Chapter 7
SEVEN
RAY
“Why do you get to go out for breakfast, but I don’t?” Tucker grumbles as I tug a shirt over my head.
“It’s a work meeting, bud.” I ruffle his hair as I pass him for the bathroom. Squeezing product in my hand, I add it to my hair then run a brush through it. I glance at him in the mirror and shrug. “Lots of talking about boring stuff.”
Tucker crosses his arms over his chest and huffs. “Yeah, with yummy food.” His gaze hardens as his lips purse in obvious annoyance.
Washing my hands, I fetch the deodorant from the counter and swipe some on. Then I add a hint of cologne. “Grandma makes some of the best breakfast in town.” I breeze past him as I exit the bathroom and head for the closet. Sneakers in hand, I sit on the foot of the bed and slip them on. “No one’s stuffed French toast is as good as Grandma’s.”
Tucker steps up to the bed on my right and kicks at the end of the comforter. “But she doesn’t make it with chocolate chips or whipped cream,” he grouses.
“T-Man.” I wait for him to look up. When he finally does, I bite my cheek to resist laughing at his forced pouty expression. Unfolding his arms, I hold his hands in mine. “Grandma makes gourmet candies and chocolates every morning she works, bud. I bet if you asked her, she’d make something with chocolate chips and whipped cream.”
A hint of hope glimmers in his eyes. “Really?”
I nod. “Really,” I assure. “Now, go.” Slipping my hands from his, I dig my fingers into his side and wiggle them. “Finish getting ready.”
Squeals of pure joy fill the room as I tickle Tucker. The biggest smile plastered on his face, he swats at me and pushes me away. “S-s-stop.” He snort-laughs and shoves harder. “No m-more.” A hefty dose of hysterical laughter. “I… I… I’m gonna p-pee my p-pants.”
After one last wiggle of my fingers, I release him, and he runs for the bathroom.
Rising from the bed, I glance around the room, checking if I need anything else before heading downstairs. I pocket my phone, wallet, and keys, then head for the hall.
“Finish getting ready, bud. I’ll be downstairs. Go time in five minutes.”
“’Kay,” he shouts as the sink turns on.
Downstairs, I wait for Tucker on the couch. Sifting through a folder about the summer cooking school, I double-check André and I didn’t miss anything. As I skim the last page, Tucker plods down the stairs with his backpack over his shoulders.
“Did you pack your swim shorts?” I ask as I close the folder and rise from the couch.
He reaches around and pats his bulging backpack. “Yep. And my water blaster, fin, and flippers.”
When I asked Mom and Dad if they minded watching Tucker for an hour this morning while I went to a meeting, they offered to keep Tucker a little longer. After our talk, I told Mom I didn’t want to burden her with watching Tucker longer than necessary. She dismissed me with a wave of her hand and said spending time with her grandson is never a bother. She only wants to make sure I’m getting enough time with him.
“You’ve missed so much already, sweetheart. Don’t want you to miss anything else. Tucker needs his dad, and you need your son.”
It’s really that simple.
I may have seen Tucker take his first step, may have heard him say his first few words, but I missed countless milestones after. Like seeing him kick his first ball or jumping and dancing on his own for the first time. Watching him draw his first picture. Answering all his questions about animals and sea creatures and people. Being annoyed with his pouty nos and inquisitive whys. Learning what foods he loves and which ones he can’t stand.
I still have years to experience a different version of those with Tucker, a future full of other firsts, but I’ll never get a chance at the ones I missed. I’ll never get those stolen moments back, and neither will he.
Rushing to his side, I scoop him up off the floor and pin him to my chest. I poke the side of his neck and he tucks his chin to fight me off. “Where are those gills?” I tease as I carry him toward the door.
His giggles fill the air and warm my heart. “S-stop it.” He laughs harder. “I don’t have g-gills.”
I wiggle my fingers across his neck. “I know they’re hiding somewhere around here.” Giving him a moment of respite, I enter the garage and unlock the car. As I set him on his feet, I give him one last tickle around the neck. “All that time you spend at the pool with Grandma and Papa, I swear you’re turning into a shark.”
He opens his door, tosses his backpack across the bench seat in the back, and climbs in. “’Cause sharks are dope.”
There we go with the dope again.
“Yeah, bud, they are.”
The engine barely has time to warm up before we reach my parents’ house. We exchange morning greetings and hugs. Mom tells me to take my time; she and Dad will be at the country club pool with Tucker until lunch.
I kiss the top of Tucker’s head, ruffle his hair, and tell him to have fun at the pool. Then I bend closer to his ear and remind him to ask Grandma for chocolate chips and whipped cream.
He gives a sly thumbs-up then runs off to the kitchen.
“Go to your meeting, sweetheart.” Mom hugs me again. “We’ll entertain our little man.”
I pull her into another hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
Gravel crunches as I back out of their driveway and drive off the family estate. My knuckles blanch as I wring the steering wheel and turn onto Fossil Mountain Highway. My stomach does a small flip when I reach Granite Parkway and steer the car toward the heart of town. As the miles disappear, my left knee bounces faster. Sweat slicks my palms, my grip slipping on the leather.
“It’s just a meeting,” I mutter to myself.
Cranking the air conditioning, I aim the vents at my face and armpits, praying I don’t look like a swampy heathen when I arrive. My thumb taps the volume button on the steering wheel, and I let the rock music steal my attention. I drum my fingers to the beat, belt out the lyrics, and get lost in the song.
By the time I reach Poke the Yolk—a breakfast and brunch restaurant owned by my family and the Kemps—every ounce of calm I gained during the drive goes out the window. I weave through the packed lot and park in a spot near the back. Cutting the engine, I drop my head against the rest, close my eyes, and take a couple deep breaths.
A meeting. Not a date.
Snagging the folder off the passenger seat, I take one last deep breath, then exit the car. Crossing the lot, I enter the packed restaurant and scan the tables and diner counter. I deflate a little when I don’t see her. Glancing at the clock on the wall over the kitchen pass-through window, I note I’m early.
“Looking for someone, sweetheart?”
I startle and turn my attention to the older woman in a Poke the Yolk shirt and apron. The corners of my mouth curve up as I meet her gaze. “Meeting a friend.” More like a stranger, but she doesn’t need to know.
“Give me a minute to clear a table.” She winks.
I scan her name tag quickly. “Thanks, Trudie. Appreciate it.”
From my spot near the door, I survey the crowded restaurant, a hint of pride coursing through my veins. The Calhouns and Kemps may not be founding families, but we sure as hell have made a name for ourselves in Stone Bay.
As far back as records show, the Calhoun family has been a staple in the community. Bakers and stew makers. Produce and meat suppliers. As the way people ate evolved, so did the food we offered. Stored in old wine boxes in my grandparents’ house are stacks of photos of past generations cooking for and serving the residents of Stone Bay. Our love for food has been with us for several generations. It may be more complex and intricate now, but our passion is the same.
While the Kemp family also served food to the community, they are best known for their coffee beans and loose-leaf teas. Their process from plant to cup was unmatched and still is. When the two families decided to join business forces, it was a match made in Stone Bay heaven.
“Follow me, sweetheart.” Trudie grabs two menus and leads me to a table near the window. “Here you are.” She sets the menus on the table. “Can I get you started with something to drink?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Sure thing. Be right back.”
I peruse the menu to distract myself while I wait for my coffee and Kaya. As I decide on the caprese omelet, the chair across from me is pulled away from the table at the same time Trudie returns with a coffeepot and creamer.
Flipping over the mug in front of me, Trudie fills it almost to the rim. “Morning, sweetheart.” She sets the creamer down and turns toward Kaya. “Coffee?”
A soft smile lifts the corners of Kaya’s eyes. “No, thank you. Hot tea would be wonderful.”
“I’ll give you a moment to look at the menu and be back with your tea.” In a heartbeat, Trudie disappears toward the server alley.
I wipe my palms down my thighs beneath the table, swallow past the nervous ball of energy in my throat, and plaster on what I hope is my best smile. “Good morning. Thanks for agreeing to do this.”
Kaya unwraps her silverware, sets it on the table, and places the napkin in her lap. “ Ulaakut .” A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Good morning. Sorry if you’ve been waiting long.”
Sparkling copper-brown irises meet mine and I forget how to breathe, how to speak, how to do anything other than look like a bumbling fool.
A small teapot being set on the table snaps me out of my daze.
“Brought you a variety,” Trudie says, placing a wooden caddy with several tea options on the table.
“Thank you.” Kaya gives her a bright, genuine smile.
Pen poised on a guest check, Trudie glances at me. “Ready to order?”
I peer over at Kaya, and she nods then sifts through the tea selection. Picking up the menu, I hand it to Trudie. “Caprese omelet, home fries, and bacon, extra crispy.”
Trudie scribbles furiously. “And for you, sweetheart?”
Kaya hands over her menu. “Smoked fish bowl, poached egg, heavy on the toasted sesame oil.”
Is it too soon to fall in love with what she eats? Probably. But there is nothing like a woman with a unique food palate.
Awkward silence dances between us the moment Trudie walks away. It’s not uncomfortable, just odd. Different than what I’m used to.
I’ve never been this enchanted by a woman yet so gobsmacked in her presence. When I want something, self-control is my biggest weakness. Anyone who knows me will agree. Without argument, they’ll call me uninhibited, flirtatious, typically the life of the party. A ladies’ man. That I’m more likely to make spontaneous, unwise decisions. Act the fool to make others laugh.
Quiet, subtle, or discreet are not adjectives my friends use to depict my personality.
But something about Kaya urges me to pause and pay attention. To absorb the subtle yet formidable way she takes up space in the room. To bask in the addictive, enthralling energy she exudes so effortlessly. To revel in her .
In a single glance, her coppery-brown gaze warms me more than the summer sun. And I eagerly indulge in her light.
Kaya dunks a tea bag in the pot, my eyes glued to the delicate way she moves. Almost as if it were a dance.
“So…” The single word on her tongue brings me back to reality, though I’d rather stay in her haze. “Tell me more about what I signed up for.”
Ah, yes. The actual reason she agreed to meet for breakfast.
Setting down my mug, I hand her the folder. Her eyes roam the cover before she opens it and thumbs through the small packet and brochure. I give her a moment to peruse the details before I interrupt with my spiel.
“The program is six weeks of classes, and we skip the first week in July.” I lean back in my seat and lay my hands in my lap. “Half a day, Monday through Friday.”
My gaze roams her face as she stares down at the packet, and I get momentarily distracted when an endearing smile tugs at her perfect lips. So full, so pink. A hint of gloss.
Quit staring at her lips.
Shaking my head, I pick up where I left off. “Week one is more verbal instruction than hands on as we teach the kids basic skills and kitchen safety. But we have an incredible lineup each week and plan to show them something new every day.”
Kaya opens the brochure André had Skylar at CKI—the queen of marketing for Calhoun-Kemp Industries—put together. I study Kaya as she skims over the gourmet food, kitchen, and chefs’ images. Do my best to only read her body language and not ogle like a creep. Her gaze stays in one spot longer than anywhere else, but she isn’t reading.
When I sit straighter to see what’s caught her attention, she closes the brochure.
Her gaze meets mine, and I’m trapped in a swirl of cinnamon and honey. Her lips move, but I don’t hear a word.
“Sorry.” I blink, lean forward, rest my forearms on the table, and curse my distracted mind. “What was that?”
Biting her bottom lip to repress a smile, Kaya pours tea into her mug and clasps it with both hands. “I asked what I’ll be doing with the kids.”
Get it together and quit embarrassing yourself.
“André”—I start then correct—“Sorry, Chef Beaulieu and Finley Boland, a cook in our kitchen, will join the class during the first week. Primarily to make sure everyone is following safety protocols and to help guide them if they’re not.” I take a sip of coffee and lean forward more. “A couple parents have volunteered to help here and there. Staff from the various Calhoun-Kemp restaurants also offered their time. But other than me and you, no one is available throughout the entire course.” I drop my gaze to my mug as I lift a finger to trace the rim. “You’ll be working alongside the kids, chopping and cooking”—a corner of my mouth crooks up as I meet her addictive gaze once more—“and helping me translate chef speak into kid talk. Maybe assist me with keeping them in line.”
Light, whimsical laughter bursts from her lips as she lifts a hand to cover her mouth. “Sorry.” She continues to laugh as her neck and cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink.
I unabashedly stare at every inch of her flushed skin.
Soft. I bet her skin is so soft, so warm.
After a moment, she collects herself, her radiant smile still firmly in place. “Kid talk and keeping them in line,” she says in a teasing tone. With a subtle shake of her head, her hand falls away from her mouth. “I’ll do my best but won’t make any promises.”
My lips twitch and I bite the inside of my cheek. “Thanks.” The way this woman always makes me smile—or want to smile—she must’ve cast some hocus-pocus on me.
I lift my mug to my lips, and her eyes follow the action. Heat ripples over my skin like a skipped pebble. When I lower the mug and her gaze stays on my mouth a breath longer, I mentally groan. But it’s when those coppery-brown irises lift to mine that I lose it. Understated fire burns just beneath the surface, and I’ll be damned if I miss a single singe of that flame.
“Should’ve known it was you.”
I startle at the new, unexpected voice and look up to see Oliver Moss—a Stone Bay rock star and Tucker’s current idol—standing at our table with a loaded tray.
My brow furrows. “Sorry, what?”
Oliver grabs a bowl from the tray. “The smoked fish bowl. Only a few people order it. Should’ve known you’d be one of them.”
“Appreciate the flattery, man.” I shake my head and gesture to Kaya with my hand. “But I’m about to disappoint you.”
Bowl midway to my place mat, Oliver’s extended hand pauses as he shifts his attention to the other side of the table. “Really?” he asks, the single-word question loaded with disbelief and awe.
Kaya shrugs. “Guilty.”
Oliver sets a rice bowl piled high with smoked salmon, colorful vegetables, and a poached egg in front of her. “Huh.” His gaze darts between us a beat before he places the other dish in front of me.
I tilt my head at his blatant intrigue. “What?”
“Nothing.” He waves me off then nods to my mug. “More coffee?”
“Please.” I resist pushing him further. Another time.
“Kirsten’s making rounds. I’ll let her know.” And then he spins around and winds his way through the tables, checking in with guests on his way back to the server alley.
“He’s fascinated that I ordered the unconventional breakfast dish and not you.”
I bring my attention back to Kaya. “Yeah, I guess.” Unrolling my silverware, I set my napkin in my lap. “His tone,” I mutter as I spear a piece of potato. “Felt like he wanted to say something else.”
“He did.”
As I open my mouth to ask Kaya how she knows, a woman I’d seen several times when I worked at RJ’s with Dad sidles up to the table with a pot of coffee.
“Ollie said you need a refill.”
I nod and slide my mug toward her. “Thank you.”
Cup filled to the brim, her eyes dart between us. “Anything else you need?”
Kaya shakes her head as I say, “Good at the moment.”
A smile brightens her face. “Holler if you do.” As she turns away, the faintest hmm hits my ears.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to shout, “What’s so damn interesting?” But when I glance across the table, the humor in Kaya’s expression steals my attention.
Over breakfast, I share a little about myself, and Kaya does the same in return. I mention Tucker, and a softness takes over her features as she tells me she’s met him. As we get to know one another, I take small bites and chew slower than usual. Pause more often than necessary. Do whatever possible to drag out our time together.
Minutes feel like seconds as I squeeze in more personal questions. The restaurant fades away. The chatter around us morphs into a dull murmur. Without effort, I ignore everyone and everything except her. Absorb her every word. Bask in her charismatic aura. Get lost in her addictive copper-brown irises.
Kaya . Damn, is she ravishing. Spectacular. An undeniable force.
For an hour, all I see, all I think about, all I want is her.
When Trudie delivers the check, Kaya argues—poorly—when I refuse to let her pay. Breakfast was my idea. This… meeting could have been anywhere and without food involved. It’s only right I pay. At least, that’s what I tell myself when a voice in the back of my head screams date.
With the tab settled, I walk her to her car. My fingers twitch at my side, eager to touch her, feel her warmth, make contact with her soft skin. It takes every ounce of strength to curl my hands into tight fists and refrain.
“Thanks for breakfast,” she says when we reach her car. “And a heads-up on what to expect with the kids.”
“My pleasure.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Glad we got to know each other a little.”
Unlocking the car, she opens the door and sets her purse inside. For a moment, we linger, neither of us sure what to say or do next.
Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, I take a reluctant step back, remove a hand from my pocket, and wave. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
The early June sun shimmers in her eyes, but her radiant smile shines brighter. “You, too. See you in about a week.”
One step, then another, I slowly make my way to my car. As I slip behind the wheel, she pulls out of the parking space and drives toward the exit. And when her car vanishes from view, the bubble of euphoria I’ve been in the last hour pops.
In an instant, reality hits me full force. Slaps me in the face. Reminds me what happened last time I was so smitten with a woman.
Fingers curled around the steering wheel, the leather complains as my knuckles burn. I close my eyes, let my head fall back, and take a deep breath.
Kaya isn’t Brianna.
No matter how many times I repeat it, the truth doesn’t stick. No matter how much I want it to, my mind refuses to believe someone else won’t ruin my life the way Brianna did.
For three years, she told me she loved me. And for three years, I was a goddamn fool.
Irrefutably, Kaya is nothing like Brianna. In every way, they are complete opposites.
But it’s of no consequence.
The last time I handed over my heart, the last time I trusted someone fully, she all but laughed in my face, stole the most important person in my world, and ran off as if it were no big deal. Brianna kept Tucker from me for almost six years—not because she loved him, but because he was useful, and she was wretched and self-absorbed.
I despise Brianna for what she did. Refuse to forgive her for the hurt she so carelessly inflicted. With one selfish act, she wrecked our lives. Scarred our futures. Robbed us of countless memories.
An ache blooms in my chest as my pulse throbs in my ears. Sweat dampens my skin as outrage simmers in my veins. The car feels unsteady beneath me as my breath gets caught in my throat.
Breathe , I command myself. Deep breath in for five. Hold it for three. Exhale for five.
I hate how Brianna still has her claws in me. I hate that because of her, I have trust issues. But most of all, I hate how I refuse to let anyone in fully. How I reject happiness, fearing Tucker and I will be hurt again.
Kaya isn’t Brianna.
If I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it. If I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll learn how to trust again.