Page 9 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
She raised a hand, "I’d rather not."
Yeah, that hurt. I forced a smile to my lips and moved to unlock the door. "Well, come on in, then, and tell me what you think."
God,I hated seeing him. It hurt like hundreds of little pushpins being stabbed into my heart. Watching him drive up in that big, show-off truck of his and climbing out… it had been a special, torturous kind of déjà vu. The truck was different. Patrick was different. He had filled out. He wasn't fat, but he looked like a man now, not like the boy I remembered. Just like his brother Gabe—whom I enjoyed watching playing football on TV—Patrick McCloud had grown into the kind of man women daydreamed about—or like one of those men Carol liked to write about. Broad shoulders that stretched the limits of his flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with muscle, jeans faded in the way that came from actual work, not fashion. His hair was longer than I remembered, brushing the back of his neck in soft, dark waves he clearly hadn’t bothered to style. Stillrunning his hand through it like it might hold answers, I noticed. It didn’t. It only made it worse.
And then there were his eyes. Whiskey brown, just like they’d always been. A little tired now, maybe. A little guarded. But still impossibly warm. Still the same eyes that once looked at me like I eclipsed every sunrise he’d ever seen.
My heart did that stupid thing again. The lurch. The flutter. The traitorous ache. I told it to shut up. Patrick opened the door, turned back to me, and God help me, flashed that damn smile at me. The one that showed off the dimple on his left cheek, the one that still made my knees go weak. And just like that, I felt myself unraveling all over again.
"What do you think?" Patrick's voice penetrated my mind enough to help me call up my game face again. Business. Right.
I stepped past him into the shell of the restaurant, brushing too close—not on purpose, not really—but my arm still grazed his, and it was like being shocked by memory. My breath hitched, traitorously and loudly in my own ears, but I kept walking. Pretending not to notice his small wince and refusing to wonder what that meant. Did he feel it too? Or did he recoil?
The inside was raw. Bare studs. Exposed beams. Concrete floor, still dusty and uneven. But the bones were good—really good. High ceilings. Great natural light. The kind of space a chef could mold into something extraordinary.
“You designed this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He nodded. “Every inch.”
Of course he did.
Of course he built me a cathedral. It was ironic that he hadn't even known it was for me while he did it. Some might call this divine justice.
“It’s just a shell right now,” he said. “Waiting for the right person to bring it to life.”
My fingers curled slightly as I walked farther in, brushing the unfinished wall. I tried to picture it with my ovens, my line. I tried to imagine noise and heat and life in this space. And I could. I could see it all so easily, it made my throat tighten.
“This space has potential,” I said, trying to sound detached, as if my heart wasn’t beating too hard and my palms weren’t starting to sweat.
“I thought you might like it,” he said quietly.
I turned to face him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His voice was gentle.
“That tone.” My voice wavered. “ThatI remember the exact way you take your coffeetone.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “Still more sugar and cream than actual coffee?”
I swallowed hard and looked away, pretending to study the support beams so I didn’t have to see the expression on his face. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to walk in here, critique the layout, nod politely, and walk away untouched. But my chest ached. My hands trembled. My stupid heart kept catching in my throat.
“What made you think of me for this?” I asked, finally turning back to him.
He was watching me—really watching me, like he used to, like nothing about me had ever stopped mattering.
"It was your food. Carol took me toSalt & Flame. The moment I tasted your food, I knew it would be perfect for this place."
His eyes devoured me in a way that made something in my chest crack. It couldn't have been my heart, because he cracked that a long time ago into a hundred pieces. Still, in my mind, I heardyou would be perfect in this place, because that was what his gaze was conveying, and for a fraction of a moment, I almost allowed myself to believe it.
I cleared my throat, desperate to break the spell, to reclaim some sliver of distance, but to my horror, I heard myself say, “Carol should have warned me that it was you.”
“She didn’t tell me either,” he confessed in a raw voice. Why was his voice raw? Didn't that imply that he was hurting too, seeing me? Or was that again just wishful thinking on my part? Not that I wished for it. Why would I wish for that?
“Great,” I muttered. “Blind date, but for real estate.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips at that. "I missed your snarky sense of humor."
His words were like a punch to the gut. All air left me. Why the hell would he say something like that?
