words looped through her mind, whip quick, and delivered in the deep male voice of her nightmares.
Steven.
Her hands fumbled over the edge of a carton of eggs as she grabbed the box, then a large container of heavy whipping cream. Still trembling, she set both on the counter and slammed the fridge door closed with her hip.
This was her kitchen. Hers.
She fought to remember that as the battle with her memories increasingly took over.
His criticisms had started in a kitchen. His kitchen.
She’d been surprised at first, hurt even, but she knew he ran his restaurant with an iron fist and had already observed how he spoke to the rest of the staff and crew. She certainly shouldn’t be immune because they were sleeping together.
So she’d worked harder. Come in earlier. Tried more elaborate creations.
And when she’d won an award as one of Dallas’s premier up-and-coming pastry chefs, Steven had exploded instead of being excited for her. He lamented her suddenly large head instead of focusing on the increased prestige that drove even more patrons into his restaurant, all determined to add several expensive desserts to their already-sizable dinner checks.
Still, she’d soldiered on. Their wedding was only a month away and their nerves were all frayed. The daily grind of the restaurant, his distracted focus with the new location he was opening across town and, of course, the four-hundred-person guest list would take a toll on anyone.
But it was the hard slam into their Sub-Zero refrigerator in their gleaming dream of a kitchen three weeks after they got married that finally began to open her eyes to the man she’d bound her life to in marriage.
He’d apologized, of course. Had told her it was an accident and he’d slipped on the floor and fell into her and, besides, he was so tired. So worn-out. So full of the work and the stress of their new life together that she had to know he hadn’t meant it.
And she’d believed.
Lilah methodically cracked and measured egg yolk after egg yolk into her mixing bowl, their rich yellow breaking on contact with the hard, ceaseless paddles. Sugar followed, blending with the eggs and thickening the mixture into a thin paste.
Not only had she believed he’d changed, but she began to believe him when he told her a new crust she’d perfected wasn’t very good. And she’d trusted when he told her he was going to get some good press when he brought in a guest pastry chef for a few weeks to create a bit of buzz around the restaurant. And she’d blindly followed when he told her he wanted his wife by his side each night greeting his guests in his restaurants and not in the kitchen.
And oh, how she’d paid.
“You want to talk?”
Lilah heard Cassidy’s voice a moment after she registered the slamming beat from her music dock had stopped. She never looked up; instead she kept her gaze on her bowl. She measured the cream by sight, adding it smoothly into the mixture. “It’s nothing we haven’t talked about before.”
“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about it again.”
“It’s the past, Cassidy. And it’s well behind me.”
“Well, that’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard and that includes the pile of bs Melinda Crosby’s cheating fiancé tried to level on me when I caught him in the dressing room with Melinda’s maid of honor.”
Lilah looked up despite herself, shocked at the news. “He was getting it on with Shanna Thomas? Why didn’t you tell Vi and I that part?”
“Because I am a discreet proprietor who can manage my clients in their less-than-stellar moments.”
Lilah shook her head, sad at the news. “And she still married the dog.”
“Despite my best efforts to gently persuade her to rethink this major life decision, yes, she did.”
“It’s not for us to fix. Even when we see the glaring signs of a future of misery.”
“Which is the reason I’m standing here, actually.”
Lilah flipped off her mixer. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You did escape a future of misery yet here you are, wallowing in it.”
A renewed shot of anger bloomed in Lilah’s stomach, a preferred counterpoint to the sickly coating of nausea that had lingered along with the bad memories. “Don’t go there with me. You have no right to go there with me.”
“I have every right. I’m your friend. And I’m here for you. And it’s my job to keep you honest when you’re falling back into the idea that you somehow brought the whole damn thing on yourself.”
“Of course I brought it on myself.”
“And there we go with the piles of crap again.” Cassidy gentled her voice before reaching out.
Lilah wanted to reject the kindness and understanding and keep on with her misery, but the promise her friends had made to her several years before echoed in her ear.
We’re here for you.
Cassidy and Violet had made the promise and they’d lived it each and every day since.
Lilah took the proffered hand and squeezed tight before pointing to her mixer. “I’m at a delicate phase.”
“Is that your Bavarian cream?”
“Yep.”
Cassidy took an exaggerated step back. “Don’t let me be the one to keep the angels from weeping. I’ll wait until you’re done.”
Lilah finished the mix quickly, the cream one of her trademarks, as she caught Cassidy’s movement from the corner of her eye. Her friend kept out of her way, crossing to one of the kitchen’s work spaces to snag a stool.
The paddles kept up their work, as well, mixing the cream into thick, stiff peaks as she dropped in the last few ingredients.
“Please tell me I can dip in a clean spoon for a taste.”
“I’ll do you one better.”
Lilah snagged a small bowl from underneath the counter and scooped out a small serving of the cream. Handing it over, she still saw the concern in Cassidy’s gaze, but was pleased to see it warred with avarice over the fresh treat.
She hated pity.
Give her a crazy bride, a demented mother-in-law and a side order of wedding drama and she’d handle it like a pro. Pull three all-nighters in a row to finish up the cake and desserts for the wedding of the season and she’d push through like nobody’s business.
But put her oldest friend with a pair of sad eyes and a concerned tone in her light Texas twang and Lilah froze all the way through.
Pity suggested weakness.
And
