The Darkest Sunrise (The Darkest Sunrise #1)

He was still tall, not like that had changed in the half hour since I’d seen him last. But his disheveled, blond hair, longer on the top than on the sides, had been combed and he’d shed his filthy apron, revealing a clean and crisp, white Polo that stretched around his biceps. I mean, not that I was looking or anything. His arms were just there…attached to his shoulders.

Wide and muscular shoulders.

Shit.

“Well, after you ran out on me, the grill exploded. I was down in the emergency room—”

I shot to my feet, sending my rolling chair sailing across the room. “What!”

He chuckled. “I’m kidding. I brought you lunch.” He set a heaving plastic bag on the counter, the smell of dear-God-deliciousness wafting out of it.

My stomach rumbled in approval, but my mind was slightly more cautious. “Why?”

He narrowed his eyes, but his grin never faltered. “Why not?”

Because you don’t know me.

Because I damn near had a nervous breakdown at the sound of my son’s name earlier when, for a split second, I looked at that little boy and hoped he could be mine, despite the fact that he was at least eight years too young.

Because my life is so fucking complicated that you would suffocate in my reality.

I kept all of that to myself. “Aren’t you supposed to be serving up charred leather and tire rubber to dozens of unsuspecting victims right about now?”

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “If that were not incredibly accurate, I’d be offended. But no. My brother is the chef in the family, and he finally showed up to take over. Including cooking this.” He pushed the bag a fraction of an inch closer. “I assure you there is no tire rubber involved.” He didn’t say anything else as he stared at me, his assessing eyes scanning my face as though he were trying to read my answer before I’d even formulated it.

“No tire rubber involved? That’s quite the sales pitch,” I smarted.

“I know. I’m having posters made up and everything.”

I cut my gaze to the floor so he wouldn’t see my smile.

“So what do you say? Me. You. A table in the cafeteria. Grilled-to-perfection Wagyu?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Sorry. I don’t eat dog.”

He laughed. “That’s a good standard to live by. But Wagyu is Japanese beef. It’s highly desired because it’s genetically predisposed to intense marbling, thus producing a high percentage of oleaginous unsaturated fat.”

My mouth fell open. “You know all of that about Japanese beef but you don’t know how to grill a burger?”

He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “What can I say? My parents failed me. The internet did not.”

I laughed—and not a quiet giggle. It was a real-life belly laugh. While I didn’t snort, I’m not sure it could have been any less attractive if I had.

He didn’t seem to mind though. His lips stretched, revealing at least four years of orthodontics and negative amounts of coffee and red wine.

“Well…thanks. You really didn’t have to bring it all the way down here.” I reached for the bag, but he pulled it out of my reach.

“I did if I wanted to have lunch with you.”

Nerves bloomed in my stomach and the word “No” rolled off my tongue on pure instinct.

“No?” he repeated in surprise.

Funny, the same question echoed in my head.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have lunch with him. It was just that I wasn’t prepared. You couldn’t spring lunch on a girl. I was still reeling from my near nervous breakdown. Yes. I was starving. But he’d probably want to have a conversation. Oh dear God. What if he actually expected me to chime in with opinions and small talk of my own?

Nope. Not happening.

“I’m kinda busy right now,” I lied.

His smile deflated. “Oh. Okay.”

Guilt rolled through me. Damn it. I should have offered him a gift card.

“I’m sorry. You know how it is. Work. Work. Work.”

He waved my apology off. “Yeah. My job’s the same way. You. Saving lives. Me… Ordering cocktail napkins?” He twisted his lips adorably. “No. You know what? It’s not even similar.”

I tipped my head to the side. “You order cocktail napkins for a living?”

“That’s what it feels like sometimes, but no, I own a restaurant. Well, actually, two restaurants.”

My eyes must have flashed with surprise, because he lifted his hands and placated, “But I assure you I don’t cook at either of them.”

A laugh bubbled from my throat.

What the hell was I doing? I’d vowed to myself that it was time for a change.

I’d even promised that I would be the change. And there I was, turning a man down, who for all intents and purposes seemed like a good guy, because it was easier to stay in the darkness than it was to brave the sunlight. So much of my energy was spent trying to exist in a world that never slowed down. Maybe I just needed to speed up.

Those damn baby steps were only causing me to fall further and further behind.

This guy—this lunch—could be my first giant step.

What could it possibly hurt? Right?

Famous last words, huh?

But, then again, for ten years, my life had been ruled by words.

Fear. Guilt. Terror. Anxiety. Solitude. Longing.

It was time to let some feelings in.

After flipping Mr. Clark’s file closed with one hand, I slid it onto the top discharge pile. “You know what? I can take a break.”

His whole handsome face lit. “Really?”

“Really,” I confirmed.

“Thank God,” he breathed in a strange mixture of relief and excitement. “I should probably introduce myself, huh?” He thrust a hand over the desk dividing us. “Hi. I’m Porter Reese.”

I didn’t know it yet. But those four simple words changed my life all over again.





* * *





“So let me get this straight. Your brother is supposedly a famous chef named Tanner and the two of you named your restaurant The Porterhouse?” she asked then slipped a spoonful of potato salad into her mouth.

I laughed. “You can’t argue with the winner of the Ninja Warrior course.”

She blinked. But her lips tipped up in a breathtaking smile.

After I’d completed the grueling—and slightly terrifying—task of convincing her to have lunch with me, Charlotte had led me through the hospital maze to the packed cafeteria. No one spoke their hellos as we walked past, but more than once, I caught hospital personnel doing an openmouthed double take. Though, if Charlotte noticed, she didn’t let on. She kept her head down, eyes forward, and ignored the world.

I had to admit I was envious. I’d been trying for years to accomplish that feat.

First stop on my way home was going to be to buy myself a flame-retardant suit because there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it—I was going to hell.

I’d yet to mention Travis or the appointment I so desperately needed from her, but that could come later. And there was absolutely going to be a later.

Charlotte Mills was fascinating.

She didn’t talk much, but she wasn’t quiet, either. She was very much present in the conversation, one sentence or sarcastic comment at a time. Engaging, but still withdrawn. The emptiness rolled like waves through her dark eyes, occasionally fading out of view as a subtle light flickered in the background.

I didn’t know much about her other than the fact that she picked all the sesame seeds off her burger and used thick layers of mustard like most people would use ketchup.