1. Rosalyn

ONE

ROSALYN

(AGE THIRTY-THREE)

Hissing, I jerk my hand away from the sizzling bacon. "Fuck me."

My coworker snickers. "You okay, Boss?"

I shake my hand out and smile at Presley. "Totally fine."

She grins. "Well, we're ahead of schedule, so you can probably chill a bit."

I look at the clock on the oven in my client's kitchen. We're twenty minutes ahead. Meaning we have just enough extra time to allow for one mess up.

Not that we'll mess up.

Presley has been working for me for about six months now, and I wish I'd found her sooner.

For the past ten years, I've been the sole chef at Rosalyn's Restaurant.

The name is a misnomer—I own a catering business, not a restaurant. And cooking on-site in my clients' kitchens, instead of my own, is as close as I'll ever get to a brick-and-mortar location.

But that's okay, though. I make enough to survive. And to pay Presley—hopefully enough for her to stay.

I look around and let my shoulders relax .

The desserts are done. The appetizers are started. And we have all the ingredients we need prepped for the mains.

"You two doing okay? Need anything?" Hannah, our client and owner of this beautiful mansion, steps into the kitchen.

I try to keep my cheeks from turning red as I face her, hoping she didn't hear me curse over burning myself. "We're looking good, thanks."

Hannah smiles as she takes in the chaos of food covering her kitchen island and counters. "It's impressive how you keep this all straight."

My own smile feels a little more normal now. "I wonder at it sometimes too."

"Well, if you think of anything you need, just let me know. I'm gonna run up and shower now." Her eyes move to the clock I just glanced at. "Shit, I'm more behind than I thought." She starts to back away. "I have someone coming over in a bit to do my hair. If they show up before I'm back down, will you let them in and send them to the living room?" Hannah presses her hands together, grimacing like she hates to ask for help. "My husband should be home soon, but I don't know who will get here first."

I nod. "Not a problem," I tell her, meaning it. If this lady only knew the sort of shit I've been asked to do before, she wouldn't blink an eye at this.

"You're the best, Rosalyn!" She grins and rushes out of the kitchen.

"She's really nice," Presley comments after Hannah disappears.

"Has been so far."

Presley snorts. "You're such a pessimist."

I shrug. She's not wrong. I've dealt with too many shitty people not to be.

My employee moves closer to my side and lowers her voice. "I heard her husband is a pro-football player."

"Yeah, I heard that too. But I haven't met him yet."

This job was a last-minute booking. Apparently, their previous caterer fell through a few days ago, so their event planner from Meghan's Moments, who I've worked with before, called and asked if I could fill in. And since I could, I said yes before asking who the clients were.

As soon as Meghan said the husband was a retired football player, my insides started to twist.

Which was stupid because Nathan doesn't play for Minnesota, so there's literally no reason for me to have thought he might be the client.

But twenty-five years or not, there's no way I could cater Nathan's wedding reception.

That would be… crushing.

Which is ridiculous because we don't have that sort of history. We were just kids. And we were just friends. And since then… Well, it's not like I know him anymore.

I don't even remember the last time I thought about Nathan Waller.

Okay, that's not true. I thought about him two nights ago.

I was lonely.

And horny.

And I'd seen his stupidly handsome face on a magazine in the checkout lane at the grocery store.

And sue me. He's fucking hot. So… I thought about him.

"And…" Presley leans closer. "Do you know who it is?"

Her question reminds me that we're talking about a different athlete.

"Maddox Lovelace," I tell her—the name that doesn't mean anything to me.

Her mouth drops. "This is Mad Dog Maddox's house?"

"Mad Dog?" I scrunch up my nose at the silly nickname.

I didn't look him up. All I needed to know was that his last name wasn't Waller.

"I thought he got married like last year or something." Presley tilts her head. "I forgot you said this was some sort of belated wedding reception."

"How do you know this stuff?" I hate to stereotype, but Presley, with her French-braided hair and full-sleeve tattoos, doesn't strike me as a football fan .

She rolls her eyes. "Because he's a hot-as-fuck professional athlete, and I'm not dead."

I can't help but laugh.

"I take it you don't watch?" she asks.

"Never had time." I tell her the truth.

There were times I was tempted.

Times I wanted to look up my old friend, find out when his games were… But I always stopped myself. I had to stay focused.

Had to work two jobs to support my third one.

Had to spend every spare moment cooking and baking once I quit those other two jobs.

Had to put my all into this company. Because I had to make it work.

Because I didn't want to spend my life working for someone else. And I couldn't spend another second working for another man. They'd controlled my life long enough.

Presley sighs. "You gotta get a life, Boss. And trust me." She fans herself with her hand. "After you see this man, you'll understand my obsession." Her eyes widen. "Do you think he'll have his teammates here? Oh, or his brother?"

Presley sounds so excited, but I have no idea who she's talking about.

The doorbell rings, saving me from a reply.

I step back from the island. "I'll go let the hair person in if you want to get started on the meatballs."

"Hair person." Presley snorts, then moves to the sink to wash her hands.

As I walk through the large home, I glance down at myself, hoping I'm not covered in bacon splatter.

We'll change into all black for the event, but for prep, I wore my usual comfy jeans and a forest-green T-shirt under my canvas apron, which seems to be free of major stains.

The doorbell rings again.

Rude .

I hurry the last few yards, not wanting Hannah to hear this person's constant ringing .

I close my fingers around the door handle and pull it open before the person can press the bell again.

And then everything stops.

Because standing before me, taller than I realized he'd become and close enough to touch, is the only best friend I've ever had.

It's my Nathan.

He's here.

Really here.

Standing before me.

Oxygen dances just out of reach, and spots start to dot my vision as I try to make sense of what I'm seeing.

Nathan is here.

At the same house I'm at.

This should be a beautiful moment.

One where we embrace and cry.

When we say how much we missed each other.

But I can't do that.

Not with him.

Not after… everything.

Panic wells up inside me.

I can't pretend everything's been okay since he left.

And I can't tell him the truth. Can't put my burden on his shoulders.

And… God dammit, I can't breathe.

Even if I could, I don't know what to say.

"Hey there." Nathan grins. "I'm Nate, best friend of the groom."

His grin is perfect. Happy.

Nathan holds his hand out.

He's holding his hand out because he just introduced himself. To me.

Like we're strangers.

Because we are.

My fingers feel like ice as I reach out and place my hand in his.

His palm is warm and so much larger than mine. And I want to melt into the feeling.

I want to ask him to hug me .

I want to tell him how much I missed him.

But I won't.

Because he doesn't remember me.

And he's not my Nathan anymore.