Chapter 4 #2
The kitchen buzzed again later, as dishes were brought in, leftovers portioned for families, and compost bins filled with Pudge-defiled napkins.
Liv and Mike stood side by side, wiping down the long prep counter and stacking utensils.
"I think I survived," Liv said, reliving the whole evening with a kind of gleeful astonishment she wasn't used to.
"You more than survived." Mike smirked. "You made Kenny talk twice in one day. That's ceremonial achievement level right there."
Liv laughed and stepped around him, holding a catering size tray.
"I got it," Mike said, attempting to relieve her of the burden.
"I’ve got it," Liv said at the same time, continuing her forward motion.
They both pulled. The tray tipped. A bowl of leftover glaze slid sideways, and Liv lunged to catch it. Mike lunged the same direction.
They collided.
Stumbled backward.
Straight into the walk-in fridge.
The heavy door swung shut behind them with a soft, final click.
Liv froze. "Did we just get locked in here?"
Mike tested the handle. Rattled it.
He let out a low groan. "Yeah. Dammit. I told Joe to fix this latch last week."
"I'm not dying in a walk-in fridge," she said flatly.
"You won't. I've locked myself in here twice before. Someone will be by soon."
"Soon meaning...?"
"Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour."
"How does someone lock themselves in here twice?" Liv asked, rubbing her arms against the cold. Her sleeveless tank top was fine for a warm Texas evening, but not a cold food storage room.
Mike scratched the back of his neck. "First time, I was hauling a brisket and kicked the door shut by accident. Second time, Kenny closed it on me."
"On purpose?"
"He said it was an accident." Mike's grin was lopsided. "But he also said I needed to learn patience."
"And did you?"
"Hell no. I yelled for twenty minutes."
Liv laughed despite herself, and the sound echoed in the cold metal space.
"Don't you have your cell phone?" she asked after a beat.
He patted his pocket. "Afraid not."
Mike shrugged out of his flannel and handed it to her. "Here."
She hesitated.
"I insist," he said.
She took it and slid her arms into the sleeves. The shirt was warm, earthy, infused with smoke and something unmistakably him.
The silence stretched. Breath clouded in front of them.
Mike leaned against the shelving, arms crossed. "You don't carry a phone."
It wasn't a question.
Liv pulled the flannel tighter. "I have a prepaid. For emergencies."
"Most people under forty have their phone surgically attached."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he said quietly. "You're not."
The cold seeped through her jeans. She could hear him breathing.
"My real name's not Ramsey."
The words came out so quiet she wasn't sure he'd heard.
But he had.
Mike went still. Not the kind of still that meant he was startled. The kind that meant he was processing. Calculating.
Then he exhaled. Slow.
"Okay."
That was it. Just okay?
Liv's eyes stung. She didn't know why. "That doesn't bother you?"
"Should it?"
"I lied on my application. I—"
"You gave me a name." His voice was steady. Calm. "Maybe not the one on your birth certificate, but it's the one you're using. That's enough for now."
She stared at the floor. "I didn't lie to cause harm. I just... needed space to breathe."
"Then breathe." He pushed off the shelf. Crossed the small space between them. "You don't owe me anything you're not ready to give."
She wanted to tell him everything. The blood on the marble. The man in the tux. The detective who told her to run.
But the words stuck.
"I'm not dangerous." She’d said those words to him before, felt the need to repeat herself.
Mike's arms came around her, slow and careful, like he was giving her time to pull away. "I know."
"How?"
"Because dangerous people don't bake biscuits at five a.m. and get misty when a six-year-old says their tongue feels betrayed."
A laugh bubbled up, wet and shaky. "I didn't cry."
"You got misty. I saw it."
"That was the cayenne."
"Sure it was."
She leaned into him then, let herself be held, let the warmth of his body chase away the cold. Her breasts were cushioned against the solid, muscled breadth of his chest. She slid her arms fully around his waist, let herself luxuriate in the sensual press of their bodies.
The fridge stayed cold. Nothing else moved. Their bodies pressed together, seeking and offering warmth and something else neither of them was ready to name.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
Joe stood there, toolbox in hand, one brow raised at the sight of them wrapped around each other.
"Sorry, bro. Should've fixed this last week." He stepped back. "You two good?"
Mike released Liv but kept a hand on her shoulder. "A little cold. And a little pissed about the lack of maintenance."
"Got you. Won't happen again. I'll fix it right now."
Liv scooted past them both, still wrapped in Mike's flannel, and disappeared through the kitchen toward the staircase.
Joe waited until her footsteps faded. Then he looked at Mike. "You gonna tell me what that was about?"
"Nope."
"She tell you her real name yet?"
Mike's head snapped up. "What?"
Joe leaned against the doorframe, casual as Sunday. "Liv Ramsey doesn't exist. Not on social media. Not in any culinary database I could find. No restaurant reviews, no press, nothing." He paused. "Which means either she's a ghost, or she's hiding."
Mike's jaw tightened. "You ran a background check on her?"
"Didn't have to. I Googled her name after the biscuit bake-off and came up empty. That's weird, Mike. Especially for someone who supposedly owned a bakery in Manhattan."
"She's got her reasons."
"I'm sure she does." Joe's voice softened. "But if trouble follows her here—"
"Then we handle it."
Joe studied him. Then nodded. "All right. But you need to know what you're getting into."
"I know exactly what I'm getting into."
Joe didn't look convinced. But he didn't push. Just grabbed his toolbox and got to work on the latch.
Mike stood there for a long moment, staring at the door Liv had disappeared through.
Then he turned and walked outside.
Still a little rattled after her encounter with Mike in the cold storage, but too keyed up to go to bed, Liv made her way back downstairs and joined Heather and Lyle out at the fire pit.
Heather poured her a cup of cocoa from a thermos.
She accepted the mug and sipped, watching Charlotte chase fireflies across the darkening lawn.
"That dessert you made," Lyle said. "It was like the flavor of a secret. The kind of thing someone needed to say but couldn't find the words for."
Liv blinked, throat tight.
Heather smiled at her over the rim of her mug. "For a vet, he can be pretty poetic."
Lyle looked at his wife with a soft smile, and Liv felt a pang of longing so sharp it stole her breath.
She'd never had anyone look at her that way. She'd been too busy climbing the ladder of success. Too focused on the next review, the next investor meeting, the next impossible standard to meet.
She was beginning to realize how much she'd missed.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s a pretty accurate description. I was embarrassed and mad and determined to prove myself when I created it.”
Boot steps scuffed across the gravel. Mike lowered himself into the Adirondack chair next to hers, so close their arms nearly touched.
“Well, mad served you well,” Mike said, obviously having overheard.
Liv's heart skipped.
The ranch glowed behind them. The stars blinked overhead, quiet and steady. Fireflies blinked between the trees as cicadas hummed their high-low song. Warmth from the fire enveloped her as the gentle breeze shifted the flames.
For the first time since fleeing her world of danger and deadlines, Liv sat beneath the Texas sky and felt something close to peace.
Then her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She froze. After their mishap in the walk-in fridge, she’d gone to her room to retrieve the phone. But she hadn’t expected it to ring.
Because no one had this number. No one except Detective Sanchez.
Mike leaned closer. "You good?"
"Yeah." She forced a smile. Pulled the phone out and glanced at the illuminated screen.
Unknown number.
One text.
We know where you are.
Her hands shook as she shoved the phone back in her pocket, pretending it was the most natural thing in the world, pretending not to notice the sharp looks between Lyle and Mike.
It took every ounce of strength she possessed to stay seated by the fire, to not blurt out the whole nightmare story, to not go running into the night.
Mike moved his hand next to hers on the wide arm of the Adirondack chair. His thumb brushed over the top of hers, back and forth, so gently she could have wept. He had to have felt the tremor running through her.
But he didn’t pry. Didn’t draw attention
He merely gave her his strength in the silent, soft brush of his thumb.
It was a gift she wasn’t sure she deserved or could accept.