Olivia took a deep breath and pulled the ingredients she’d prepared for the crab cake appetizers from the fridge and started working. The sous chefs would be here in half an hour, and things would get rolling. She’d feel better once she was in the swing.
She had half the first batch formed into mini flying saucers when the first chef arrived. Olivia didn’t have the energy to search for the woman who was light and fun in the kitchen today.
Olivia looked up with a basic hello and a list of things she wanted prepared in order, but she found Tate standing there instead of her so
us chef and her words vanished. The simple sight of him punched her low in the gut and everything she’d prepared to say, everything that was logical and sensible and the right thing to do, flittered into the wind.
“Liv?” He stood across the kitchen, eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“Hi.” She hadn’t been expecting to do this so early, and with the flood of emotion filling her from the feet up, she was afraid she might not be able to do what she knew was best for them both.
She stepped to the sink to wash her hands.
“What in the hell?” She wasn’t sure if that edge in his tone was disbelief or anger, but he was entitled. “I thought you went back to Paris.”
She turned, putting the sink at her back and found him closer. And he looked like she felt. His hair was all over the place, his face rough with stubble, the side of his chin marred with the stitches and a purplish bruise. His clothes were wrinkled, like he’d slept in them. Guilt twisted her gut.
“I…thought about it. A lot.” She swallowed, trying to look him in the eye and finding it more difficult than she’d imagined. “But I know how important this is to you. To the kids. And I promised you… So I wanted to see it through.”
“Where the hell were you?” He put his hands on his hips. “Did you get my messages?”
The quake in his voice slammed her with emotions that closed her throat. Memories of the pleas and apologies he’d left on her voice mail burned her eyes. She blinked quickly to clear the tears and fought to find the script she’d created for this moment.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to put the food in boxes. Quinn found a charity to take everything.” He lifted his hands out to the side. “I was going to call everyone this morning and cancel dinner. I didn’t think you were coming back.”
She should have called. Or at least texted. But she hadn’t made her mind up until the last minute.
Script. Script. What was the damn script?
“I think we let things between us get too serious.” She forced her voice light, as if her heart weren’t breaking. “But that’s obviously not going to work, and I’d like to be able to get through today so we can move on without anger and regrets.”
“Not going to work? How can you stand there and act like a mannequin after you told me you loved me?”
Her gut clenched and she closed her eyes, sucking up the pain.
His hands closed on her arms, and she opened her eyes to his.
“You said you loved me, Liv. What I did was a mistake. Poor judgment. Call it what you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that I love you.”
Tears spilled over her lashes and her barriers crumbled beneath the pain of hurting him. Of losing him. “Love doesn’t justify lying. Or keeping secrets. Especially given what you know about my family.” She pulled out of his arms and stepped back. So she could breathe. So she could think. Because the pain in his eyes threatened to crush her. “I trusted you. I laid in your arms and told you every detail about the lies and secrets my family created that drove me away. And even knowing that, you went and did the same thing.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“But you still did it. It still happened. I’m still hurt. And if we don’t have trust here, when we’re together, we’re not going to make it living apart. I won’t do it again. I won’t live that way.”
He lowered his head, scraped a hand through his hair, and when he looked at her again, he was…different. He was hidden behind some kind of wall. “So that’s it? The first bump in the road and you’re done?” He straightened and shook his head. “Then you were right. You and I do have very different meanings for love.”
Footsteps sounded at the back door and both sous chefs walked in, chatting.
“Morning Olivia. Morning Mr. Donovan.” Greetings peppered the air. Olivia glanced at the men to return their greetings and when she looked back, Tate was walking away.
Tate held a drink in his hand. He wandered through the crowd. He made polite conversation. He’d been here before. He knew how to pretend he wasn’t heartbroken.
What he didn’t know how to do was stop thinking about Olivia.
This was his fault. Tate knew that. She had every right to be hurt and angry. What kept him out there instead of back in the kitchen was fact that she wanted to jump ship because he’d made a mistake. He’d made a conscious decision to keep the information from her, and that had been wrong. But he hadn’t hurt her intentionally. In fact, he’d been trying to do just the opposite.