Chapter Seventeen
The way the rest of them had looked at her.
Regan swallowed down the lump in her throat, beyond hurt that these people she’d been sharing space and meals with for the past six and a half weeks had instantly decided she was guilty of stealing somebody’s idea.
She had to give herself a mental shake on that, though, because if her project had come out first, would Liza have assumed Ava had stolen from her ? Probably. And the gang would be looking at Ava the way they’d looked at her.
“Fucking luck of the draw,” she muttered as she pulled out her suitcase.
And Ava. How could she do that? How could she steal something—from Regan of all people—and pass it off as her own? And then just stand there and let fucking Liza Bennett-Schmidt lambaste her in front of everybody without saying a word?
She was stuffing clothes into her suitcase when the door opened.
Fuck.
She did not want to deal with her right now. Or maybe ever again.
“Regan, listen, please. I—what are you doing?”
She couldn’t look at Ava. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to be reminded of how pretty she was or how she’d begun to find herself lost in those dark eyes or how she’d started to feel safe in those arms. She kept packing. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going home.”
“What? Why?” Regan shot her a look and Ava had the good sense to look chagrined. “I mean, can you let me explain? Please? Don’t go. I think I know what happened.”
Regan kept packing and said nothing, so Ava went on. Her words were urgent, her sentences were run-on, like she couldn’t take a breath. “Remember when Becca took my laptop up here for me yesterday I think you’d left your notes out, she saw them, and I don’t know took pictures? Then she came to me with the idea and we ran with it, worked on it together or so I thought but now, I think she might’ve had all of it in her head because of what she found of yours, and she kind of led me along…”
Regan had to take a breath. She had to count to five to keep herself from unloading like a cannon. She reached five and looked at Ava, finally. When she spoke, she did it slowly. “Seriously? That’s your play? Getting an underling in trouble? Again? I probably should’ve predicted that.”
The barb hit its mark. She could tell by the zap of pain that shot across Ava’s face. It didn’t make her feel good, though, and she returned her attention to her packing.
“Would you please just wait?” Ava’s voice had gone soft. Pleading. Like she knew Regan wasn’t buying her explanation.
“Wait for what?” Regan snapped, throwing the last bunch of clothes in. She shook her head. “The last person I was with fucked me over. Badly. It’s taken me more than two years to get my shit together and feel like I could trust somebody again.” She closed her eyes. “I should’ve known better than to let that somebody be you. You already showed me who you are. Years ago. But I let some good sex cloud my judgment.” Okay, that was a low blow, she didn’t have to see the tears well up in Ava’s eyes to know it. But she couldn’t stop herself. No more deep breaths. No more counting to five. She was too angry. Too embarrassed. Too hurt.
“I’ll fix it,” Ava said, but her voice had lost conviction and the tears had spilled over. Regan looked once and couldn’t look again, so she kept packing. “I’ll fix it,” Ava said again. “Please.”
Regan shook her head. “To be honest, I’m glad to go home. I miss it. I miss my cat. I miss my regular life. This fucking fairy tale had to end at some point, right?” She just needed her stuff from the bathroom. Her stomach roiled so badly, she thought she might throw up.
“I—” Ava seemed to have lost steam now, Regan could tell from her body language. Her shoulders slumped. The tears continued to fall as she cried silently and watched Regan continue to pack. Regan wished she’d leave, let her collect her freaking toiletries in peace, but she stood there and looked—she had to admit it—devastated. It didn’t take long, thank fuck, and Regan was zipping her suitcase.
As she swung her backpack over her shoulder and raised the telescoping handle on her suitcase, she hazarded a glance at Ava, who was looking at her feet now, as if she couldn’t bear to watch Regan walk out the door. Regan almost scoffed aloud. Wishful fucking thinking.
But then Ava tried once more. She raised her watery eyes to Regan and whispered, “I wish you’d just talk to me before you go. Just talk to me.”
She was almost tempted. Almost. But the words pushed out of her before she could falter.
“I have nothing more to say to you.”
* * *
Hauling eight weeks’ worth of clothes and toiletries down the grand staircase gracefully was next to impossible, and it was only in that moment she remembered the driver or some staff member had carried them up. At first she was worried about losing her balance and tumbling the whole way down. Then, after struggling for half the distance, she absently wondered if she should take the dive because it would certainly be faster. It was hard to make your point by stomping off when you were dragging fifty pounds of luggage with you.
When she finally made it to the bottom—after much bumping and banging—Regan wasn’t thrilled to see the rest of the gang in her peripheral vision hanging out in the dining room to her left. She’d hoped to avoid them—still hoped it as she headed for the front door before she heard her name. They’d known her—become her friends, she had hoped—over the past weeks, but they had convicted her without bothering to ask her anything. At all. Fuck all of ’em.
“Ms. Callahan?” It was May, in her boring black pants and boring white shirt and super-boring bun. But was that something in her eyes? Sympathy? Understanding? Regan didn’t have long to figure it out before May continued. “Chef would like to see you for a moment in her office.” She held an arm out, indicating the way was behind her.
She didn’t have to go. There were no rules now. Regan was her own woman and she could damn well leave if she wanted to fucking leave. She stood there for a moment. The others were watching from the dining room—she could feel their eyes on her. A sound above her told her Ava was standing at the top of the staircase. May waited.
With an irritated sigh and a muttered “Goddamn it,” she let go of her luggage and followed May down the hall in a direction she’d never been. They seemed to walk endlessly, turning corners and hurrying down halls—because May did not stroll, she walked with speed and purpose—until they finally reached the office of Liza Bennett-Schmidt.
It was surprising, to say the least, and Regan found herself gaping, gawking like she was in some museum or gallery. While the rest of the house clearly spoke of wealth, it was also a bit…stodgy? Was that the word? Wood and velvet and burgundy. Dark and heavy. Rich, yes, but dark and heavy. Liza’s office, however, was more like the kitchen they worked in—modern and bright and sleek. The walls were white, the windows floor-to-ceiling, looking out onto the gorgeously lush grounds. Regan thought about how much creativity she’d have if this was her space for ideas, if this was where she dreamed up new flavor combinations and delicious new creations for the bakery.
The desk Liza sat at was simply glass and chrome. No drawers to speak of. Not a single smudge or fingerprint on the glass—Regan found herself absently wondering if Liza ever even touched it. Her chair was big and looked supremely comfortable, not to mention ergonomic. She wore a dark skirt, her legs crossed easily, red pumps on her feet. Dark-rimmed glasses sat perched on her nose as she looked over the rim of them at Regan. Her gorgeous auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, less severe than her bun, and she looked amused, if nothing else.
“I’m disappointed in you” was the first thing she said to Regan, then she pulled off her glasses and used them to indicate the chair in front of her desk.
“My idea gets stolen, and you’re disappointed in me.” Regan sat with a sigh. “Of course.”
Liza tipped her head to one side, a sly smile on her face that Regan couldn’t read. “What will it take for you to stay?”
Regan shook her head.
“There are less than two weeks left, and there’s still the money.”
“Right. Because you’re going to give that to the person you think stole somebody else’s work.”
Liza waved a hand and scoffed, like she’d said the silliest, most meaningless thing. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that some people will do anything to get ahead. Even if it means stepping on others.”
“I’ve met a few people like that,” Regan said. “And I am not one of them.”
Liza sat forward and put her forearms on her desk, as if she’d just had a grand idea she wanted to share, like she hadn’t heard her at all. “All right. What if I give you your own room? I suspect you’d rather not be rooming with Chef Ava at this point. Would you finish the retreat then?”
Regan sighed. “I don’t know…”
“I have so much more to teach you.” Liza smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “And you’ll be home in less than two weeks.”
Regan wasn’t naive. She knew her big exit was mostly based off adrenaline from her hurt and anger. Now that she’d had some time to cool down, the offer to stay was tempting. Not to mention the added break of not stressing over trying to avoid Ava when they shared a room. Also, there was the satisfaction of seeing the faces of the others and looking them each in the eye. She stared out the window at the trees, the lush green grass, the gorgeous blue sky that would turn a deep indigo as the summer day came to an end.
“I need to make it clear,” she said, turning back to Liza, “that I did not steal Ava’s idea. If anything, she stole mine. I am not a thief. In addition to that, I’m good enough to not need to steal somebody else’s work.”
“Oh, I know,” Liza said, surprising her. “So? You’ll stay?”
Regan sighed, part of her annoyed that she didn’t storm out and head home like she’d intended to in the first place. She felt the tiniest bit weak over that. At the same time, she’d come for an eight-week retreat, and it had only been six and a half. There were still things she could learn from a master baker like Liza, whether or not she liked her.
And Regan Callahan was no quitter.
“Give me a new room, and I’ll stay.”
Liza clapped her hands once, clearly delighted, and again, there was a part of Regan that was irritated the woman had gotten her way. Liza waved behind her. Why it surprised Regan to see May standing there when she turned, she wasn’t sure. The woman was like a ghost, floating along in silence, suddenly appearing in corners, and Regan would think she’d be used to that by now.
“Show Chef Regan to her new residence, would you?” Liza ordered.
“Of course, Chef.” May held her arm out again, and Regan stood.
“Chef,” Liza said, and Regan turned back to her. “I’m thrilled you’re staying.”
Wish I could say the same was what she thought, but she kept it inside. Instead, she gave a nod and followed May.
It was only after she saw that her luggage was gone and recalled Liza speaking as if the room had already been set up for a guest that she realized Liza had known all along she’d stay.
* * *
Ava’s heart hurt.
She was sad. Angry. Frustrated.
Why wouldn’t Regan believe her?
She’d asked herself that question about seven hundred times so far, and every time, her brain threw her an image of her own face giving her a look that said Really? You can’t figure that one out?
She’d asked May if she could speak with Liza, but May told her Liza was not available until tomorrow. “Are you all right, Chef Ava?” May had asked then. “You look a bit pale. Are you feeling well?”
“No.” Ava didn’t understand why she felt a sudden irritation with this woman. She was only trying to help. Wasn’t she? “No, I’m not feeling well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you rather have some alone time instead of dinner with the group? I can have dinner brought to your room.”
Just like that, her irritation evaporated like vapor off a pond in the morning. Alone time—more specifically, to not face the others right now—was exactly what she needed. “That would be great,” she said to May and thanked her.
That was nearly two hours ago. It had been close to four since Regan stormed out of the room and went home. Because of Ava. Well, because of Ava, but also because she wouldn’t listen to Ava, wouldn’t believe her.
Ava had been the cause of her dismissal before, so why in the world would Regan believe her this time?
But what about all we’ve shared these past few weeks? Isn’t that worth giving me the benefit of the doubt? She felt a little anger start to simmer over that.
And this was the way her internal monologue went for hours, as her dinner sat untouched on a tray, as Regan’s bed lay empty, stripped of the bedding immediately by a member of the housekeeping staff, as Ava lay on her own bed, crying silently and trying to come up with the right text to send Regan and failing miserably.
Somewhere around two in the morning, Ava’s hurt started to be overshadowed by something else: that simmering anger. Because what the hell, Regan? Yes, they had a history, and Ava hadn’t behaved in a happy, shiny manner during that history, but it was years ago. Literal years! She’d apologized several times. And hello? They’d had sex. Lots of it. Lots and lots of it. Good sex. Excellent sex. Mind-blowingly fantastic sex. Maybe Regan didn’t understand that Ava wasn’t a person who did that with just anybody. There had to be a connection. And eventually, feelings.
And here come the tears again.
The anger morphed back into a wrenching sadness. She’d constructed fourteen different texts and had sent none of them. Lengthy explanations. Accusatory and angry outbursts. Pleading paragraphs. At 3:20 in the morning, she’d settled on two lines.
I’m sorry. I miss you.
That was it. She hit send, then turned off all notifications on her phone.
Her eyelids felt like they were lined with sandpaper. Her nose was raw from blowing it. She was exhausted and had to try to get at least a little bit of sleep. She still had to bake tomorrow and be up in—she glanced at her watch and groaned—three hours.
And her heart hurt.
* * *
Ava had fallen into a deep sleep at some point, and at the sound of her alarm, felt like she was swimming up from the depths of the ocean, pulling and pulling until she finally broke the surface. She’d slapped at her phone, sending it to the floor, and then lay there blinking at the ceiling.
She felt like death, heavy and dark. Even taking a deep breath was a chore.
She showered and dressed and stayed in her room until the last possible moment, allowing herself just enough time to grab the largest cup of coffee she could manage to carry down to the kitchen without spilling, skillfully avoiding the others until it was time to work and the opportunity for chatting had passed. She didn’t want to chat. Didn’t want to explain or hear anybody else’s thoughts or opinions on the subject.
Let me bake.
That was all she wanted. To lose herself in sugar and butter and flour. To mix and stir and decorate. To give her brain something to focus on so her heart would take a fucking break. A deep breath helped her focus as she headed down to the kitchen. Vienna gave her a hesitant smile, as did Maia. Paige and Madison hadn’t arrived yet, but she could hear chatter in the hall, and then they scurried in and to their stations. None of the assistant chefs were present. Ava tried not to glance over at Regan’s empty spot, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to see it empty, all trace of her gone like in their room, but glance she did. And the space was still set up for somebody, all the tools and appliances still there. That was a relief—to not see it empty and stark—and Ava felt just a bit lighter.
She was taking a sip of her coffee when Regan walked in, and she coughed as the hot liquid went down the wrong pipe.
Regan took her place at her station, standing tall and stoic, without looking at Ava, who was still coughing. She’d just gotten herself under control when Liza entered the room, looking authoritative and pleased with herself.
“Good morning, chefs,” she said, her tone annoyingly cheerful.
“Good morning, Chef,” they chimed back.
“For the rest of the retreat, you will be on your own. The assistants have finished their assignments and have gone home.”
A murmur ran through the kitchen, and Ava stared at Liza, who stared back at her with the slightest of smirks on her face. Was Ava right? Had Becca stolen Regan’s idea and passed it off as her own? Did Liza know that? What the fuck?
“Today, we’re going to perfect our pate à choux,” Liza went on. She was referring to the delicate dough—often called choux pastry—that was the base of many pastries. It could be hard to master, though Ava was pretty confident about hers; it was one of the first things they taught in culinary school. They’d worked on it early in the retreat, but a couple folks had struggled, so clearly Liza thought they needed more training. How is she going on with the retreat like nothing happened yesterday?
Ava worked on autopilot. She had no choice. If she stopped, if she looked at Regan or made eye contact with Liza again, she was afraid she might fall apart. Her stress levels felt impossibly high, her anxiety through the roof. So she forced herself to concentrate on what she was doing, to ignore the fact that the woman who had come mere inches from stealing her heart and had crushed it instead stood barely ten feet from her, also seeming to focus solely on her work.
I guess this is how it’s gonna be, huh?
Fine. She could do this.
She could do this.
God, can I do this?