , too. “How often do you strike up random conversations about dessert?”

“This is the first,” he admitted. “But I gave up on my date ten minutes ago and had been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you, so when the opportunity came, I went for it.”

She dropped her gaze for a beat, cheeks heating. Despite it being impossible, she was inclined to think Yuka had something to do with this. Elliott wouldn’t put it past her to light some sort of enchanting incense. “I’m sorry you got stood up.”

“Eh, it was someone from a dating app, and we haven’t talked all that much. I wasn’t too invested.”

She nodded as if she knew what he meant. In reality, she hadn’t been on a date in years, and the total number she could count on one hand.

Cancer was a real cockblocker.

“Honestly, I’m more disappointed about missing out on dessert than anything.”

Dessert? Elliott side-eyed Gus as he tipped a clear glass underneath a spout several feet away. “Do they have a secret menu here I didn’t see?” She’d be interested ... The hummus had been damn good. Something sweet would be even better.

Jamie laughed. “No. My sister told me about a place a couple doors down that does baking classes for date nights, so I made reservations. First dates are so awkward, you know? I figured as long as the first half-hour wasn’t a crash and burn, we could go make French vanilla soufflé while we got to know each other.”

Elliott put a hand to her chest, unable to stop the moan that slipped from her throat. “I love soufflé.”

“God, me too.”

Gus brought Jamie a fresh, hoppy-scented beer, and Elliott eyed the large man standing across from her. “Got any candy back there? It’s kind of an emergency.”

The bartender squinted, stroking his beard. “Candy? I have a stout on draft that’s heavy on the chocolate, but it’s so thick you can basically chew it. Jamie’d probably like it, but it’s a far cry from that cosmopolitan I made you.”

She made a face. “Never mind.”

Gus chuckled and disappeared to serve a trio of middle-aged women chatting at the other end of the bar. A warm sensation shimmered along her collarbone, and she turned to find Jamie’s attention squarely on her face.

He regarded her thoughtfully. “Would you—” He stopped suddenly, shaking his head. “Nah, too weird.”

“What?” she pressed as he took a long drink. Curious E , her dad had dubbed her as a kid. Always asking why, pressing for more information.

Never letting anything go.

“I was going to ask if ...” He passed a hand across his jaw. “The cooking class. Would you want to come with me?”