My hands worked the torch, caramelizing the top of the crème brûlée order at Sheldon’s Italia. The kitchen was busy with our regular Saturday patrons, but my concentration was shot.

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since the last concert. Two weeks since the last time I’d seen Hawke. Two weeks since I’d heard from him. The last thing I remembered, he’d had his hands threaded through my hair and his lips on mine, and he’d been whispering lyrics to my favorite song in my ear.

If I didn’t have the secret special cell phone that he had given me, I would have thought it was all a dream. All of it.

“I want to give you this phone. I’ll contact you. One, four, three, one is the code to unlock the phone.” Then, he’d winked.

In some ways, I sensed he was paranoid. He didn’t want anyone knowing his number. He would have his security check his car and room before he stepped in. I guessed I would be the same way, if I were über-famous and everyone wanted a piece of me.

He had said he’d reach me through the cell, and because I was who I was and because I was like every other stupid, hopeful girl in the world, I’d been waiting for him to call, but all I’d received were random texts.

I tried to read into the random texts he had sent because I was a woman. Women did that—read into things that weren’t there. But they were just that—random.

Pictures of nuggets and fries.

A landmark of the city he was touring.

Pictures of the audience from the stage.

At least he was thinking of me, but what plagued my mind was the not knowing if this was all it was going to be—random texts till the end of time. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

There was a slight ounce of hope still, that tiny spark that said, even though he had his rock-star status, he’d want to see me again, and maybe I wasn’t just another girl to him.

The sane part of my brain knew that was not remotely possible, given his lifestyle and the amount of time he spent on tour. So, I tried to water down that spark of hope, push it down where I couldn’t dig it up and feel disappointment.

Maybe I had imagined it—our connection.

It was a mindless fling. That was it.

When I placed the desserts on the serving station, Anne, one of the waitresses, turned in my direction. Her eyes were frantic. “Some customer is totally freaking out over the quality of his steak. Good Lord, we have a high-maintenance one on seven. Do you mind taking the crème brûlées to table thirteen? It’s the cutie’s birthday and he requested crème brûlée, not cake.”

I glanced down at myself, sweating and probably smelly. My hair was pulled back, my face shiny from the grease. Sugar covered my station and half of my apron. I was not in decent form to be seen by customers.

“We’re down two waiters today. Please, Sam,” she pleaded, rushing to the back of the kitchen before I had a chance to say no.

Aggravated, I huffed and balanced three plates in my hands. This was why I was a sous pastry chef and not a waiter. I had problems with coordination and balance.

With my hip, I pushed the door open and entered the restaurant. The chatter of the patrons filled my ears, but I concentrated on one thing—not falling. I’d done it before in the kitchen, and it wasn’t cute.

As I focused on the plates in my hands, my feet did the walking to table thirteen. I’d been working at the restaurant long enough to know where each table was. The plates jiggled in my hands, and I walked faster to my destination, wanting to put the plates down on a sturdy surface.

When I made it there, I smiled, glad I hadn’t face-planted on the floor with three plates of dessert. “Crème brûlées?” I asked, placing the plates on the table.

“Samantha?”

I glanced up and blinked, shocked at the familiarity in Josh’s voice, though I’d only heard him speak once before.

Staring back at me was the handsome shoe salesman, seated right by a woman about his age and an older male who could be his father.

He did a double take my way and widened his eyes. “Sam,” he said my name softer this time, as though he were uttering it to himself, like a word he wanted to repeat just because.

I was surprised that he even remembered my name.

“Hi.” I waved.

The younger woman’s eyes ping-ponged between us.

“You work here.” His voice was low, as though he couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t a question. It was stated as a fact.

I chuckled nervously. “No, I just like to deliver food to tables for no reason.”

And that was when he smiled. I remembered his smile—the one with two dimples, the one that was boyishly cute, the one that was contagious and had me automatically responding with a smile back.

I shifted my weight, rocking back on my heels, the awkward silence building between us. Then, I broke the quiet. “Happy Birthday!” I said, averting my gaze from his to the table. “Well, you guys enjoy.”

I turned to leave, but he stood, and his voice stopped me.

“Wait.” His tone was quiet yet firm, the words a command but sounding like a plea.

He blinked a couple of times and we stared at each other for a few brief seconds. My breath caught.

“Uh, so this is my sister, Casey.” He motioned to said sister with one hand and then to the older man. “And my father, Albert the 3rd.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say, but I could see the resemblance now.

Josh and Casey shared the same wavy dark brown hair, but Casey’s was longer. Casey’s eyes were a steel gray, like her father’s. Josh must’ve inherited his deep brown eyes from his mother. Albert had a full set of gray hair, his face handsomely young.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I wrung my hands together and rubbed them against my dirty apron to curb the uneasiness in my chest caused by their curious looks and the intensity of Josh’s stare.

Casey smiled a cheeky grin, like she was amused by Josh’s awkward exchange with me. “How do you know each other?”

That seemed to break some of the tension, and I laughed, recalling our encounter. “Josh sold me a pair of shoes at Nordstrom.”

When Josh grimaced and his father’s smile slowly left his face, I knew I’d said something wrong.

Albert’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, you’re still working at Nordstrom? I thought they gave you a raise at the law firm.”

Josh let out a soft sigh. “Dad, not now, please. It’s my birthday.”

“Happy Birthday,” I said again but this time directly addressing the celebrant.

“Are you going to sing?” Josh asked, his eyes dancing with hopeful humor.

“I’d have the whole restaurant fleeing if I belted out a note. I don’t really sing.”

He playfully narrowed his eyes. “For some reason, I think you’d have a beautiful voice.”

“Seriously, you don’t even know how terrible I am. Like, really, really bad.” My nose wrinkled at the thought.

His smile turned sweet. “At least sit and join us for a minute.”

“Yeah. Come join us.” Casey pushed out the empty seat next to her. It was as if she were Josh’s wingman.

This guy was relentless, and now, he had his sister on his team, too.

“Uh…” I stammered. “I’m sort of on the clock.”

He interlocked his fingers, like he was saying a prayer. “It’s my birthday.”

With his pout and his big chocolate-brown eyes, I was a goner.

I glanced around, searching for someone to save me, to send me back to the kitchen, or to give me another order to deliver. You just didn’t sit with the customers when you were on the clock—at least, not at this restaurant.

“Five minutes,” he offered, grinning. “Unless you’d like to sing instead.”

I plopped down on the chair faster than a dog playing dead. There was no way I was going to sing.

When he passed a fork in my direction, I shook my head. Eating at the table with him would’ve taken the awkwardness to another level.

“So, you’re a waitress here?” Casey asked with a mouthful of crème brûlée. “Oh my gosh. This is divine.”

Her eyes widened at my masterpiece, and my insides leaped. The best reward for a chef was the praise given for their food.

“No, actually, I’m the pastry sous chef.”

Josh’s eyes appraised me. It was the same look he’d given me at the department store, as though he were studying my every feature.

“Wow. I’m impressed. This is amazing stuff. I doubt I could replicate this at home.” Casey picked up her fork, tilted her head to examine the dessert, and then proceeded to chow down like it were her first meal of the day. She nodded toward Josh. “Try it.”

Josh’s eyes never left mine as he took his fork and placed it in his mouth. “You’ve got talent, Miss Sam.”

“What do you think, Dad?” Casey asked.

“I think I don’t like the fact that Josh is still working at Nordstrom.” Albert’s face turned sour, sour like his tone.

The mood shifted in the air, the comedy gone, sucked up into the vent as quickly as it had come.

Casey’s face dropped, and Josh straightened in his seat, his jaw tightening.

“Please, Dad,” Casey said, placing her free hand on her father’s.

Albert’s dessert sat on the table, untouched. It didn’t seem like he cared that I was sitting right here, in the middle of their family discussion.

His eyes were intense. “Josh, if you need money to cover rent—”

“No, Dad.” Josh’s eyes cut to his dad in a way that said, Stop. “I don’t. I’m doing just fine.”

“If you’re doing fine and your internship at Statford is paying you as much as you say they’re paying you—”

“Dad,” Casey cut him off, “it’s Josh’s birthday, and Sam here would just like for you to try her crème brûlée.”

Albert’s eyes darted between us, his face masked with annoyance. After a beat, he stood. “Excuse me. It was nice meeting you, Sam.” He dropped his napkin on his chair and left the table, leaving a cold chill in his former spot.

Casey’s apologetic eyes met mine. She excused herself and followed right after, leaving Josh and me alone.

Alone in the awkwardness.

“I’m sorry about that.” His eyes were unreadable, fixed, staring where his father had walked off.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say something I wasn’t supposed to—about your job. And I ruined your birthday,” I said, which forced his focus on me.

“Sam, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

I pushed out the chair, ready to stand, when Josh’s words halted me.

“So, those hands, they make dessert?” His disappointed eyes brightened as he reached for my hand and flattened my palm against his. It was as if he just wanted to touch me, just like the first day I’d met him.

My breath caught at the tenderness of his palm. My hand tingled where our skin touched, and I pulled back, like I’d been shocked with electricity.

“So, you’re a lawyer and a shoe salesman,” I joked, but my voice quivered.

Men didn’t usually make me nervous—unless they had ultimate rock-star status—but Josh…he made me nervous just by the intimacy of his stare.

“Studying to be a lawyer,” he corrected. “And, yes, top salesman at Nordstrom.” He winked. “I also have a paid internship at a big law firm downtown that I work for twice a week.”

“But your father doesn’t approve?”

He just shook his head, a bit of that sadness back in his eyes. He blew out a breath and looked back at the direction where his father had stormed off.

I frowned, hating his subdued demeanor. “Why not?”

“He doesn’t want me working more than I have to. Long story.” He waved his hand, done with that topic.

“What kind of law?” I asked, curious about the law student/shoe salesman with the most adorable dimples.

“Adoption and child services. That’s a long story, too.”

One dimple appeared, not two, and it was my short-term mission to make both reappear.

“Lawyer by day, super shoe salesmen by night, saving women from their footwear emergencies, one shoe at a time. Wow, I’m the one impressed.”

Both of his dimples appeared, and my inner champion raised her trophy.

“I’m more impressed by this crème brûlée.” He scooped another bite into his mouth. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to cook. Are you taking students?” he asked between chews. “Apprentice, by chance? I’d be willing to change majors if you were the professor.” He smirked, his mouth full, looking super adorable.

“Nope.” I chuckled. “Can’t take students if I’m going to be a student myself. I’m applying to a culinary school at the end of the year.”

“Another culinary school?”

“Yeah, I went to my community college for culinary arts. Now, I want to go to a cooking school that specializes in pastries.”

“How did you decide on culinary school?” he asked, mid chew.

I shrugged, and using his own words, I said, “Long story. How about you? Why adoption services?”

“So, that’s how it is going to be now, huh? Tit for tat?”

My chin dipped once. “Yep, pretty much.”

“My mother was adopted. You?”

“Really?” I blinked, surprised.

He was so transparent. It had been a long time since I’d met a guy so forthcoming, even before my first night with Hawke.

“I think that’s sweet. Where is she today?”

“Not here.” Something flashed in his eyes, as though he were hiding something. He nodded toward me, diverting the attention off himself. “Your turn.”

The change of subject was abrupt, but I answered anyway, “I’ve always been into baking, even when I was younger.”

“Did anyone in your family like to bake?”

“My mother.” My chest tingled by the thought of her. Memories of us filtered through my head—throwing flour at each other, our cream countertops covered in white dust, pans everywhere, the scent of cocoa and vanilla permeating the air. I rubbed the center of my chest at the memory.

“If she’s anything like you in the baking department, she’s got major skills. You should start your own bakeshop.”

We were supposed to…

A pang hit my chest, like a dagger. Hard and painful. “Yeah, that was the plan…”

I’d been baking since I got my first Easy-Bake Oven on my fifth birthday. Our love for cookies and brownies had turned into bake sales at school, which had turned into a small made-to-order business in high school that occupied our kitchen. We’d had dreams and our future ahead of us.

We’d had. Past tense.

“Shit. Are you crying?” He leaned in and started to hand me his napkin.

The memory of us seemed so fresh, so real, that I didn’t realize I had started crying. I swiped at my eyes and tried to play it off. At times, memories would trigger emotions that I kept locked deep inside. Deep inside where no one had the key.

“No, sorry.” I scrambled from my seat. “I have to get back to work.”

He reached for my hand again, and his apologetic eyes met mine. “Whatever I said, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. You just…you just reminded me of something.” I retrieved my hand from his and evened my tone to hide the hurt. “Josh, I have to get back to work.”

“I’m sorry.” He placed his hand on his heart and the sincerest look crossed his features. “I feel horrible.”

“It’s fine.” I swallowed down the pain and gave him a weak smile. “Happy Birthday.” Then, I rushed to the back of the kitchen to collect myself before I went back to work, not wanting to relive the past that continued to haunt me every day of my life.