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My gaze finds Riley’s. He’s smiling, but his eyes aren’t. I can’t read the expression in them. They’re focused but soft.
Almost like he’s . . . relieved.
I’m confused. I know he’s not relieved to discover that I’m okay. Does that mean he’s relieved I’m here in his restaurant so he can rub in my face the fact that he made my dream come true? Sure, I gave up on that dream a long time ago. But it was still mine.
My chest is so tight with rage and a million other things—sadness, it’s mostly sadness—I really am struggling to breathe.
He smells so good. Good enough to make me want to cry again.
“Drink was fine.” I grope for my bag. I think I hung it on the back of my stool? “But I’m leaving. I was leaving. I don’t, yeah, need another drink, so.”
“Stay.”
I go still at the command. Because that’s obviously what that word is when spoken in the tone Riley’s using.
Since when did he get bossy?
And since when do I find bossy men so damn sexy?
“Have something to eat. It’s on the house.”
“Thanks”—I throw my credit card onto the bar—“but no thanks.”
“Alex, please get her the poutine—”
“I’m. Good.” I glare at him. “Seriously, stop fussing over me. I came here for a drink, I got the drink, and now I’m leaving.”
Riley picks up my card and holds it out to me. “Return policy stands.”
Fuck you and your return policy.
“I told you it was fine. Better than fine. It was fucking delicious.” Yikes, I’m definitely too drunk, and I definitely need to get out of here before I say or do something I regret. “I’m not returning it because I drank it all. Therefore, I’m paying.”
Riley does that thing again where he searches my face. He’s still holding my card hostage. “How about you let me buy it for you, then?”
His tone is different now. Softer.
Somehow, that’s worse.
That makes me even angrier and sadder and more confused. This man is a pirate, just like Stede. A thief and a killer. Unlike Stede, however, Riley is no gentleman. Never was, and clearly never will be.
“Give me back my card.”
“Take the free drink—”
“Just—don’t, okay?” I grab the card out of his hand and practically throw it at Alex, who is watching us with wide eyes. “I can buy my own damn drink.”
“I know you can. That’s not what this is about.”
I resist the urge to give him a hard shove. To ask what this is about, because last time I checked, Riley didn’t give a shit about me.
But I’m not going there again. Been there, done that, and it one hundred percent sucked.
“Don’t. Please, just—I don’t mean to be rude, but leave me alone.”
“Lu—”
“It’s Louise.” My voice trembles. It’s too much, him being here. Being somehow sweet and a total shithead at the same time. It’s too much, being back in the place I loved with all my heart before he ran away with it. “And I got it, all right?”
His brow furrows as he holds up his hands, taking a step backward. “’Course. Sorry. Just makin’ sure you’re okay.” He turns his head to look at Alex, making the sinews in his neck pop against his tanned skin. “Alex, run her card.” Offering me a tight smile, Riley taps the bottom of his fist against the bar. “Night, Lu.”
“Louise.”
He looks me in the eye. “You’ll always be Lu to me.”
Then he turns and leaves.
I grind my teeth, watching him head for the kitchen and push open a door in the tiled wall beside the big wood-burning oven. My hand shakes as I sign the bill.
I’m exhausted. And very, very tipsy. I should absolutely go home.
But when I close the billfold, I can’t pry my eyes from that kitchen door. What’s Riley doing back there? The balls on this guy, stealing the ideas and hopes and recipes I shared with him when I was at my most vulnerable.
My mind whirrs. I trusted him, and he betrayed me. Again. Because cheating on me and dumping me over text wasn’t insult enough. Now he’s got to go and steal my dreams too, opening a restaurant that is clearly thriving. It’s late, but there’s still plenty of people here. I don’t recognize any of them, but they all seem to be enjoying their meals.
I thought Riley was supposed to be a real estate developer or whatever. What’s he doing owning a restaurant, even if it is a successful one? Aren’t restaurants supposed to be terrible investments?
Anger overwhelms me. Rum and nonsensical curiosity too.
And yeah, I don’t love the idea of going back to my grandparents’ house right now. Too many memories. And Mom gets . . . weird after her third glass of wine.
Looping my bag across my torso, I slide off my barstool, putting a hand on its leather seat to steady myself when the room spins.
