This is probably the dumbest, most impulsive thing I’ve ever done. Certainly, the dumbest, most impulsive thing I’ve done lately. How the hell did I let Tess talk me into coming here?

Standing on the sidewalk outside Davino’s I almost lose my nerve. I came here to apologize for causing a scene in his restaurant because the last thing I want to do is cause tension between Patrick and someone he clearly cares about. I have to at least try to fix some of the damage I’ve caused.

I stand on the sidewalk in front of the heavy glass doors and pretend to consider the framed menu posted on its front. What I’m really doing is trying to talk myself into opening the damn door.

Suddenly, the door opens and I look up from the menu to see Silver, the woman from last night, standing in front of me in a pair of black silk palazzo pants and a tailored red blouse. Red must be her color.

“Cari?” she says, her tone as warm and friendly as I remember. If she heard about my behavior last night, she doesn’t let on. “Is everything okay?”

“I, uhh...” My fingers tighten around the strap of my paint-splattered bag. I’m wearing jeans and low-top Chucks. What was I thinking? As soon as the thought takes hold, I push it away.

I’m enough.

“I’d like to speak with Davey, please?” I say, using the familiar nickname Patrick used last night. “Is he here?”

Still smiling, Silver pushes the door open a bit further and nods. “He’s always here,” she tells me, laughing. “Come in, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

She leads me through the front of the restaurant and into the dining room. It looks different in the daylight. Not as imposing without its dozens of wealthy patrons and army of wait staff. Expecting her to leave me at some point, I’m surprised when she leads me all the way back into the kitchen.

“Dad,” she calls out, pushing the door open on its hinges. “Cari, Patrick’s friend, is here to see you.”

Dad.

Davey is Silver’s father.

“Bring her in, bring her in,” a familiar voice calls from beyond the doorway. “Put her at the table—I’ll be right there.” I'm ushered into a large stainless-steel kitchen with several prep and cook stations. The prep stations are manned by nearly a dozen chefs, heads bent over cutting boards and crates of produce. None of them look up when I walk in, each of them concentrating on the task at hand.

Silver leads me to a curved booth set away from the action but with a perfect view of the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” she says, graciously, indicating for me to sit.

“No.” shake my head, feeling a little like Alice again. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “Good luck,” she whispers, giving me a wink before she leaves me alone.

I sit here for several minutes, watching Davey’s army of sous chefs chop and trim and wrap their way through what looks like enough food to feed half of Boston. No one looks at me. It’s like I’m not even here.

What did I get myself into?

“Do you like chocolate?”

It takes me a few seconds to realize I’m being spoken to.

“Yes,” I answer. “Probably a little too much.”

Davey’s laughter booms around the room, heavy and rich. “A beautiful woman should love many things,” he says, his voice getting closer and closer until I see him emerge from a room off a short hallway behind the kitchen area. “Chocolate is one of them.” He slides into the booth across from me and sets a dessert plate on the table between us. On it is the most beautifully constructed dessert I’ve ever seen. It looks like a work of art. Producing a spoon from his apron pocket, he offers it to me. “You missed the dessert course last night,” he says like I’d fallen ill or had to leave because of an emergency and not because I had what must’ve looked like a psychotic break in the middle of his restaurant.

I take the spoon but can’t bring myself to use it to destroy the dessert in front of me. “About that...” I set the spoon down and fold my hands into my lap. “I came to apologize for the way I behaved last night,” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “You gave us a beautiful dinner and I ruined it by being rude and ungrateful—and I’m sorry.”

Davey gives me a long look, studying me with dark eyes under heavy black brows. Finally, he shakes his head. “You were neither rude or ungrateful,” he tells me, sitting back in his seat. “You were afraid—anyone paying attention could see that.”

I open my mouth to deny it but it quickly snaps closed.

He’s right. I was afraid. I still am.

“I’ve been gone a long time,” I say, lifting a hand from my lap to lay it on the table. “I’m not sure Patrick and I belong together anymore.” My fingers trace along the handle of the spoon in front of me. “He’s different. We both are.”

“Different?” One of Davey’s bushy brows arches over a dark brown eye.

“He—” I suddenly don’t know how to explain it. What about who he was last night upset me so much. The suit? The car? The fact that he’s at ease in places I’ll never fit into.

“Tell you what,” Davey says. “You eat and I tell you the story of how Patrick and I met.”

“He already told me,” I say, picking up the spoon anyway. “You asked him to design a new restaurant.”

“Is that what he told you?” Davey laughs again. “I suppose it’s half true.”

Now I’m confused. “Why would he—”

He jerks his chin at the plate in front of me. “If you want the story, you’ll have to eat.”

Because I’m curious on multiple fronts, I pick up the spoon. Using it to cut into the perfectly crafted mound of chocolate and crème in front of me, I can’t help but wince a little. My guilt over destroying perfection dissipates the moment the bite hits my tongue.

I’m pretty sure I moaned.

Davey gives me a satisfied nod. “Patrick and his cousin had been coming in here quite often,” he says, starting his story, as promised. “Bringing their rich clients and their vapid wives in to seal the deal for their mansions and vacations estates. Anyway—” He waves a hand and rolls his eyes. “One particular night, we were busy—a waiter got sick. A busboy didn’t show. It was a mess,” he says while I inhale the dessert in front of me. “One of my bussers—sweet girl—was clearing plates in a rush. She was new at the time and not very good under pressure. She dropped a knife. It fell off the plate she was clearing and onto the table in front of the client. He became irate. Belittled and insulted her until she was in tears.”

I thought of the people I saw here last night and can easily believe that one of them would lose their minds over something like that. “What did Patrick do?” I’m afraid to ask. The Patrick I knew would’ve been kind. He would’ve helped her. Put her at ease.

But the Patrick I knew wouldn’t know Tom Ford from Tom Thumb. He loved his pick-up. Drank beer and ate pizza. He was as far from James Templeton as a person could possibly get.

“He told the guy to shove his McMansion up his ass—that he wouldn’t design it, even if he were starving in the streets—and followed my busser, straight into the kitchen, to make sure she was okay.” Davey smiles and shakes his head like he still can’t believe what he’s about to say next. “And then, seeing how short-staffed we were, hung up his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and bussed my tables in his five-thousand-dollar suit, until dinner service was over.”

“Patrick did that?” I say, not sure what I’m feeling.

Relief.

Pride.

Love.

“He did that.” Davey nods. “Maybe I don’t know the same Patrick you do,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe the man you left behind is completely different from the one I know—but I can promise you, whoever that man was, he isn’t any better than the one he is now.”