wanted to wait until after they were married to make love, but apparently that wasn’t enough for Lisa, and soon enough Ken heard the rumors and saw the pictures in the tabloids. She and Drake Tyrell were an item, a regular fixture in all the Manhattan hot spots.
The turn of events had completely sideswiped him—and Ken didn’t consider himself anyone’s fool.
What bothered him most, though, was that after five years, he still couldn’t get her out of his head. If he saw her again, he didn’t know if he’d want to run to her or away from her. He hoped the latter. The thought that, after so much time, Lisa Neal still had power over him was more than a little disturbing. And yet it was true. The woman had gotten under his skin and stayed there.
“I’ve decided to skip dessert,” Marty said. “How about you? Have you made a decision about Alicia’s program?”
Keeping his expression mild, Ken stood. “I’m skipping it, too,” he said. “And this discussion is over.” He told Jake to comp Marty’s meal, then headed back through the tables toward the kitchen, needing some down time to relax and regroup.
Ken wasn’t the type to feel sorry for himself, but one week out of the year didn’t seem too outrageous an indulgence. The other fifty-one weeks he focused on his business and generally got on with his life. But despite the parade of women that came with his pseudo-celebrity status, so far he hadn’t met a woman who affected him the way Lisa had. Half of him prayed that one day he would, so that he could finally forget about her. The other half wanted to hang on to the memory of her forever. Unfortunately, though, right on the heels of the memory was always the now-familiar anger that burned a hole in his gut every time he thought about the way she’d left him.
“I know that look,” Tim said. “That’s your one-week-before-the-anniversary look.”
The familiar smells and sounds of the kitchen accosted his senses and lifted his spirits—the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of oil in a skillet, the gentle hiss of steam rising, the pungent aroma of minced garlic and diced onions. Despite himself, Ken’s lips curved into a grin. “I think I’m entitled.”
“Entitled? To what? To mope?” Tim looked up from where he was supervising his sous-chef, his face ruddy from the heat of the stove. Behind him, the assistants were doing prep work and the expeditor was finishing up the final orders for the latecomers to lunch.
“The woman I loved turned down a marriage proposal and told me she was moving to New York five years ago,” Ken said, making sure his voice was low enough for only Tim. “A year later, she dumped me and shacked up with some Hollywood big shot. I think I’m entitled to a touch of melancholy.”
Before Lisa left, Ken had been absolutely certain of the way his life was going to go down. He was going to live in a bungalow near the beach with his filmmaker wife and their beautiful kids, and they’d spend Sunday mornings trying to outdo each other with exotic and bizarre omelet variations. Weekend afternoons, they’d go see movies, then sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and analyze the heck out of the film they’d just seen while the kids played in the surf. During the evenings, he and Lisa would mingle among the Hollywood elite as they dined at a Ken Harper restaurant.
It had never once occurred to him that Lisa had a different view of the world.
Of course, they’d never seriously talked about marriage, although his insistence that they not sleep together until after they were married had meant that the topic had come up once or twice. The fact was, he’d wanted to bury himself inside of her more times than he could count. But he’d been down that road before, though never with a woman like Lisa. He’d thought she was special. He’d thought she was the one. And cliché or not, he’d wanted his ring on her hand before they’d shared a bed.
When she’d walked out, he’d been shaken to the very core. He’d begun to second-guess every decision as he lost the control he so prided himself on. His business acumen faltered, and he’d made some bad decisions. Decisions that had set him back months. He didn’t intend to lose control like that ever again.
Tim was still staring at him, an almost sorrowful expression on his usually jovial face.
“What?” Ken demanded.
“You need to move on.”
Ken crossed his arms and leaned against the stainless-steel prep area, trying to find a retort. But nothing came. Tim was right, but he didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.
Lord knew, he’d cursed Lisa enough, especially on those rare occasions when he’d let the bitterness and humiliation get the better of him. He’d cursed and yelled and ranted until sheer exhaustion pulled him back. And still she was there, just under his skin. Part of him.
So how the hell could he move on?
Tim turned to Kelly, his sous-chef, then added some herbs from a nearby bowl to her roux, and Ken inhaled the wonderful scent. “Smells great,” he said, partly to change to subject, but mostly because it was true.
“Of course.” Tim’s grin broadened shamelessly. “It’s my recipe.”
Ken let his gaze wander over the kitchen, not really seeing, as his thoughts drifted back to Lisa. “The thing is…” Ken trailed off, wishing he hadn’t even opened his mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Tim headed toward the stockroom, looking behind him to make sure Ken was following. “Spill it,” he said when they were out of earshot of the rest of the staff.
“It’s just…I don’t know. I guess, when I think about her, even after all this time, I’m furious with her…but I also wonder what the hell I did wrong. You know. What I should have done differently.”
“I repeat—you need to move on.”
Ken brushed aside the comment. “I know, I know. But I’m not just talking about her. I’m talking about me. Not just with Lisa, but with my life.” The truth was, she’d left him with a legacy of self-doubt, and it burned.
“Never second-guess yourself because of a woman, my friend. That’s the path to an early grave—or at least a psychotic episode.”
Ken chuckled. “Yeah? Well, you may be right about that.”
“And speaking of moving on…I interviewed the cutest pastry chef last week.” Tim kept his expression totally serious as he checked a produce list. “Now there’s a cream puff—”
“Knock it off,” Ken said with a grin.
Tim cracked a smile. “Just watching out for my best friend. You should date more.”
“Me? You’re the one who hasn’t had a date since Melinda left. I’ve had so many dates I should buy stock in a little black book company.”
“First,” Tim said as they left the stockroom and headed for the break room, “we’re not talking about me. Second, you haven’t had dates, you’ve had physical encounters. Hit-and-run dating.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the Formica-topped table, his large, former-NFL-linebacker body looking out of place on the small chair. If his knee hadn’t blown out, Tim probably would have made it far in football…and Ken would be out
