He exhaled, a pained expression tightening the corners of his eyes. “I’d like to think that it wasn’t the original plan. But when the marriage went to hell, the pictures were convenient. She wanted me to give up the restaurant because I was obsessed with it and ignoring her—which was one hundred percent accurate. I refused and told her I wanted a divorce. So she decided to make me pay for that decision and figured out how to make sure I lost the restaurant anyway. It worked.”
“Shit.”
He crossed his arms. “Yeah. And you helped her do that. When my lawyer brought up the truth, you tore that apart. You got a fabricated statement from Brittany’s best friend. You painted my ex to be this fine, upstanding citizen who would never engage in that kind of lewd behavior. She was a good Baptist girl from a wealthy family who got swept up by this troublemaker with anger issues.”
Rebecca wet her lips. The details of the case were coming back to her now. She vaguely remembered the other lawyer claiming the pictures were from a kinky night, but she’d gotten that dismissed so quickly that it hadn’t gotten any traction. And of course, it could all be a lie, a convenient story from Wes, but something about the empty tone in his voice and look on his face told her otherwise.
“Wes, I—”
But he was already talking again. “So, now you know. And no, I don’t blame you for doing your job and buying Brittany’s bullshit, but don’t sit here and act like you’re somehow morally superior or a crusader making the world a better place because you take down the big, bad cheaters. You’re just a lawyer who likes to win and feel better about taking people’s money. But you winning means other people lose. And not all of them deserve to.”
“I—”
“So, what’s on the menu, brother? I’m starved,” Marco said, walking into the kitchen and startling Rebecca.
The dark look on Wes’s face disappeared behind a faux smirk as he took a step back. “Slow your roll, man. Art takes time. And I’ve been teaching Rebecca how to hull berries.”
Kincaid glanced her way, questions in her eyes.
Wes went to the fridge and pulled a tray from it. “But you can start on these spring rolls if you want.”
“Ooh,” Kincaid said, leaning over the tray but sending Rebecca another questioning look and mouthing, You okay? from behind the two men.
Rebecca didn’t have it in her to give her friend any kind of response. Her nerves were on a razor’s edge, and she couldn’t breathe in here. Wes’s admission had set her off balance, and her mind was sifting through too much. And what could she say in her defense? Not much.
She did have a job that was focused on winning and making the most money possible. She believed in helping her clients, but knowing she’d possibly ruined someone who didn’t deserve it made her gut churn. She wasn’t supposed to worry about that. It wasn’t her job to protect the other side. It was the opposing lawyer’s job.
Even so, she couldn’t get the image of Wes staring longingly at the food-truck park out of her head. She’d felt that yearning from him. She’d helped destroy that dream.
She pushed her chair away from counter and stood. “You know, I just forgot that I was supposed to pick up a prescription before the pharmacy closed today. I’m not going to be able to stay. I’m sorry.”
Everyone turned her way and Kincaid frowned. “Honey, I can go with you.”
Rebecca waved a hand, trying to appear nonchalant. “No, it’s fine. We’re in separate cars, anyway. You stay and enjoy the food. Guys, thanks for the invite. I’m sure everything will turn out delicious.”
Wes’s eyes met hers, a pointed look there, but he didn’t say anything.
What else was there to say?
chapter
TEN
“You okay, Chef G?”
Wes blinked, his hands cold under the running water at the sink, and turned toward the small group of students gathered next to him in the classroom kitchen. “Huh?”
Lola nodded at the stove behind him, pink lips pursed as if she were a seventy-year-old grandmother instead of a sixteen-year-old girl. “You’re burning the soul out of that French toast.”
“What?” Wes turned and saw the smoke, the scent finally registering. “Oh, dammit.”
He turned the faucet off and grabbed a towel.
“Swear jar,” Xavier called out, his head in the large fridge on the far side of the student kitchen. “One dollar.”
Wes groaned and hurried to the stove to pull the pan off the burner, the stuff formerly known as toast now a charred triangle. He flipped the switch on the ancient vent hood, and it rattled on. “Someone open the window so we don’t set off the fire alarms.”
Keisha, one of his star students, hurried over to a window on the far side of the room and opened it wide. “I’m not sure it smells any better outside. Why they gotta put the Dumpsters right next to this room? Smells like something died. Twice.”