CHAPTER TWENTY

“IT’S NOT YOUR fault,” Paulie said, tears leaking out of her eyes. “I never had a chance with him. At least we got to hang out a little, though.” She took a shuddering breath and reached for the Chicken King bucket. Rufus, who hated when people cried, gave a moan of sympathy (and chicken-lust) from where he lay with Paulie’s pug and two of her cats.

“Paulie, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Colleen patted her friend’s calf. “I talked to Gwen, and apparently she fired him his second day.”

“It’s okay. Really.” She smiled, then choked a little, then resumed eating. Hey. comfort eating. No judgment from Colleen, that was for sure.

It was the day after the party; the Chicken King had banned Colleen from his princess’s room the night before, though Colleen had been up until 2:00 a.m. talking to her on the phone. This morning, Mr. Petrosinsky had barely let her in, and Colleen couldn’t blame him.

“You want a wing?” Paulie asked thickly. “It’s Haitian JooJoo Spice, deep fried twice for deliciousness.”

“No thanks.” It was nine o’clock in the morning. The chicken did smell good, though. Rufus agreed, licking his scruffy chops. He put his head on Paulie’s shin and gave her his best “they’re going to gas me in an hour” look. As usual, it worked; Paulie gave him a chunk of chicken, which he inhaled.

“Paulie...” Colleen paused. “Maybe Bryce isn’t good enough for you. Have you thought of that?”

Paulie took a tissue and blew her nose so loudly Rufus jumped. “No. I haven’t because he is. He’s funny and smart and nice and generous.”

“You sure? You’re not just hoping he’s all those things?” She winced as she said it, not wanting to disillusion Paulie. But Bryce had done what he always did—picked up some shallow, attractive woman for sex, rather than see that Paulie was worth ten of them.

“You should see him at the animal shelter, Colleen,” Paulie said, wiping her eyes. “He’s so dedicated! I mean, it’s a crap job, literally, and he doesn’t care! He talks to the dogs while he does it, says things like, ‘You deserve a nice clean place, don’t you, pal?’ And he’s gotten every single animal adopted since he started there. Even that smelly old Boxer with the hip dysplasia who bit everyone. Lorena Iskin took him, and the dog is like a new person.”

“No, he’s good at that. He got me Rufus, after all. But maybe—”

“His problem, Colleen, is that he doesn’t feel like he’s worth anything. When he was a kid, he always had Lucas around, being perfect. Then there’s his mother, basically telling him all he should do is live with her forever and be a mama’s boy. His father was always just the fun dad, never making him stay in college or get a job. That’s why he takes the easy way out. Because no one believes he can do the hard way.”

Wow. “Except you.”

“Yeah.” Her eyes filled again. “It’s not just those blue eyes.” She took another wing. “Though they don’t hurt the cause, either.”

Colleen took a deep breath. “You know what? I don’t think this bride person is going to last. Let it run its course, and we’ll—”

Paulie tossed the chicken bone in the bucket. “No. I’m done. I don’t want to keep embarrassing myself. I have some pride. He doesn’t want me.”

The words stabbed right through Colleen’s heart. “Paulie, don’t give up.”

“It was a good try,” she said with a sigh. “And I really appreciate your help.” Paulie looked at the bedspread (fuzzy yellow chicks with pink flowers in their beaks, utterly adorable). “So you and Lucas seem to have something going on.”

“We don’t have anything except a past,” Colleen said.

“That’s not how it looked to me.”

“Well, I’m about to be stupid and get my heart broken again, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Oh, please,” Paulie said, grabbing a piece of chicken rather violently. Rufus and Mrs. Tuggles looked at it with great hope. “Don’t be an idiot, Colleen. Do you know what I’d give to have someone come alive when he saw me? I mean, yeah, it would be so amazing if it was Bryce, but anyone! Anyone, Colleen! And you have this beautiful pirate of a man who looks at you like you’re na**d and covered in Krispy Kremes! So what if things didn’t work out the first time? So frigging what?”

Colleen closed her mouth. “Right,” she whispered.

Paulie gave her a hard shove. “Get out. Go rock that man’s world. You owe it to the rest of us who’d sell body parts for just one kiss from a guy like Lucas. Or Bryce. So just go and stop trying to protect yourself from a little heartbreak, because you know what? Just once, I’d love to be heartbroken because someone loved me and left me, instead of heartbroken because I never got on that train at all.”

* * *

COLLEEN’S THOUGHTS WERE muddled at work. She had the lunchtime shift today, and O’Rourke’s was mobbed with tourists and locals alike. Rafe was in the kitchen, singing opera, serenading her whenever she came in. She went through the motions, joking with her staff, ruffling the hair of children, asking out-of-towners which vineyards they’d visited, suggesting places to go if the forecast for rain held up.

Around two, when the crowds had left for the vineyards or sails on the lake or a nap, Colleen was wiping down the bar as the blender screeched, pulverizing more watermelon for the cocktail of the day (watermelon mojitos, terribly delicious). The only customers were a family of Swedes at a booth in the back, Victor Iskin, who came in every afternoon for a little mental health break from his wife, and Prudence and Carl Vanderbeek, who were pretending to be strangers meeting over a game of pool, despite the fact that they’d been married almost twenty-five years.

The door opened, and in came her father.

That was a rarity. He usually only came here to pick up Savannah, and then he texted from the parking lot.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey. Is Connor here?”

“No. He’s at the farmer’s market.”

“Oh.” Dad stood there a second.

“Have a seat,” she said. “Want something to drink? A menu?”

“No, Colleen, I’m not here for food. I ate already.”

Yes, of course. He never did come in here, a fact that both relieved and irritated her. “Well, sit down. You’re making me nervous,” she said.

“I’m divorcing Gail.”

Shit.

The Swedish father came over and handed Colleen the bill. “Thank you so much,” he said.

“Bye!” the children chorused, beautiful little blonds all. The beautiful mother waved, as well.

“Bye, guys!” Colleen said. “Come again!”

She waited until they’d left, then turned to her father. “Wow.”

“Things have cooled off between us—”

“Dad, who cares? What about Savannah?”

He gave her a frosty look. “What about her?”

“Does she know? Is she handling it okay?”

“We haven’t told her yet. She’ll be fine.”

“She better be, I guess. God forbid her emotional state gets in your way. Do you have a younger mistress on the side?”

“Colleen, don’t make everything about you, okay? I waited till you and Connor were grown to divorce your mother. I think you’d be over it by now.” He paused. “I wanted you to know.”

With that, he turned and left.

Colleen unclenched her jaw. Note how he didn’t answer the question about a girlfriend, the ass.

Savannah was going to be wrecked. Colleen pulled out her phone and sent her sister a quick text: Thinking of you, Yogi! How’s your day going? xoxox

A second later, the answer came. I miss you too! That party was fun! Guess what? I lost three pounds!

Colleen closed her eyes. A nine-year-old shouldn’t have to worry about weight issues. Can’t wait for Friday, she texted back. Love you!

The bar phone rang, waking up Victor. “O’Rourke’s, home of the finest watermelon mojitos in the known universe.”

“It’s Lucas.”

The rush of heat was fast and thrilling. “Hey.”

“Dinner tonight?” There were hammers in the background; he must be at her mom’s or the public safety building.

“Okay.”

“Name the place.”

“Mine.”

“Got it. Seven?”

“Great.”

She hung up. World’s shortest phone convo, but hey. He never was good at talking in the first place. She was going to sleep with him tonight. Or, more likely, not sleep with him. It was time.

Connor came in through the back, his arms laden with whatever he’d picked up at the farmer’s market for today’s special. He took one look at her face and stopped. Scowled. “I don’t want to hear about it,” he said. “I warned you.”

“Thanks for the brotherly concern. Dad and Gail are getting a divorce.”

“Oh, shit,” her brother said. “Poor Savannah.”

“I know. Dad’s being his prickish self.”

“Why would today be any different?” He pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen, where Rafe was wiping down the counters.

“Ciggie break for the beautiful people,” Rafe said, tossing the dishrag into the sink and grabbing his backpack. He zipped out the back door.

Colleen sat on the stainless steel counter. “Get off,” Connor said. “Some people care about where their food is prepared, unlike you.”

“I once ate a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup I found on the sidewalk,” she said. “Yet here I am, still walking the earth.”

“Doesn’t make you less gross. Come on, off.” He shoved her toward the stool and sprayed down the counter, full of martyrish zeal.

“I don’t like Gail, God knows,” Colleen said, “but I don’t see Savannah being better off with them divorced.”

“I imagine you asked Dad why they were splitting up.”

“Yeah. He didn’t answer. My money’s on Hot Young Mistress 2.0.” Poor Gail. Her whole identity was being hot young mistress/wife...and even if she wasn’t quite as young as she used to be, she was still a helluva lot younger than Dad.

Poor Gail. That was a new thought.

“Con,” she said, “you ever miss the old Dad?”

Her brother stopped his anal-retentive cleaning and looked up. “What old Dad? He’s always been a prick, Coll.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze as he passed to the sink and began rinsing cilantro.

“Not always.”

“He was. He just liked you more, so you didn’t notice.”

“Doesn’t seem that simple.” She looked at her brother’s face. He was in the Food Zone, hypnotized by the smells and textures of his work. “Why did you get all the Zen genes?” she asked.

“Also the smart genes, don’t forget.”

“Is that what your woman tells you? Oh, by the way, I figured out who it was.”

“Did you?”

“Julianne from the library.”

“Nope.”

“Damn. Okay, I’m leaving. Monica and Hannah are both on tonight, and that dopey Annie. Have a good one.”

He looked up. “Be careful,” he said after a beat.

“Yep. No drinking and driving, no unprotected sex.”

“And no tuna fish.”

“Got it.”

“Are you cooking, or is he?”

“I am.”

“Poor Lucas.”

“Hey, why don’t you cook for us? I can come pick it up just before seven.”

A jaundiced look. “No, Colleen. I’m not making you two your pre-sex meal.”

“It might be a postsex meal.”

“You disgust me.”

“Fine,” she said. “I don’t need you. If you can read, you can cook. You don’t need to go to the CIA.” She stuck out her tongue and smacked him on the back of the head as she left.

“By the way, I won’t be coming home tonight,” he called. “Because I don’t want to hear a damn thing.”

“That’s fine by me. Go to her, your ladylove.” She paused in the doorway. “Is it Lorelei? Because I thought Gerard and she would be perfect together.”

“Get out of my kitchen. And be careful.”

“No tuna for anyone!” she called as she left.

* * *

THE PROMISED RAIN started to fall around six.

The apartment was quiet; Rufus and she had gone for a run earlier, and her dog seemed to be in a coma, out cold in front of the couch. No music because Colleen needed to concentrate. She didn’t spend a lot of time cooking—what was the point of owning a chef-brother if you couldn’t eat for free? But for this night, she wanted to make her man a meal.

“If you can read, you can cook,” she repeated aloud, then surveyed the groceries she’d bought. Tonight’s menu was meant to impress, yes. To start, beet, almond and goat cheese salad, followed by braised scallops in a white wine reduction over celery root and potato puree and topped with fresh dill; a roasted carrot and parsnip side dish topped with freshly grated Romano cheese; and vanilla bean crème fraîche pudding topped with fresh raspberries.

She may have overcommitted.

Frowning, she checked the recipes she’d pulled up online. Damn. The carrot thing had to cook for three hours. Really? Were carrots worth cooking that long? Honestly, that smacked of hubris, didn’t it? I, the lowly carrot, formerly growing in the dirt, demand three hours in the oven.