Burn for You

“It’s real nice you’re taking such good care of your mama, Bianca,” said Trace.

I froze. “What?”

“Since she’s been so sick,” he explained. “You know, with the flu?”

My mother and I shared a look, and my shoulders sagged in relief. The last person on the planet I wanted to know about Mama’s illness was Trace. Obviously she’d fed him the same line she’d been feeding everyone else.

Though I doubted anyone had ever heard of any flu that made all your hair fall out.

I said, “Right. The flu. It’s been going around.” I stood, holding onto Mama’s hand, and stared at Trace. “So you were just leaving, right?”

Trace crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at me. With his tight jeans and his perfect face and his biceps popping out from under the sleeves of his painted-on T-shirt, he looked like he should be on the cover of a romance novel. I wanted to take off my shoe and smack a dent in the middle of his forehead.

He said, “Actually I was just telling your mama about the new business I started.”

I looked at the ceiling, praying to God for restraint.

In the three years Trace and I had spent together, he’d started—and abandoned—a dozen businesses or more. A mobile car wash. A vitamin line. A motorcycle courier service. A new energy drink, because God knew the market didn’t have enough of those. Inevitably his new pursuits required an influx of cash, and guess who the lucky “investor” was?

Yes. Me. Gullible, stupid-in-love, working-three-jobs-to-save-for-a-restaurant me.

I said flatly, “Another new business. How thrilling for you.”

Trace’s smile grew wider. He said, “It is, actually. It’s the one we always talked about starting together. You remember, bumble bee?”

My whole body went cold. “No,” I said, but my voice sounded dead.

He nodded, pleased as punch with himself. “Sure you do! A restaurant. Got a few investors with some serious cheese, just signed the lease on the space. We’ll be opening up next month. Right down the street from your place, as a matter of fact. We’ll be neighbors!”

Shocked into silence, I stared at him.

Mama said, “Why that’s wonderful, Trace!” She squeezed my hand, trying to get me to look at her, but all I could do was stare in disbelief at the Benedict Arnold who used to be my man.

Who, in a few short weeks, was going to be my competition.

Because I’d already put Mama through her paces by saying my ass was on fire, I didn’t want to make a stink in front of her about this awful piece of news. So I put a smile on and said pleasantly to Trace, “Isn’t that nice. Would you mind if I talked to you outside for a minute?”

My invitation brought a smug look to his eyes, like he knew it was only a matter of time before I came to my senses.

He wouldn’t be so smug if he knew I was picturing severing his genitals from his body with a pair of pruning shears, but Trace never was very good at reading people. He always assumed everyone had the same high opinion of him that he had of himself. Right now he was probably thinking I wanted to get him outside so I could throw myself at his feet and beg to be part of his new endeavor.

“Of course,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. He turned to Mama and said, “Always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Hardwick.”

“And you, Trace,” she said, shooting me a glance that said be nice.

He might not know what was in store for him, but Mama obviously did.

Trace held the door open for me on the way out. He walked behind me down the porch steps. When I stopped at the sidewalk, he stopped, too. Then he looked down at me and smiled his heartbreaker smile and proved exactly how dumb he was.

“I was just about to ask your mama for some of her recipes when you came in.”

If the top of my head were a volcano, it would’ve exploded with a fountain of flaming orange magma so huge the entire southern United States would be wiped from the map.

My voice shaking with fury, I said, “If you ever come near her again, I’ll break into your house when you’re not home and replace all your shampoo with hair remover.”

Trace blinked. His sculpted eyebrows pulled together.

I pointed my finger in his face. “You’re a liar. And a cheater. And I don’t care how much you screech about finding God, a leopard doesn’t change his spots. I know all your tricks, Trace Adams. I know all your tells. And I know that you getting into the restaurant business has nothing to do with new investors and everything to do with trying to outdo me and prove that I made a mistake when I kicked your sorry behind to the curb.”

Trace shrugged. “Well, you did.”

I made a sound of astonishment. “You’re unbelievable.”

He reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, but I swatted his hand away. He said, “I know I made my mistakes, too, but I want to put all that behind us.” His voice grew stroking. “C’mon, bumble bee. I know you still have feelings for me, or you never would’ve kissed that asshole in the car the other night. That’s not your style.”

Blood pounded in my face, in my ears, through every vein in my body.

I shouted, “That asshole is my fiancé!”

I wished I had a camera. His look of shock was worth preserving for posterity.

“The fuck you say?” He stepped closer, eyes narrowed, but I stood my ground.

“You heard me. We’re engaged. We’re getting married.”

His nostrils flared in outrage. He stared down at me in jaw-clenched fury until finally he said, “Huh. Never thought I’d see the day that Miss High and Mighty turned into a gold-digging whore.”

That hurt. It hurt like getting all my skin peeled off and taking a saltwater bath, but I didn’t want him to see it. So I smiled, even though the effort felt like it would split my face in two. “There he is. There’s the Trace I know. Welcome back, player. Now get lost!”

I turned on my heel to leave, but Trace caught me by the arm and jerked me against his chest. He put his nose up to mine and hissed, “How much he payin’ you, Bianca? How much does it cost to get you to suck a dick?”

I yanked my arm from his grip and backed away, so angry I could scream. “If you come near me or my mama again, I’ll call the police. And then I’ll call my future husband. And believe me, Trace, you’ll want the police to get to you first.”

I strode away and didn’t look back, not even when I heard him call me the c-word and spit on the sidewalk.

TWENTY

BIANCA

The next afternoon, Jackson kept to his usual MO and arrived unannounced at the restaurant.

It was five o’clock, an hour before the first reservations, five hours after the meat delivery was supposed to have arrived. The staff was eating their preservice meal together at the long table in the glassed-in private dining room. Meanwhile I was pacing, my new favorite form of exercise. When the door opened and I saw the long shadow fall across the dining room floor, I knew who it was without even turning around.

Pepper’s excited squeal only confirmed it.

I turned and found Jackson standing inside the door, staring at me. He was wearing faded jeans and his battered motorcycle jacket, with a white cotton shirt molded to his body so his abdomen muscles were on display like an ad for stacked bricks.

He was not altogether unfortunate looking.

I said, “Oh. Hello.”