Morning light hit every corner of our kitchen, which only highlighted the grease stains and dust bunnies that I needed to clean later.

I stood by the stove, making breakfast, thinking about last night as guilt ran through my veins. I tried to reason with myself. I had stopped it before anything had gotten out of hand, hadn't I?

God, am I a mess. A total, utter mess.

Roland's footsteps into the kitchen broke me from my trance. He walked to the door as I continued to make his pancakes. I hadn’t forgotten why I’d been at Allswell instead of Italia Clement in the first place. I should’ve boycotted making him breakfast, but, if anything, cooking made me feel better. I was consoled by the aroma of the food, and the scent lightened my mood.

"I'm sorry, Angie," he said, taking a seat at the table without looking at me.

It's not like I hadn't heard those three words before. They were etched in my brain from repetition, like a song on replay. But the truth was, if he valued our relationship, he would’ve shown up.

He had promised. He always promised.

He sighed as if he was tired and that was the best excuse he could offer. "I had a meeting with those investors. This new client could double my bonus."

Bonus? His bonus?

I had an urge to yell at the top of my lungs, but I barely bit it back. We had all the money in the world between our families. What we didn't have was time. You couldn't buy back time.

I pulled two plates from the overhead cupboard and placed our pancakes on them, followed by the omelet in the other pan.

When I sat down at the table, my gaze fell on him reading the paper. My hand briefly clenched then released.

I only had wanted to spend time with him so we could strengthen our relationship, rekindle anything we had left.

The guilt within me diminished and was replaced with a silent annoyance.

"Angie, I'll make a reservation for Italia for next week. I just needed to make that meeting." His head didn't lift from the Wall Street Journal.

"I don't want or need your money,” I said softly. “We both know our families will be fine for generations to come. What I want is you. Your time. I want the man that used to take me out to dinner, surprise me on weekend getaways. I want the man that loved me above everything and anything." I pressed my hands to my chest and tried to control the quiver in my voice. "I miss us, the relationship that we used to have before you worked for Baird Equity Corp."

Now I was beginning to sound like a broken record. How many times had we had this conversation, and after I'd complain, we would be fine. But that moment was brief—fleeting—until we both sounded like a bad sitcom rerun.

"Try to understand," he said, exasperated.

I stood, not wanting to hear the two words again he always uttered on repeat. I turned to face him, frowning, hurt seeping out of me. "I always try to understand, and what I don't understand is why you put everything above me."

Once again, I took my plate to the bedroom, closed the door, and ate breakfast by myself.

Sometimes, I could picture us during high school or at the beginning of college. Roland picking me up from school, holding hands as we took a walk by the lake. But the picture in my head was fuzzy—blurry—as though it was fading. Sometimes I wondered if it even happened.

When I heard the door shut, indicating that Roland had left for work, my heart hurt. I wished he would fight a little harder for us. There would be times that I would wait for him to burst into our room, get on his knees and apologize and mean it. In my scenario, he would kiss me hard and say it would never happen again. Then we'd have make-up sex, and he’d prove to me that I was loved, and for once, he was truly sorry. And this time I'd believe him.

I rubbed the center of my chest, the pang of rejection strong and steady. I stared blankly at the plate in my lap, focusing on the broken pieces of the pancake, broken just like our relationship.

Wallowing wouldn’t lighten my spirit, so I lifted my chin, deciding that was enough of self-pity.

I emerged from the bedroom to get ready for work and picked up the phone and immediately dialed Tene. Speaking to my family always lifted my mood.

"Hey, Angie. One sec, I'm in the Starbucks line." She blurted out her order of a venti caramel macchiato with two extra shots of espresso before she got back on the line.

"Sorry, babe. I can’t start my morning without my coffee, especially since I was partying all night long."

I had left the bar at one in the morning, while Tene had met up with a couple of girlfriends. Where the hell did she get all her energy?

"I still don't know how you do it." Where I was in bed daily at ten p.m., Tene was able to go out until three in the morning and still function the next day.

"I do it because I have to, and I still want to maintain a life and run Armstrong. Listen, I'm running to my flight, coffee in hand, so I have to hang up in about two seconds. It's the last call, and everyone has boarded the plane. Thanks again for handling downtown this morning. Training by fire. Good luck." She was flying to Corrington today, a few towns over, about three hours away, to sign a contract with a strip mall we owned down there, so I had to assist her in some business in downtown Rosendell.

I sucked in a breath and nodded. "No problem, sis. I’ve got this." Since I graduated with my master’s a mere few months ago, I'd been handling the smaller properties on the south side of Rosendell and our suburban locations. I tended to the more stable tenants who’d been occupying our properties for years.

Downtown Rosendell was a different beast, high-end shopping and five-star restaurants and bars. Tene was used to dealing with the high-end retail space and high-maintenance tenants; I wasn't. She knew how to talk to them, how to please them, how to raise rent and make our tenants believe that it was their idea.

"You'll handle it just fine,” she said firmly and with confidence. “Okay, I'll see you tonight at Dad's birthday dinner. Love you. Oh, and stop by Allswell. The owner had a list of repairs that needed to be done."

"Uh ..." I stammered, looking for an excuse to say no.

And then she hung up.

I blinked. All I could think about was the too-hot-to-handle bartender, his hands ... his scent ... his lips. I rested against my down pillows, remembering the way he drank me in, making me feel wanton, lusted for. I remembered the way his thick, calloused hands gripped my thighs and held my stomach.

I wiped my sweaty palms down the front of my shirt and shook myself out of this daydream. Besides, I doubted he'd be there. But just in case, I'd go before the restaurant opened to talk to the owner alone. That bartender was danger and most definitely off-limits.

* * *

Training by fire, Tene had said?

No crap.

Bob, owner of Bob's Donuts, steepled his hand by his lips as he sat behind his desk, opposite me.

A light sheen of sweat formed at my brow and my knees bobbed with anxiety. Men who built an empire of donuts were successful for a reason, and it wasn't just in the recipe. Though he was in a teal signature apron, he was a businessman through and through. I'd heard stories.

"Did you have time to review the lease that Christene emailed?" I asked, forcing my voice to be steady.

"I did. I see you're raising my rent on a yearly basis." His tone was sharp, and there was visible tension in his neck and shoulders.

I shifted in my seat.

Christene mentioned he'd complain about the increases. He’d been complaining about the past few renewals.

"Bob, this is not something new,” I tried to reason with him. “We have to keep up with the rise in maintenance and taxes. This was built into your lease when you signed with us ten years ago."

He sighed heavily with exaggeration. "I know, but you would think with a name like mine, and the fact that I've been in business for over two decades, you would cut me a break."

My hands twitched in my lap. One day I would be running Armstrong Real Estate with Christene, and I would need to learn how to deal with hard tenants. Today was that day.

Breathe. Show no mercy.

My stomach churned, and I wanted to throw up.

I forced a polite smile. "Bob, I assure you, we value your business and your loyalty. Bob’s Donuts is indeed a well-known franchise—a household name, in fact. And because of that, we have kept your increases at a steady rate of three percent per year, which is less than the inflation rate and the rise of costs to maintain this building. And this is a prime location. You are on Elgin Avenue, where there is always traffic." Elgin Avenue in Rosendell was comparable to Michigan Avenue in Chicago. All the hip bars and restaurants were located on Elgin Avenue. Not to mention the high-end shops just a few blocks away.

He shook his head, and his jaw tightened. "I believe I'll be taking my business somewhere else, then."

Shit.

My stomach dropped, but I didn't give anything away. I came here to have him sign the papers, not lose a well-known tenant. There was no way I could bear to tell my favorite person in the whole world—my father—that I'd lost one of his biggest tenants. A dizzying current spread through my body, making me feel as though I was on a rocky boat.

I lifted my chin, trying to get some semblance of control. "We'd hate to lose you, but this is a prime location, and unfortunately, we wouldn't have a problem filling this spot and asking for the normal increase of five percent."

His eyes hardened, and I smiled back to counter his harsh face. I had the desire to flee or cry to make him stay, but I kept my feet steadily planted on the floor, my hands lightly on my lap, my face even.

The silence seemed to drag on, and our staring contest went on for some time until, finally, he let out a low belly laugh, one that brightened his whole demeanor, but confused the hell out of me. His mood change gave me whiplash.

He shook his head and signed the papers in front of him. "You drive a hard bargain, Angelica. I'll tell your father you did well."

My father?

As though he’d read my thoughts, he said, "Your father told me to give you a hard time, and I happily told him I'd oblige. Freshman initiation."

I laughed, though I didn’t find it as funny as he clearly did. "I'll have to give my father my own personal thank you when I get home," I said. I glanced around for show. "You don't happen to have old donuts lying around? Preferably the hard ones that’ll take out some of his teeth?"

"He still has his?" Bob pushed out his false teeth with his tongue, then popped it back in. I almost dropped my purse in shock. "Too many donuts over the years." He laughed again, stood, and I followed his lead out to the kitchen. "How is your old man, anyway?"

"He's okay. Still recovering from his heart attack."

Over a year ago, the doctor had told us there was seventy percent blockage in Daddy's arteries. That day, my world had bottomed out. After his heart attack, a stent was placed in his chest, and my family had been careful with him since, making sure that work and stress were avoided. "He's getting better. I’m sure he thinks we’re babying him, and my mother is driving him crazy because they’re around each other all the time, but we just want to make sure he stays well. "

"I know," Bob said, patting my shoulder. "Smile, pretty lady. I'm sure he'll be just fine. I've known your dad a long time, and I'm sure he wanted to get back to work yesterday." Bob walked to the counter, shoved donuts into a bag and placed the bag in my hands. He raised an eyebrow, making a point. "Make sure you share, okay?"

"Yes, sir.” I nodded. “And thanks again. Later, Bob."

I pressed a palm to my chest, let out a huge breath and swung the bag of donuts back and forth as I headed to my next destination, Allswell, which was conveniently the space next door.

After eating a powdered donut, I entered the club, now restaurant. The area was silent. There were no employees around, and thankfully, no bartender from last night.

The place had transformed once again. It was almost unrecognizable aside from the signature bar that spanned both sides of the room. Circular tables were set with silverware and plates, in the middle of what had been the dance floor. Booths adorned the perimeter wall.

I straightened my stance when the kitchen door flew open, and a woman walked in, carrying a crate of wine glasses. Her dark brown hair was chin short, swishing against her cheeks. She had a piercing on her eyebrow that twitched when she met my gaze.

I approached her, cradling my bag of donuts in my other arm to offer my hand. "Hi. I'm Angelica Armstrong, from Armstrong Realty. I'm here to meet Ryder."

She dropped the crate on one of the center tables, and the wineglasses clinked together. She wiped her hands down her black apron before she took my hand. "Ryder?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I'm Kristy, I'm the manager here. Cade is in the back." She turned her head to call him out, "Cade!"

Cade?

I registered the name, confused at first, then panic set in. When he stepped out of the kitchen right behind the bar, my heart stammered loudly, so loud I wouldn't doubt if he heard it. He was the same bartender from last night. The same bartender that had me breathing hard and set my body on fire.