And I mean that. I’m not one of those kids who resent their parents. Mom cared for me since I was small. Now it’s my turn to care for her, and I’m happy to do it. I want to do it. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of her the way I can.
I just need enough money saved up to do it.
I just want to make sure you live your own life, my mother is writing now. You shouldn’t just do what’s expected or what’s necessary all the time, Daisy. You need to do what you want to do, sometimes, too.
My gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the flowers, now perking up in their vase beside my monitor. The card is still nestled among the petals, but even without reopening it, I can read the words again. I’ve memorized them, against my will. We have so much to catch up on. And I have an apology to make.
Mom’s right. I need to live my life on my terms. And if those terms include an ill-advised date with my ex-fling, who has now turned out to be my supervisor at work? Well… at the very least, I’ll get a good meal and an apology out of it.
I switch over to my work email account. Open a new message and address it to [email protected] The subject line, I leave blank. In the body of the email, I write two words. Friday works.
Then I close both email windows, and force myself to focus on my work instead.
7
Bronson
In a completely uncharacteristic move, I arrive at the restaurant half an hour early. I wind up sitting at the bar sipping nothing but a simple tonic water, squinting at myself in the mirror behind the counter. I went all out for this, reserved us a table at LA’s hottest new spot, which normally has a waiting list 6 months long. For me, of course, that list is irrelevant. Still, I can’t help checking my tie in the mirror, readjusting my Armani suit at the cuffs.
I’m about to order a real drink when I hear a commotion behind me at the door. I roll my eyes. C-list celebrities trying to bribe their way in, probably.
But then I glance in the mirror and stiffen.
Daisy stands next to the hostess, straining her neck to see past the woman, who’s barring the entrance.
“Miss, I believe you have the wrong bar,” the hostess is saying firmly.
I stride toward them, anger fueling my movements.
“Can you just let me take a look around?” Daisy asks, her Southern drawl a little less pronounced.
“We have a dress code, Miss.” The hostess’s upper lip curls.
“What’s wrong with my outfit?” Daisy glances down at herself. She must have come straight from the office. She’s still dressed in the usual pencil skirt she wears—today’s is a navy blue, paired with a ruched off-white top that sets off her tan to perfection. The tan is new too, must be another product of LA and its constant sun. Her curves, luckily, look just as perfectly proportioned as ever. I’m glad she didn’t go full LA, lose any of those in the pursuit of model-thinness. I prefer her just the way she is.
But the hostess is glaring at her shoes. “Where did you find those heels, a bargain bin at Target?”
Daisy opens her mouth to respond angrily, but I sweep up to her side. “I thought this establishment had standards,” I say, with a glare at the hostess.
She blinks, startled, then does a double-take as she recognizes who I am. I can practically see the gears churning in her head. “We do, sir,” she sputters. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Burke, I’ll have this woman escorted out—”
“I’m not talking about her,” I snap, resting a hand lightly on the small of Daisy’s back. “I’m talking about whoever hired you. The last thing I expect from an establishment of this caliber is a hostess harassing my date. Now move before I have you fired from this restaurant and any other fine dining building in a forty-mile radius.”
Mouth ajar, the hostess practically trips over her own feet to leap out of our way. I press a little harder on Daisy’s back, to guide her toward the two-top I reserved at the rear corner of the restaurant. A cozy little spot lit by candles and tucked away from the bustle of the main seating area.
Daisy flashes me a reluctant smile as we reach it. “Thanks for that. Though you could have given me some warning that we’d be coming to a fancy as hell restaurant where I ought to dress up,” she adds as I draw out a chair for her. She lowers herself into it, and I take my seat against the wall, across from her.
“You shouldn’t be treated like that regardless,” I say. “And you look beautiful as you are.” She does. In the flickering light, she’s everything I remembered about her and more.
But even in the low candlelight, I can see her cheeks flush bright red. Unfortunately it just makes her more attractive. “You always were good at that,” she grumbles, eyes on her lap as she reaches for a menu.
I arch one eyebrow. “Good at what?”
“Flattery.”
“It’s hardly flattery if it’s true,” I point out. “And I always mean what I say, Daisy.”
There’s a heavy silence, during which she keeps her gaze fixed firmly on her menu. Finally, she lifts those deep blue eyes to mine. “You should have said more, then.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “I didn’t tell you how gorgeous you were often enough.”
She frowns, annoyed now. “Not that. Why didn’t you tell me anything real? Anything about you?” She drops the menu back to the table, forgetting it already. “Why didn’t you tell me who you really were? Didn’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trusted you, Daisy—”
“Then why lie to me?”
I frown. “I never lied to you.”
“Hiding something important is the same thing as lying, Bronson. Avoiding mentioning something, hiding your past, all of that is just as dishonest as lying.”
“Daisy…”
“No,” she cuts across me, the color rising in her cheeks along with her fury. God I love it when she blushes. Even more so when she’s pissed. Probably why I never minded arguing with her. “You left, Bronson,” she says, and a pang starts up in the center of my chest. “Without a word, without an explanation, just a single fucking bullshit text message and poof, you were gone. And since you’d never told me anything about yourself, not even your damn last name, I couldn’t even make sure you were okay, or…” She presses a hand over her eyes.
I fight the urge to reach for that hand. Peel it away so I can stare into those eyes of hers once more.
“I thought we had something special,” she whispers, gaze still hidden from me, and now I can’t help myself any longer. I reach across the table and gently grasp her wrist. Tug until her hand comes away from her eyes, and I can gaze into those deep blue eyes, eyes that have haunted my dreams ever since the day I last saw them.
“We did, Daisy,” I say, my voice pitched low enough that she leans toward me a little.
Her throat tightens in a hard swallow. But she keeps her eyes on mine, at least, and she doesn’t pull her hand from my grasp. “How can I believe that?” she asks, a crease appearing between her brows. “How can I trust you anymore?”
I keep my eyes on hers, feeling an unfamiliar ache in my chest. Then I force a small, sideways smile. “Well,” I reply. “We can start small. Do you still trust my food recommendations? Because the rosemary lamb here is phenomenal.”
She laughs, a sharp, surprised burst. Then she gently disentangles her hand from mine and turns back to her menu, though not before I catch a glimmer at the corner of her eye. She presses a hand over it, and it’s gone, quick as a blink, but I know what I saw. A tear.
Fuck. This is not how I pictured tonight beginning.
Still, she forces a smile. “I find it hard to believe anyone can make a lamb to beat my grandma’s recipe,” she says. “But I’m willing to give it a shot.”
“Only if you pair it with this old-vine zinfandel—hold on.” I flag down a waiter to order for us, and somehow, between the salad course and the arrival of our mains, we sink back into our old banter.
“—reminds me of that salad bar we went to, remember that?” Daisy is
saying.
I groan. “That hole-in-the-wall with a live slug in the lettuce? How can I forget? And also, what on earth about that dump reminds you of this restaurant?”