“You’re not Maggie.”

Evelyn eyed me with unadulterated disgust, her already thin mouth pursing into an unsightly line. She turned away from the desk, her demeanor suggesting she expected me to follow and I quickly realized I had little other choice if I wanted to be led into the private room.

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” the hostess countered without turning around. “And Maggie is out sick today.”

I scoffed at the ridiculousness of the statement. Maggie was never sick. She had been my wife for seventeen years. I would know.

She’s probably at the spa or something, I thought, but that seemed unlikely. Margaret Warner—sorry, O’Dowd—was the last person in the world who would blow off work for a beauty appointment.

That was more my style.

Eve did not seem amused as I followed her through the back corridor toward the tiny meeting space reserved for our book club, but then again Evelyn was never amused in my presence. She hated me just because I was Maggie’s ex.

Well, maybe there was more to the story than that but who had time to ask?

“Sick?” I echoed. “With what?”

“I don’t know, Silas,” she retorted. “Maybe sick of your shit?”

Ah, I had missed the surly staff at Settlement. Two months was far too long to have been away from the smart assed remarks and stink-eye. It was good to be home.

Most of the employees were new hires, not from when I had run the kitchen—before I had given the restaurant to Maggie in our exhausting divorce. Maggie had accepted the building in lieu of alimony, proving once more that she had the better business sense of us both.

It was difficult to squeeze blood from a turnip after all. In that case, I was the turnip, undoubtedly.

But at least I’m not a eunuch, I chuckled to myself.

“Where are you going?” Evelyn yelled as I moved toward the parallel hallway. “You can’t go back there!”

“I’m going upstairs to see how Maggie is doing,” I replied. The way she looked at me told me I might be mistaken.

Out of all the staff, she had the evilest eye and I idly wondered if that wasn’t why Maggie left her in charge. No one in their right mind would cross the shrewd-tongued brunette if they wanted to walk away with their testes intact.

“Yeah, no, you’re not,” she retorted. “You have no authorization to go up that way. City by-laws.”

What a load of horseshit, I thought. The city didn’t care who used the back entrance. They cared about rats, cockroaches and stupid signs that read “wash your hands after you piss, please!” Still, I wasn’t about to cause a rift with her. I mean—it would be easy enough to go visit my ex-wife after book club, after all.

A part of me wondered if I wasn’t using Maggie as an excuse, in order to avoid the inevitable with the billionaires.

Avoiding is not going to help you along in your recovery, I reminded myself. You have to deal with this head on. I smiled and pivoted back to follow Evelyn.

“I see she still hasn’t hired any competent staff.” I eyed the sous chefs ambling around the kitchen in apparent disarray. It wasn’t a direct dig at the long-time hostess, but she seemed to take it as such.

“If you hate it here so much, why don’t you and your billionaire buddies find a different place to meet?” she cut back, punching a passcode into a keypad, thrusting open the door.

“And miss out on all the love I feel here?” I replied flippantly. “How could anywhere else compare?”

Evelyn grunted, stepping aside to let me in. She then disappeared, as if she could not get away fast enough.

“Silas!”

The chorus of voices was almost a din as four sets of eyes turned to stare at me in shock.

“Hello, assholes. I’m back. Did you miss me?”

“How did it go?” Marcus asked in an even voice, rising in the overcrowded space to allow me—the unofficial host—to sit. “You look good!”

“Meh,” I answered, trying to keep the knot of anxiety in my stomach from shining through. “I think I’ve faced my inner demons.”

No need to tell them that I ate humble pie for the past sixty days, owning up to my shit. They’ll find out soon enough.

“Thank God you’re here,” Viktor grumbled. “We are starving, and that woman will not feed us in Maggie’s absence.”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Where is Maggie?” I asked again, hoping for a more solid answer on where my ex-wife could be. I couldn’t reconcile that the tiny machine I had married and then divorced was laid up in bed two stories above our heads.

“She’s sick,” Nathan Brownlow offered. “At least that’s what Evelyn told us.”

Alarm flared in my stomach, but I forced a smile. “Well then, I guess I’ll have to see about getting us fed. What are we reading these days?”

“Anna Karenina,” Viktor said, and I stifled a groan. Viktor and his Russian literature. Obviously, the others had lost control of the group while I had been in rehab.

“I’ll see about food,” I said. “Carry on.”

As I pivoted, my leg hit Lucas Knox’s knee before the nouveau riche billionaire could move out of my way.

“One of these days, we’re going to have to do something about this meeting space,” Lucas grumbled, and a smirk froze on my face.

“Well I am always open to suggestions if you want to meet in your condo,” he replied. “Maybe Lexi can serve us in a French maid’s uniform and a pair of six-inch stilettos – “

“Watch your mouth!” Lucas snarled. “That’s my fiancée you’re talking about.”

“I am well aware,” I sighed dreamily, and his scowl deepened.

“All right,” Nathan said, shaking his head. “That’s enough, you two. Put a lid on it, Silas. You just got back and you’re already making waves.”

I grinned disarmingly at Lucas, but he didn’t seem too forgiving.

All these guys are pussy-whipped now. No one has a sense of humor. I remember when this club was more banter and less brooding.

I reasoned that my being back would lighten the atmosphere. Two months was a long time to be gone from the fold. Looking around the cramped space, I realized that I had missed those bastards. It felt good to be around familiar animals, even if they were each pricks in their own right.

“Marcus, can you help me?” I called out suddenly and the motivational speaker eyed me in surprise. After all, when had I ever asked for help with anything pertaining to food? The kitchen was my castle and I never wanted anyone’s hands in my pots.

What was that old adage? Too many cooks in the kitchen and someone is bound to get burned? Something like that. I liked it my way better.

Once upon a time, before I had allowed my gambling addiction to ruin everything, I had been the most sought-after chef in New York. I had endorsement deals coming out of my yin yang.

And I deserved it too. No one could make a roulade like me. All the critics said so. Before Maggie had renamed the restaurant Settlement it had been called Sonder, with months-long waiting list. I was one of the new generation of celebrity chefs, the ones who became celebrities before they became chefs.

It seemed like a hundred years ago, even though it had only been two years.

“Uh, yeah,” Marcus replied, rising to shuffle through the mass of long, expensively clad legs toward me. “What do you need?”

I gestured for him to follow me, ignoring the curious looks of the others.

Their turns would come soon enough.

“What’s up?” he asked. “It’s good to see you, Silas. You really do look good.” He paused, assessing me. “Rejuvenated.”

“Moisturized,” I joked as the meeting room door closed at our backs, but I then hesitated in the hallway before turning to face him. “Thanks, man. I feel good.”

I meant it. The stay at White Palms Rehabilitation Center in Tempe had not been mandated for my rehab but my therapist had recommended a change of pace until I could be certain outside temptations would not lure me back.

The trip to Arizona had been little more than a glorified vacation, complete with massages and yoga. I felt ten years younger and the desire to gamble had subsided substantially. I thought it would be tougher—more like a prison camp for the morally weak. Instead it was more like a resort with no internet connection.

“I wanted to apologize to you, Marcus,” I told him gravely, my gaze darting downward as the words seemed to stick in my throat.

He blinked at me in surprise.

“Apologize?” he repeated. “For what?”

I cleared my throat, trying to formulate the words. Things like this did not come naturally to me.

Making amends was not something I had ever had to do. I was Silas Warner, happy-go-lucky celebrity. People like me were not supposed to say sorry. Excuses were something I had not had to deal with. At least not while I had Maggie to make them for me.

“For the time I made you come to Atlantic City, for one,” I reminded him. “And the dozens of other times I put you in an awkward position because of my gambling.”

A look of understanding passed over his face and he nodded.

“Is this one of your steps?” he asked, and I bobbed my head, lowering my gaze in embarrassment even though I knew I was supposed to maintain eye contact and own up to my past mistakes.

“It’s all good, Silas,” Marcus assured me, clapping me heartily on my shoulder. “The important thing now is that you are able to overcome and move forward, right?”

I swallowed the growing lump in my throat and forced a smile.

Moving forward to what? How could I tell him that seemed insurmountable now that I had lost everything? How could I rebuild from my apartment when I had once had the entire world at my fingertips?

Of course, I said none of these things and simply thanked Marcus for his friendship and support.

Viktor banged on the glass window, glowering at us as his face puckered into a questioning look.

He wanted his food.

No one wanted to upset the resident Russian. He was much too valuable an ally, something I had learned recently.

“We better get moving.” Marcus chuckled, turning toward the hustle of the galley but I reached an arm out to stop him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I demanded, and he looked at me, perplexed.

“I thought you wanted help getting food,” he replied, his face confused.

I snorted.

“You just stick to motivating the weak-minded,” I instructed, pointing him back toward the book club. “I’ll get on some tapas.”

Marcus grimaced at me, rolling his eyes.

“Some things never change, I suppose,” he muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked defensively.

“It means that no matter what, Silas, no amount of rehab is going to change the fact you’re an asshole,” Marcus sighed, banging on the door for entry.

A jolt of defensiveness flooded through me as I watched him retreat into the cramped room to join the others.

It was not uncommon for us to call one another names and mostly it was done in jest but for some reason, I took his words personally.

I have changed, I told myself firmly, turning toward the noisy kitchen. He’s the asshole.

As I moved, I caught Evelyn’s eye passing through the server’s section and her eyes narrowed in contempt. Suddenly I realized that to some people I would still be the same Silas, no matter how much rehab I attended or how many steps I performed.

A twinge knotted my stomach as Maggie’s pale face flittered through my mind.

I wondered if my ex-wife was one of those people.

I hoped not.