Everything and everyone changes, son. You’d do better to walk on cracked ice on a frozen pond than try to stop life from moving in the direction it wants to go. But if you’re unhappy with your path, pick another one—keep picking until you find the right one.

Over thirty years after Old Sam’s death, Gray could still hear his words as clear as day. The Colorado rancher had taken him in at fifteen. He’d been a petulant, troubled foster kid everyone else had given up on long ago.

Samuel Baird had served in World War II. In the three years Gray spent on his ranch, Old Sam never once spoke of his years in the Navy, of the horrors he’d seen. Shell shock. He’d been sent home from the front with shell shock and missing an arm.

Gray could still remember his social worker telling him this might be his last chance for a good home. As if the others had been anything but completely fucked up. But to his immense surprise, Old Sam treated him like a favourite son. The gruff cowboy taught him everything about being a man.

Those few years on the ranch had done more to form Gray as a man than the previous fourteen chaotic and abusive ones spent being thrown from one foster home to the next. Old Sam had taken him in and treated him like a wounded wild animal. He often took in injured creatures, treating them with patient, consistent, reliable care.

He’d adopted Gray—even so far as giving the fifteen-year-old his name.

A new name.

A strong one.

Gray Baird.

He wore it with pride—even if others enjoyed teasing him. Grey Beard. It’s Baird—like bared. Fucking morons. He saw his name and thought only of the seventy-year-old man who’d made him family.

Old Sam died a month after Gray graduated from high school. He’d wound up joining the military. It seemed the best idea at the time to avoid dealing with the mountain of emotions left at the ranch in Colorado.

And for a time, it had been. Gray grew into himself under the yoke of military service, but he couldn’t help wondering if he’d missed the chance to find a new adventure.

Now what?

Gray stood in his bathroom in front of the sink, staring at his steam-blurred reflection. “Well? What are you going to do?”

It had been almost twelve months since his old Navy SEAL buddy, Wyatt Hardy, invited him out to Cardiff to join the Ross & Hardy Security & Protection business. The company had been started by Wyatt and a former British Royal Marine, Hamish Ross. The two men had brought in a selection of retired military colleagues to work together.

At first, the job had seemed a perfect fit for him after retiring first from the Marines, and then from his job as a police chief in Washington State. But Gray quickly discovered that the fast-paced work of providing security for non-profits and offering risk assessment to corporations didn’t suit him at all. He had no tolerance for people in suits who refused to listen to someone with actual experience.

Gray turned on the tap for cold water and splashed it up into his face repeatedly until his mind cleared. He scowled at the tired lines etched into his face. “You’re getting too damn old to play bodyguard—no matter how noble the cause might be.”

Was talking to one’s self the first sign of insanity?

Fuck.

Questionable mental health aside, Gray had realised working in private security couldn’t be a forever career. His body might be in peak condition but he didn’t want to spend more years with high levels of stress. He wanted something to make him happy—not keep him on edge.

Since Christmas the tension had been building in him, and three weeks into the New Year, Gray had come to the realisation that things had to change. He refused to spend his fifties this unhappy with his day-to-day work life.

In truth, Gray didn’t need to work. He’d sold the ranch that Old Sam had willed to him for a decent amount. The money had sat earning interest to provide a retirement for him for over thirty years. He had enough to live comfortably, though maybe not extravagantly.

Gray had never needed much, something he’d also inherited from Sam. Could he be content doing nothing for the rest of his life?

Not a fucking chance.

What do I truly want to spend the next however many years of my life doing? Dodging bullets or taking one for someone else? Sitting on my arse?

What do I love more than anything?

Aside from sex.

Food.

Grabbing a towel to dry his hands and face, Gray strode out of his bathroom. He wrapped the towel around his waist. Owning a restaurant had always been an elusive dream, but was it? Could he leave all of his years of military and police service behind?

While preparing an omelette for himself, Gray sipped his freshly brewed coffee and mulled over the idea. He imagined there would be a host of things to consider before jumping headfirst into the restaurant business. With a deft flick of the pan, he flipped his omelette and went back to contemplating the future.

Am I having a midlife crisis?

Can’t be.

I’ve never had a fucking crisis. Other people have them. I make fucking decisions.

They only closely resemble indecisive moments of doubt.

Deciding to take the metaphorical bull by the horns, Gray grabbed his phone to send a text. He paused a moment to decide which of his bosses would handle the news best. Hamish tended to be less childish than Wyatt.

Right.

Decision made.

Gray: Two things. I quit. Also, who do you know who can help me with opening a restaurant?

Hamish: You can’t quit before six in the morning.

Gray: Why the fuck not?

Hamish: It’s uncivilised.

Gray: Fucking Brits. I texted you instead of Wyatt to avoid stupidity. Don’t make me regret it.

Hamish: Talk to Akash. A bakery isn’t a restaurant, but he might have some suggestions for you.

Hamish: Are you going to tell Wyatt that you’ve abandoned us?

Gray: He’ll figure it out.

Hamish: You’re a cagey bastard. If I didn’t have a healthy respect for your ability to kill me, I’d have a few more words about you quitting via text message.

Gray: Tell your more sensible half to call me.

Hamish: You think Aki is more sensible than me in the morning? Not before coffee.

In the end, it wasn’t Akash who contacted him. Instead, Caddock Stanford, one of the five rugby players who owned the Sin Bin, reached out to him to inform him they’d bought the warehouse space connected to their nightclub and intended to turn it into a restaurant. Their hunt for a head chef had thus far proven to be unsuccessful.

Gray translated that to mean that Scottie Monk, the club manager and co-owner, had chased off all the chefs. He might find the retired rugby player intriguing, but he wasn’t blind to the man’s terrible attitude. Why his friends had allowed Scottie to run the club still perplexed Gray.

If Gray were truly interested, Caddock suggested, then they could all get together to discuss the matter. The other co-owners, Remi Chardin, BC Brooks, and Taine Afoa would all be in Cardiff at the beginning of March. It gave him two months to make his decision.

One positive aspect of working with the former rugby players was that Gray would be able to focus completely on cooking while they hired someone else to deal with everything else. He wondered how Scottie would handle being in such close proximity to him. The man had gone out of his way to avoid him ever since they’d somehow ended up spending Christmas together.

After pouring himself another mug of coffee, Gray headed over to the laptop set up at the kitchen table. He’d make the most of those two months to think things over. Always take advantage of opportunities when they show up, you never know when it’s going to be your last chance. Old Sam would’ve told him to jump at the offer.

I don’t jump.

Might slowly make my way towards it, though.