Page 63 of Last Chance at the Someday Café

She froze when a hand landed on her arm. Why was she disappointed it was Jack?

“Look.” He glanced around. “Morgan would kick my ass if he knew I told you this, but cut him some slack.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She didn’t like the fact that this stranger had read her so easily. Were the Thane brothers psychic or something?

“Yes, you do. You’re thinking he’s a liar. He’s not. He’s the best man I know.” There was strain in his voice as if him convincing her was vital. “After Mom died and Dad, well, Dad fell off the face of the earth, Morgan took over.”

Jack’s eyes grew distant. “He drove truck to put me through school. He fought dozens of fights.” His gaze came back to hers. “One of those fights? Someone nearly killed him with a choke hold. The damage to his voice is a reminder of that.”

She froze, staring at Jack, whose face was so similar to Morgan’s. She’d noticed the rasp in Morgan’s voice but never really thought about it. It was who he was. But now that she heard Jack talk, it was more obvious. “Who would do that?”

Jack laughed, harsh and dark. “You’re so sheltered,” he whispered. “No wonder he’s drawn to you.” Jack took a couple steps away. “If you have any influence, talk him out of this. Please?” He shook his head sadly before leaving the restaurant.

Wendy stepped out of the kitchen just then, Jack’s change in her hand. “Where’d he go?”

Tara refocused on the dishes. She heard Wendy go into the kitchen, mumbling to herself. Tara mentally cursed and sank onto the chair at the empty table.

Now what?

* * *

THREE DAYS HAD passed since she’d last seen Morgan. Tara kept looking for him. Whenever the door opened, she’d look up. It was never him.

When she walked to her car each night, she fought the urge to look over at the empty spot where his truck had sat.

Every night, when she finally went to sleep—exhausted—her dreams filled with him. Of the hours with him in the truck. Of him sitting there at the counter.

Was he ever coming back?

After her third nearly sleepless night, she stood staring at her closet. During culinary school, Tara had spent a chunk of her hard-earned income on chef jackets, matching pants and various head pieces that fit all the images she carried of what a great chef should look like.

Now, she stared at several hundred dollars’ worth of waste. Not ruined—wasted because she never wore any of it, aside from a chef’s jacket.

Here, in the small-town diner, these staid, almost formal clothes seemed out of place. In the heat of a real kitchen, the fabric didn’t hold up any better than the comfortable clothes she’d always worn to cook. The steam, the heat, the spills—there wasn’t much difference.

Except she’d spent a whole lot more money and worried more about the money she’d lose when they were ruined.

It really wasn’t about utility. It had been about image. Should she get rid of them? Donate or sell them to someone wrapped up in that dream of what a chef was supposed to be?

Or should she get back into who she’d always planned? Was this a way to get her focus back?

Shaking her head, Tara tried to laugh at herself. Slowly, she took each item out and looked at it, realizing that she’d bought an awful lot of white clothing. Which was stupid. With her pale coloring and light hair, white made her look like death warmed over. Grimacing, she tossed all the white items onto the bed. She’d donate those.

What was left were the few colorful things she’d barely worn, not wanting to stand out in school. Now? Now she was in charge and could wear whatever she danged well pleased.

She stared at a bright maroon shirt for a long time. Big, silver buttons ran down the left side from a mandarin collar. It was similar to the one Morgan had—

No! Do not go down that path. She focused on the shirt, on the here and now.

She’d never even worn this shirt except when she’d tried it on in the shop. She’d kept telling herself—someday.

Was today someday? That’s what the sign over her diner said.

Holding the hanger up in front of her, she turned to the mirror. The bright-colored shirt still appealed to her, just as it had on that day in the store. She twisted and turned to see the varied angles. The darker color was a good contrast to her hair, and the reddish tone cast a faint pink tint to her skin. She liked it.

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