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Elisa closed her eyes, her stomach knotting.
Would she ever be ready? Ready to live life without anxiety controlling her? Or was she destined to be crippled by it forever, escaping it only in deluded fantasies of being rescued by a nameless Australian?
“Adventure awaits.” Bria’s declaration floated through the shadows in Elisa’s head. “Let’s go.”
Elisa opened her eyes. She didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. All she could do was take each minute at a time.
“Hi,” she whispered to herself. “I’m Elisa. And I’m trying to live life as best as I can.”
And occasionally pretend I’m being swept off my feet by an Australian?
A soft chuckle escaped her. And it seemed, occasionally pretend that.
* * *
Cooking had always beenan escape for Angus.
With a father who liked to express his dissatisfaction with life via his fists, and a mother who liked to express hers via as many empty bottles of vodka as she could, Angus had more than once saved his skin—and possibly his life—by keeping his parents’ bellies full of food.
The first time he’d saved himself and his mother from another beating from his dad had been when he’d made scrambled eggs for dinner at the age of seven. His father had lost another job and had come home hellbent on taking out his frustration on the woman he’d promised to love and cherish and protect. The fact she’d been passed out drunk at two in the afternoon would have pushed him over the violent edge, had it not been for Angus—a terrified child older than his young years—realizing he had to do something.
At the sight of his father slamming the car door shut in the driveway and then kicking it repeatedly, Angus had bolted into the kitchen and started to make the only thing he knew how: scrambled eggs on toast. Heart pounding, eyes burning with unshed tears of familiar terror, he’d grabbed the ingredients and started cooking by a gut feel. By the time Barry Daniels stomped into the dilapidated house they lived in, face red with rage, fists already balled, the distinct aroma of freshly buttered toast and bacon-laced eggs filled the air.
Food hadn’t always saved Angus from his old man, and it wasn’t the only reason he’d cooked. Then or now. He cooked because he liked food—although he’d often gone without it as a child—enjoyed eating it, but more than that he liked the control and the chaos of cooking. Enjoyed losing himself in that conflicted state.
He’d cooked whenever he could growing up. And if there wasn’t food at home to prepare, he’d head over to Owen’s place and Mrs. Blackthorne would let him loose in her kitchen. Those times…with the laughter and love of the other family like a cloud around him…those were Angus’s happiest times growing up.
When a mango chicken curry dishhadn’tsaved a fifteen-year-old Angus from his father’s brutal, drunken wrath, it had been Owen who’d saved him. Owen—skinny, math-nerd Owen—who’d risked his life and knocked Barry out cold with Angus’s cricket bat.
Angus lived with the Blackthornes for a month after that.
A drunk Barry had driven himself into a tree the day before Angus dared to move back home.
Two days after that, Angus discovered he had a younger half sister living in Sydney—thanks to a one-night stand his father had years ago while on a bender. Chelsea Parker had come to the funeral, nervous about meeting the brother she didn’t know she had. Her mum had stayed in the car, no doubt living her own private torment over the man who’d fathered her daughter.
He’d cooked breakfast for Chelsea the morning of the funeral. It kept his own turbulent emotions at bay. They’d hardly spoken, but for the duration of the short meal, he’d felt a calming connection to her. A family member who didn’t seem fucked up. It was nice. She’d hugged him and left to get ready for the funeral. His mother passed out from her liquid breakfast—vodka straight—in the bedroom, so he’d prepared all the food for the small wake. He’d poured his grief, his anger, his hope, into the appetizers and sandwiches and finger food.
He’d cooked dinner for Chelsea and her mum that night, discovering his newly found sister was everything his father wasn’t, and her mum was everything his mum wasn’t. They’d both made him smile. Made him ache for a life he’d never been given the chance to have. When they’d returned to Sydney the next day, he’d lost himself in kitchen again. The Blackthorne’s kitchen. The only stable family he’d ever known.
He’d cooked dinner for Owen and his family every night until the pair of them finished high school and Owen moved to Newcastle for his teacher’s degree and Angus moved to Sydney on a chef’s apprenticeship.
Angus didn’t doubt he’d be dead if it weren’t for Owen. Today, he wanted to show his mate how much he appreciated that fact by wowing Angus’s future in-laws with the most incredible meals he’d ever created.
Good food also helped make great first impressions, and he wanted Angus’s fiancé—and her family—to like him. Probably lame, but the way it was, nonetheless.
He just had to get his mind back on focus.
Staring at the breathtaking sweeping views of the Sydney Opera House, the Sydney Harbor Bridge, and the iconic harbor itself from the dining floor of Buckley’s Chance, he pulled a slow breath.
The kitchen was ready. His kitchen staff were ready.
Kara was ready. In fact, his sous chef was in the kitchen, ordering everyone around in her normal way, the best sous chef Angus had ever worked with or employed.
His wait staff were ready.
He…wasn’t.
Damn it, why hadn’t he ignored Kara’s call for a few more seconds and got the American woman’s number back in the airport? He was sure she’d introduced herself, but he couldn’t remember. El…El…something. Ellie? Elsa? Argh. Why hadn’t he got her number? Why hadn’t he chased after her when she’d left?
