“Wait for what?” Regan snapped, throwing the last bunch of clothes in. She shook her head. “The last person I was with fucked me over. Badly. It’s taken me more thantwo yearsto get my shit together and feel like I could trust somebody again.” She closed her eyes. “I should’ve known better than to let that somebody be you. You already showed me who you are. Years ago. But I let some good sex cloud my judgment.” Okay, that was a low blow, she didn’t have to see the tears well up in Ava’s eyes to know it. But she couldn’t stop herself. No more deep breaths. No more counting to five. She was too angry. Too embarrassed. Too hurt.
“I’ll fix it,” Ava said, but her voice had lost conviction and the tears had spilled over. Regan looked once and couldn’t look again, so she kept packing. “I’ll fix it,” Ava said again. “Please.”
Regan shook her head. “To be honest, I’m glad to go home. I miss it. I miss my cat. I miss my regular life. This fucking fairy tale had to end at some point, right?” She just needed her stuff from the bathroom. Her stomach roiled so badly, she thought she might throw up.
“I—” Ava seemed to have lost steam now, Regan could tell from her body language. Her shoulders slumped. The tears continued to fall as she cried silently and watched Regan continue to pack. Reganwished she’d leave, let her collect her freaking toiletries in peace, but she stood there and looked—she had to admit it—devastated. It didn’t take long, thank fuck, and Regan was zipping her suitcase.
As she swung her backpack over her shoulder and raised the telescoping handle on her suitcase, she hazarded a glance at Ava, who was looking at her feet now, as if she couldn’t bear to watch Regan walk out the door. Regan almost scoffed aloud. Wishful fucking thinking.
But then Ava tried once more. She raised her watery eyes to Regan and whispered, “I wish you’d just talk to me before you go. Just talk to me.”
She was almost tempted. Almost. But the words pushed out of her before she could falter.
“I have nothing more to say to you.”
* * *
Hauling eight weeks’ worth of clothes and toiletries down the grand staircase gracefully was next to impossible, and it was only in that moment she remembered the driver or some staff member had carried them up. At first she was worried about losing her balance and tumbling the whole way down. Then, after struggling for half the distance, she absently wondered if she should take the dive because it would certainly be faster. It was hard to make your point by stomping off when you were dragging fifty pounds of luggage with you.
When she finally made it to the bottom—after much bumping and banging—Regan wasn’t thrilled to see the rest of the gang in her peripheral vision hanging out in the dining room to her left. She’d hoped to avoid them—still hoped it as she headed for the front door before she heard her name. They’d known her—become her friends, she had hoped—over the past weeks, but they had convicted her without bothering to ask her anything. At all.Fuck all of ’em.
“Ms. Callahan?” It was May, in her boring black pants and boring white shirt and super-boring bun. But was that something in her eyes? Sympathy? Understanding? Regan didn’t have long to figure it out before May continued. “Chef would like to see you for a moment in her office.” She held an arm out, indicating the way was behind her.
She didn’t have to go. There were no rules now. Regan was her own woman and she could damn well leave if she wanted to fuckingleave. She stood there for a moment. The others were watching from the dining room—she could feel their eyes on her. A sound above her told her Ava was standing at the top of the staircase. May waited.
With an irritated sigh and a muttered “Goddamn it,” she let go of her luggage and followed May down the hall in a direction she’d never been. They seemed to walk endlessly, turning corners and hurrying down halls—because May did not stroll, she walked with speed and purpose—until they finally reached the office of Liza Bennett-Schmidt.
It was surprising, to say the least, and Regan found herself gaping, gawking like she was in some museum or gallery. While the rest of the house clearly spoke of wealth, it was also a bit…stodgy? Was that the word? Wood and velvet and burgundy. Dark and heavy. Rich, yes, but dark and heavy. Liza’s office, however, was more like the kitchen they worked in—modern and bright and sleek. The walls were white, the windows floor-to-ceiling, looking out onto the gorgeously lush grounds. Regan thought about how much creativity she’d have if this was her space for ideas, if this was where she dreamed up new flavor combinations and delicious new creations for the bakery.
The desk Liza sat at was simply glass and chrome. No drawers to speak of. Not a single smudge or fingerprint on the glass—Regan found herself absently wondering if Liza ever even touched it. Her chair was big and looked supremely comfortable, not to mention ergonomic. She wore a dark skirt, her legs crossed easily, red pumps on her feet. Dark-rimmed glasses sat perched on her nose as she looked over the rim of them at Regan. Her gorgeous auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, less severe than her bun, and she looked amused, if nothing else.
“I’m disappointed in you” was the first thing she said to Regan, then she pulled off her glasses and used them to indicate the chair in front of her desk.
“My idea gets stolen, and you’re disappointed in me.” Regan sat with a sigh. “Of course.”
Liza tipped her head to one side, a sly smile on her face that Regan couldn’t read. “What will it take for you to stay?”
Regan shook her head.
“There are less than two weeks left, and there’s still the money.”
“Right. Because you’re going to give that to the person you think stole somebody else’s work.”
Liza waved a hand and scoffed, like she’d said the silliest, most meaningless thing. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that some people will do anything to get ahead. Even if it means stepping on others.”
“I’ve met a few people like that,” Regan said. “And I am not one of them.”
Liza sat forward and put her forearms on her desk, as if she’d just had a grand idea she wanted to share, like she hadn’t heard her at all. “All right. What if I give you your own room? I suspect you’d rather not be rooming with Chef Ava at this point. Would you finish the retreat then?”
Regan sighed. “I don’t know…”
“I have so much more to teach you.” Liza smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “And you’ll be home in less than two weeks.”
Regan wasn’t naive. She knew her big exit was mostly based off adrenaline from her hurt and anger. Now that she’d had some time to cool down, the offer to stay was tempting. Not to mention the added break of not stressing over trying to avoid Ava when they shared a room. Also, there was the satisfaction of seeing the faces of the others and looking them each in the eye. She stared out the window at the trees, the lush green grass, the gorgeous blue sky that would turn a deep indigo as the summer day came to an end.
“I need to make it clear,” she said, turning back to Liza, “that I didnotsteal Ava’s idea. If anything, she stole mine. I am not a thief. In addition to that, I’m good enough to not need to steal somebody else’s work.”
“Oh, I know,” Liza said, surprising her. “So? You’ll stay?”
