West’s mouth forms an O. Socks, of course.
Willow ends the call, her brow furrowing as she turns back to us. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. My chihuahuas. The sitter thinks Sparky might have eaten a sock while she wasn’t looking. But I’ll pay the check, and you guys can stay and finish,” she says, gesturing to our half full plates.
I wouldn’t mind finishing. I’m still famished.
“Are you sure?’ West asks.
“Of course. Stay.” She smiles as she slides out of the booth. “Thank you again—for the help and the chef talk. It was so fun. But Skippy, Salty, Stringbean, and Sparky aren’t used to me being out after seven or eight. They get anxious.”
“You have four dogs?” West asks.
Willow just shrugs and smiles. “Dogs like me.”
“Smart dogs,” I say.
She laughs—actually laughs without covering her mouth or hiding behind her hair—waves, pays the bill at the cashier, and heads out into the thickening twilight.
And then I’m alone with West again.
Just West. Gorgeous, kind, thoughtful fireman West.
But I’m not technically alone. Since we’re in a restaurant. I’m safe from myself here. It’s a diner, and a brightly lit one, at that. I’m not going to blow him under the table, for God’s sake.
I’m not going to blow him under the table.
Right?
Swallowing hard I pluck a curly fry from my plate and point it West’s way. “So, spill. What’s the scoop on Hawley? Because I got a bad vibe from him from the start.”
West’s eyes narrow even as his lips curve up on one side. “I saw that. You’ve got good instincts.”
I shrug. “Not always, but glad to know they were working today.”
“Me too,” he agrees. “Hawley’s a garbage person. Comes from obscene old money but has never met a person he wouldn’t screw over to get more. Cleary, he’s a talented chef, but rumor has it he stole most of his best recipes—including the ones he’s monetized—from his ex-girlfriends. For years, he only dated other pastry chefs.” He sighs. “Until he started dating my sister a few years ago.”
My jaw drops. “What? How did that happen, big brother?”
West sighs. “I know. I feel like shit that I didn’t keep her away from him, but I didn’t realize what a piece of shit he was until after he dumped her. Brutally. My instincts weren’t so great where he was concerned.” He picks up a fry, tossing it into his mouth and chewing before he adds, “Though, back then, I spent so much time with banker pricks who didn’t care about anything but money that Hawley actually seemed okay in comparison. At least he had interests outside of acquiring more material possessions and vacation homes.”
“Vacation homes,” I echo with a shake of my head. “I can’t imagine having one of those, let alone multiples.” I frown and grab another fry. “I mean, why would you really need more than one? Who can do that much vacationing?”
“Trust fund babies and men in line to inherit their father’s wealth and title,” he offers, with a hint of bitterness. “Though, honestly, even if I had more money than God, I can’t imagine sitting around on a beach half the year and skiing the other. A person should do something worthwhile with his or her life. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
I cock my head, charmed but in the mood to challenge him too. “So, you think running a tea shop is worthwhile?”
“I do,” he says, looking surprised. “Don’t you?”
I nod. “I do. People need warm, welcoming places to gather.”
“And other people to take care of them and serve them delicious things that remind them of home,” he says, sending another arrow directly into my heart.
I wrap my hands around my water glass. “Yes. Exactly. Or make them feel the way they should have felt at home—loved and safe and free to be themselves and enjoy it.”
His gaze softens, and I feel myself pulled into the irresistible tractor beam of his West-vibe all over again. “Surely, someone as adorable as you must have been very loved.”
I bob my shoulder. “My gram and brother are great, though he was pretty bossy when we were growing up. But that was just his way of trying to feel in control amidst the chaos. Our parents were…a lot. Most of it not good.”
He frowns. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, brightening as I add, “My aunt and uncle and cousin are great too. And tons of people have things way worse.”
“Still, I feel like a bit of a spoiled brat. My parents were both great. Dad’s a bit analytical, but a solid chap who loves all four of his crazy kids to bits. And Mum was just…wonderful. Funny as hell, creative, and with the patience of a saint. Even when my brothers and I were wrestling in the house and breaking all her nice things.”