“In what way?” She sounded horrified.
“Are you really going to pretend you were never outlandish?” When she raised her brows in question, he continued. “Remember when you wanted to be a hair stylist and asked me to let you cut my hair after you’d destroyed all your old doll heads?”
“And you let me.” She grinned, one brow raised. “You were brave.”
Or stupidly infatuated, which maybe was the same thing. Having her fingers running over his scalp had been worth every penny he’d spent later to fix the bad haircut.
“Or before that, when you were desperate to see the Seattle Space Needle, but your mom refused to drive you, so you decided you could bike there . . . at night.”
“Well, I did have that new ten-speed,” she teased. “Meanwhile, you crushed my dream. After you told on me, my mom locked up my bike for weeks.”
“I had to tell. If you and Joe had sneaked off like you’d threatened, it would’ve been a disaster.”
The mere mention of Joe—whose life had ended in disaster, anyway—soaked up every hint of humor like a dry sponge.
“I just ran into your dad . . . sort of.” Colby gripped the railing.
“Sort of?”
“Stitch was camped out in your yard. Your dad pulled into the driveway before I made my getaway. He paused long enough to warn me to keep Stitch off the property.” She twisted her wedding band. “He still blames me for bringing Mark into Joe’s life.”
Alec knew that to be true and wouldn’t lie—at least not about that much.
“Do you?” Her stiff demeanor informed him that she expected a yes. He’d suspected she believed that and had been dreading working with him, which made sense given that she had no idea why he’d retreated from her these past years.
“No.” He didn’t blame Colby. If anything, she suffered as much as anyone. She’d loved Joe, and she’d loved and lost her husband, too. The irony of it all was how much Alec blamed himself for the entire mess.
“Thank you.”
“Saying goodbye to Joe wasn’t easy for any of us. My dad can’t seem to get over missing all the day-to-day things they’ll never do. It’s almost like he resents the future.” Alec rested his hip against the railing. “Maybe you do, too, having lost Mark before you had kids.”
Colby looked away, but not before he saw pain cross her eyes. He should’ve kept quiet. Now all he wanted to do was hold her, although that desire persisted regardless of a reason.
Mark. Like always, the name summoned the memory of the man’s bold signature. Alec’s stomach churned. He didn’t remember every word of the three-page handwritten letter, which had skipped from thought to thought. All he did recall was the part he should’ve told someone.
“I can’t eat. I can’t keep living this way, Alec. You and your family have to forgive me, please.”
Only words, he’d told himself back then, when he’d been too caught up in his own remorse to care about forgiving anyone else. Mark had always been prone to exaggeration. Moody. Sometimes entertaining, with his big ideas and energy, other times sullen and lethargic.
Alec had never for one second actually believed the guy was suicidal, so he’d tossed the note and ignored him. Said nothing. Warned no one. A week later, Mark dived off their balcony right in front of Colby.
The familiar pang of guilt wedged itself inside his chest now as he imagined her horror at that moment. Did it haunt her? Did she have nightmares?
She must. He did.
Maybe working together was too big of a gamble, after all.
“And what about you?” she asked. “Are your parents more clingy now?”
He snickered, God help him. “I think we both know my dad would rather it’d been me who took that dare.”
Accustomed to his father’s disdain, it barely even hurt to admit that aloud. Barely. He wished that he didn’t care at all. That he didn’t need to reunite his family. That the nonsensical, childlike part of him wouldn’t still like his dad’s approval. Approval he’d never win if his dad knew about his fight with Joe.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Colby sighed. “I’m sorry for so much . . .”
She glanced at Mount Hood, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Her preoccupation gave his bleak thoughts another chance to rise. For two years he’d stewed in his own guilt until his skin hurt as if torn open like a tomato dropped into boiling water.
Perhaps if he’d come clean back then—about Mark’s plea, about his fight with Joe—he wouldn’t have lost his way, his reputation, his restaurant. Colby might not have lost a husband and the future she’d been planning. She’d still be warm and carefree. His parents would still have both of their kids.
With no way to go back and fix those mistakes, he could only atone for them now. If he confessed, she might fire him, and then he’d never be able to help her reclaim the life she was meant to have.
Colby wanted a fresh start and second chance at happiness. She might still grieve the death of her husband, but Alec would make her dream for A CertainTea a reality.
Ironically, doing so might make her see him as something more than the shy geek who liked to play in the kitchen. Years of slaving under the supervision of egocentric perfectionists had taught him about command. He’d honed those skills in a relentless pursuit of perfection to prove to his dad and Joe that he wasn’t a joke.
And then everything fell apart. Now he’d have to work twice as hard to reclaim his reputation and make his father see him as a “man’s man” like Joe.
Colby might see him that way, too. He smiled then, even as he knew his were futile dreams. “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Once they were seated at a table, he led the conversation. “I’m planning to rotate the menu on a weekly basis, selecting seasonally appropriate options. Hunter said it’ll be a dinner-only restaurant, open Wednesday through Sunday, excepting special bookings for weddings or other parties.”
“That’s the plan. Well, that and the Saturday-afternoon tea service.”
Tea service?
“I’ll come back to that in a second. First, you might consider making Sunday a brunch and closing early. Brunches can often draw a bigger crowd than dinner on Sundays. With Monday and Tuesday off, the early dismissal also extends the staff’s ‘weekend.’ Given that during normal days, they’ll be clocking twelve or more hours on their feet, that can be a much-appreciated break.”
“I hadn’t thought of brunch. I suppose that’s worth considering.” She retrieved a rough copy of a menu from her bag. “Here’s the menu the former chef and I agreed upon, which I’ve sent off to the printer. Standard fare with weekly specials.”
“That’s uninspired and boring.” The abrupt response landed between them like a hammer, making Colby flinch. Then pride flickered to life in her hazel eyes.