Page 25 of Stolen Dreams

At this, he lights up. His joviality feels familiar. As if I’ve seen it before. I sift through my memories, and it isn’t long before realization hits.

The boy in my office earlier this week—Tucker Calhoun—this is his dad. Ray Calhoun. Not sure why I didn’t piece it together sooner. I blame my libidinous daydreams since he approached the table. Fair excuse.

But now I’ve connected the dots. Now, I see him a bit differently.

He’s not just a chef or social media superstar. He’s also a man working hard to make a better life for his son. And that makes him more attractive than any of his other attributes.

Ray squats and rests his forearms on the edge of the table. “Chef Beaulieu and I are offering our first kids culinary schoolthis summer. Last-minute idea, but we’re not worried about filling spaces.”

“Sounds fun,” I admit. “They’ll love it.”

Clarissa sits back and sips her wine. “Sounds like torture,” she teases.

Ray ignores Clarissa and gives me his full attention. “Could use some help wrangling the kids.” He doesn’t outright ask me to help, but I hear the suggestion in his voice.

Beneath the table, Clarissa knocks my foot with hers. “Kaya is great with kids, and they love her.”

I glance across the table at my friend, kick her shin like I wanted to minutes ago, and smile. “Thank you”—I turn back to Ray—“but I’m working at the rec center this summer.” I give him a sad smile. “Sorry.”

Clarissa’s eyes widen as she tilts her head at Ray. “Shift some stuff,” she says. “The rec center has plenty of workers and volunteers during the summer. I’m sure they’ll be fine if you miss a few hours a day.”

I glare at her. “I promised my time, Rissa. They’re counting on me being there.”

Clarissa opens her mouth to say something but stops as Ray stands up.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a business card. Unclipping the pen hooked on his chef’s coat, he writes on the card. He caps the pen, hooks it back on his coat, and then hands me the card.

“If you’re able to swing it, let me know. The kids would love to see you, I’m sure.” He takes a step back from the table. “My personal cell is on the card. Call me. We’ll sort out the details.” Dazzling smile on his face, he takes another step away from the table. “Thanks for coming in, ladies. Was nice to meet you, Kaya.”

My cheeks warm as my name rolls off his tongue. I swallow and nod. Open my mouth to say it was nice meeting him as well but don’t get the chance. Before I return the sentiment, he spins on his heel and retreats to the kitchen.

Every molecule in my body begs for me to turn and watch him walk away. To soak up a few more seconds of him. To ogle his broad shoulders and swagger. But I don’t. I train my eyes forward and stare at Clarissa’s shocked expression.

“Oh. My. God.” Her hand smacks the table. “Oh my god,” she repeats. “He likes you.”

My brows shoot to my hairline as I shake my head. “What? No, Rissa.” I glance down at the suddenly hot card in my hands, his number scrawled on the back. “He’s being nice because he needs help.”

“You can’t be serious.” Clarissa scoffs. “Has no one flirted with you before?” With a slight tilt of her head, she arches a brow.“Was nice to meet you, Kaya,”she says mockingly.

I roll my eyes.

“I openly flirted with him the entire time. Practically shoved my tits in his face.”

“Rissa,” I whisper-hiss as my gaze roams nearby tables.

She waves me off. “Point is, it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t looking at me.” Sly smile on her face, she glances toward the kitchen then meets my gaze. “That man only saw you.”

Lips rolling between my teeth, I drop my gaze to my plate. Load a bite of fish onto my fork, but don’t bring it to my mouth. Turn immobile as my eyes lose focus. Clarissa’s words repeat in my mind over and over.

“That man only saw you.”

Each reiteration heats my blood more. Has my pulse thrumming harder, louder in my ears. Makes my hands tremble in my lap as nervous energy flutters in my belly.

I flashback to the way he held my gaze, piqued interest in his rich-brown irises. I examine the way he smiled at me versus Clarissa and note the clear differences. How he leaned more in my direction than hers when he moved closer to the table.

Body language doesn’t lie. I hate to admit it, but Clarissa is right, to some degree.

A soft hum dances beneath my skin, and I take a deep, methodical breath to settle my nerves. I revel in the feeling and question what it means—for me and the future. But I don’t ruminate long.

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