Candlelight Conspiracy (8 page)

“They called when I was coming here. Just got there.”

Marc was talking to her, but he seemed distracted. Work was clearly needing his attention, but in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help feeling that she was an intrusion in his life.

She wasn’t sure what she wanted. They lived next door to each other, but real estate did not a future make.

After a quick lunch, he followed her into the hall and waited until she unlocked her door. The sensation of his hand on the small of her back made her melt into him a little, even though she was mad. He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“Have a good afternoon,” he said.

Their eyes didn’t meet, and she didn’t say anything back. They’d reached a pivotal moment and had gone separate ways. She wasn’t the casual type—she wanted to date a special someone—and he … hell, she had no idea. In situations such as these, there was only one thing to do: buy a real damned candle.

• • •

Marc walked away from Sophie. Not his ideal option—he’d would have liked to be with her the rest of the day. He stopped. He’d forgotten to make plans with her. He wasn’t sure a power outage would hold up as a way to hang out with her three nights in a row.

I don’t even know her cell number.

He turned back. “Sophie, what are you doing tonight? I was thinking Thai for a late dinner.”

“Ya know, I don’t think so. I have a thing with some friends.”

His chest tightened. “Oh, okay, another night then.”

Marc had no idea what went wrong. One minute they were making love, the next they were eating, and then she’d been quiet—which, in woman terms, equaled unhappiness. Had he said something inappropriate? Is that why she didn’t want to have dinner?

Ah, hell, she had plans with friends. He was thinking too much about Sophie. He needed to get back to his restaurant and make sure dinner prep had been started. Still, a feeling nagged at him. He couldn’t change his path now. He had a plan for his life, and Sophie wasn’t part of it.

The next day, as Marc watched the last lunch plate of lobster roll leave his kitchen at Sizzo’s, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the white rag that usually hung on his left shoulder and threw it in the laundry bin by his office. There were two offices off of the kitchen, one for him and one for Kurt. He’d picked the one farthest away; it wasn’t overly large but enough to fit his desk, filing cabinet, and two chairs for visitors. He sat in his brown leather chair and fired up his laptop to do some social media marketing. Lunch service had been busier than normal, which put him in a good mood. Things were turning around—business was picking up each day, his recipes were being received well, and Sophie was in his bed.

He honestly didn’t know what to do with the latter, though. He wanted to be with her. Really. But he’d set up goals. Deviating now when he was just starting to see progress would be insane. Sophie would still be his neighbor, so hopefully they could keep their casual thing going, and Sizzo’s could remain his number-one priority.

Kurt popped his head in. “There’s a lady asking for you out front.”

He found a picture on his laptop of his mozzarella-pesto chicken to promote tonight’s dinner special. “Did she say why?”

“No, nothing I could help her with. I don’t think she wants to talk about food.”

Marc glanced at the time in the corner of his screen. Dinner prep wouldn’t start for a little while.
A reporter wanting to do a story would be perfect.
He could use free press.

“Okay. Thanks.” Marc captioned the picture with tonight’s special on Facebook and Twitter posts before closing his laptop. He pushed through the stainless steel swinging doors that led to the front dining room. A woman in a black dress and black trench coat, with shoulder-length blond hair, had her back to him. Her orange Coach purse caught his eye as she spun toward him. He knew that purse.
Couldn’t be.
He hesitated mid-stride before coming to a complete stop.

Felicia.
He stared into the eyes of his ex-fiancée, standing in his restaurant in Wyoming.

“Hi,” she said and took a step toward him.

He didn’t move. Her perfectly made-up face, soft curls, and bright smile turned their assault on him.
Why the hell is she here?
Felicia had been out of his life, completely, for five months.

He didn’t speak. He had no friggin’ clue what to say; he only managed to wrinkle his forehead.

“You weren’t hard to find,” she answered his non-verbal question. “Your restaurant is your last name.”

He finally found his voice. “But why are you here?”

She pointed to an empty table behind him. “Can we talk?”

He nodded as his mind went in a hundred different directions.
Is her dad okay? Is she in trouble? Did I keep something of hers by accident?
Their last conversation had consisted of her telling him she no longer loved him and calling off the wedding two days before it was supposed to happen. It had been very clear they didn’t have a future or need to ever communicate again. She scooted in the dark wooden chair, and he pulled out a chair and sat farther away from the table. He didn’t know what was coming next, but his instinct to run was growing. She’d left him, and he’d started all over—they were sitting in the very place that defined his new life.

“Why are you here?” Yeah, he was the asshole who didn’t want to ask or answer any fake pleasantries. Felicia hadn’t traveled hundreds of miles to ask about his damn day.

“Okay, let’s just dive right in then.” She shifted slightly in her seat, revealing one toned leg crossing over the other.

He didn’t want to have a conversation with or even sit across from her. He wanted to get back to Sizzo’s—the restaurant he owned by himself and was going to make successful by himself. No partner or fiancée needed.
Ah, hell, she’s not my enemy
. She was someone he’d once committed his life to. A long time ago.

“I’m sorry,” he said, making sure there wasn’t a scowl on his face. “How’ve you been? You look good.”

“I’m well. Thank you.” She glanced around the dining room that was nearly cleared of patrons. “I like your place.”

He took stock of what Felicia was seeing: his modern design with the hardwood floors, tables to match, and 3D metallic artwork made a fun, relaxed environment for his diverse cuisine.

Curiosity for her motive was chewing at his throat. “I’ve been open for three months.”

Anger flitted across her eyes as they fixed back on him. “You didn’t fight for me,” she said with a quiet rage he’d never heard in her voice before.

Now we’re getting somewhere.
“You made it clear you were done,” he said, matching the quiet strength in her voice.

Felicia’s words that day five months ago—her tone, her inflection, all of it—were forever burned into his mind.

“I don’t love you.” He had looked up from slicing a rack of lamb to see Felicia. He hadn’t even assumed she was talking to him—why would he? They were two days away from getting married. They’d been dating for three years. But the moment he saw her darkened blue eyes well with unshed tears, he knew. He knew they were over. He knew her love alone wasn’t enough. He’d held back—something had always stopped him from going all in with Felicia. Yes, he’d asked her to marry him; it felt like the right thing to do. The restaurant with her dad was going well, she was great, and there was no reason to do anything different.

“What do you mean?” is all he could stupidly say. Maybe she wasn’t saying what he thought she was.

“I’m calling off the wedding. I can’t marry you, Marc.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think you love me, either. Not the way I want to be loved.”

The words, however true, cut him. There was no world in which he’d wanted to hurt and let down the beautiful woman standing in front of him.

“I’ve already made the calls.” She set down the princess-cut diamond ring on the counter and walked away. That was the last time he’d seen her.

Now his jaw tightened. He hadn’t been able to picture walking away from the place he’d coveted most, but it had been the right thing to do. One of the hardest things he ever done, in fact, but right. One of the hardest things he’d ever done, but right. After Felicia left him, nothing about his life fit anymore. It took him two months to figure out his next restaurant and settle on a location.

Felicia swished her blond curls behind her ear and laid her hands back in her lap. “I’ve had time to re-evaluate life, our relationship, and … I made a mistake.” She paused, and he saw the sadness lower her shoulders. “But, we weren’t in a great spot. Obviously. Which was both of our faults.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t argue with that. They were good together—hell, they were going to get married, and he’d been happy with that decision for his future. Five months ago.

Now, having met Sophie and the desire she stirred in him and a whole mess of other feelings he hadn’t even been able to sift through yet, he wasn’t so sure Felicia had been wrong to leave him.

“Have you thought about us?” she asked.

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

Yes. No. He’d actually tried really hard not to think about them or the years they’d spent together or walking away from the restaurant he’d help build.

Did he want to get back together with Felicia? She seemed to want to patch things up between them. Would she move to Casper? Would he move back to Tacoma? This was a turn of events he hadn’t seen coming when he’d brought spaghetti home for lunch yesterday with Sophie.

Sophie. What about Sophie?

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

He glanced past her to metal artwork of a cowboy waving his hat and riding a bucking bronc on his entrance wall. “I can’t. I work dinner service.”

Misery washed over her face. He owed her.

“Meet me here at ten.” He couldn’t traipse Felicia back to his place with Sophie next door.

Maybe she was right, and he’d been too hasty to accept her leaving and not fight. Was there still something between them to restore?

• • •

What a holy mind-terror of a day.
His ex-fiancée showed up, he didn’t see Sophie at all, and he had another meeting with Felicia tonight. If there was ever a day that he wished he’d slept through, this was it. He really could’ve used seeing Sophie during his quick break between Felicia’s visit and dinner service. Sophie would’ve put things in perspective. She would’ve made him laugh and asked some ridiculous questions and sang a song that would’ve made him want to kiss her all night long. Okay, so maybe all of those things wouldn’t have happened by bumping into Sophie in the hall. But he’d sure been thinking about those scenarios for hours. And visions of getting back together with Felicia—those were more confusing than happy. He plated the mozzarella-pesto chicken as his sous chef finished sautéeing asparagus for a four-top.

He double-checked the completed plates before putting them up for the servers, watched them leave the kitchen, and then grabbed the new tickets. “Two chicken, one steak,” he called out to his kitchen.

His staff worked efficiently; they’d resolved the kinks by now and had found their rhythm. He didn’t watch the clock, he focused on the food. Because when ten o’clock came around he didn’t know what would happen. The only thing that made sense to him was food—the women in his life, because now there were two to consider, and how he felt about them only scrambled his brain.

• • •

By the end of the shift, Marc had worked himself to the bone. The kitchen had been cleaned, the front of house was being tidied, and Kurt had retreated to his office.

Exhaustion pulled at his neck, and he rubbed his forehead only to look up and see Felicia walk through the metal kitchen doors.

“Hey there.” Her warm smile made him feel a little better.

They were just going to talk and hopefully not fight. Anything could happen. He’d decided nothing.

“How was dinner service?”

“Great. We had a good number of people for a Monday.” He was happy with the turnout.

“Yeah. Dad still says Mondays and Tuesdays are the worst.”

“I bet he does.”
Calm down. She didn’t mean anything by it.
It had been his choice to leave; he hadn’t been forced out, and Felicia’s dad had paid him fair market value for his half. The buyout money was what he used to start Sizzo’s. He couldn’t fail because he wouldn’t have anywhere to go or any money to use to rebuild.

She flattened the black dress she still wore from this afternoon, and he watched her hands run over her thighs. He remembered those thighs and had to literally shake his head to vanquish steamy images that flashed across his mind. They’d been good together, very good, in bed.

“Wine?” He asked and pulled out a bottle he had chilled for them.

“Of course.” She smiled at the bottle of Malbec. “My favorite.”

He nodded. He figured the night would be better with a glass of wine—they’d both be less uptight.

“Shall we?” He motioned to the dining room, and she followed him to a corner booth in the back of the room by the kitchen. “How are your sisters?” He poured two glasses of a plum Argentine Malbec.

“They are doing well. Fern got a new job at a marketing company managing social media, Fallon is still happy running the books for Dad by day and acting at the local community theatre by night, and Faith is getting married.” Her eyes diverted to her glass at her last sentence, and she drank.

Is this all about jealousy?
None of her sisters were married. Felicia would’ve been the first.

“Robbie finally popped the question, huh? Good for them. Send them my best.”

“You can do that yourself if you come back home with me.”

His turn to focus on his glass of wine. “You don’t like my new place?”

“It’s great. But it’s like two states away from home.”

“Yeah. Kind of the point.”

He could close down and go back to Tacoma, and this would all become some funny story he told fifty years from now about the three months he lived in Wyoming. He could, but the thought alone made him grumpy. The story might be funny in five decades, but today it would feel like failure.