Whiskey Sharp: Torn. Lauren Dane

Cora answered.

      “If there’s no cake, how can it be heaven?” Rachel said it like a sacred prayer and Cora agreed utterly.

      “I can’t wait to hear all about your time in London but Wren said she wanted to hear it too and so not to visit too much without her.” Maybe hooked her arm through Cora’s. “I want to hear it now, so let’s get going. I’m also hungry.”

      “You know how she gets when she’s hungry,” Alexsei said with a smirk at the corners of his mouth. Maybe rolled her eyes, but smiled as she did it, so Cora knew she wasn’t offended.

      And he was right because Maybe was lovely and sweet, but not when she was hungry.

      They all headed out and down the sidewalk half a block to the doors leading to the small lobby, where the residents of the lofts had their mailboxes and the elevator.

      The scent of garlic and onions swirled around her senses as they got out on the right floor. Gregori and Wren’s door was painted bright, shiny red and flew open before they were able to use the doorbell.

      Wren, wearing a huge grin, rushed at Cora and hugged her tight. “Hi! Come have champagne and eat yummy food while you tell us all how the last three months were.”

      “I can do that. You look fantastic,” Cora told her as they headed toward the kitchen area. “Marriage agrees with you.”

      Her friends had come back from an impromptu trip right before Cora had left for London only to announce they’d gotten married along the way. After several years of living together, it had been the right choice for their relationship.

      “I look exactly the same except for the ring part and the way his mom gives me, and then my belly, a pointed look every time I see her,” Wren said.

      “Welcome to my world,” Maybe said. “Irena has now taken to telling me about all the baby clothes she saw but didn’t buy because she had no grandchildren to wear them. I tried to get her obsessing about Rachel’s womb, but she’s too wily.”

      “Mind your own womb. You’ve been with Alexsei longer than I’ve been with Vic. It’s your time to shine, bitch,” Rachel said with a laugh.

      “I’m so messed up. I missed you all so much.” Cora hugged each one tightly.

      “You’re the perfect kind of messed up,” Rachel said, linking her arm through Cora’s.

      This was good. The best, happiest part of her life.

      Her stomach growled as she sucked in the scents all around. “I need food.”

      “We’ve got that covered,” Gregori called out to them. “Come, I’m pouring champagne.”

      “No need to call me twice when there’s booze involved,” Cora murmured to Rachel, who snickered.

      Fairy lights and candles made the loft glow. Plus it was the perfect light and her skin would look way better than the jet lag currently responsible for dark circles under her eyes.

      “It’s all romantical in here and shit,” Cora said, and then nearly swallowed all her spit when she caught sight of who was standing at the stove.

       CHAPTER TWO

      There is wild joy in recognition.

      A leap of faith to let yourself be known.

      An old magic.

      WELL OVER SIX FEET of hot-ass ginger celebrity chef, former model and childhood poster boy for a cult—and most notably one of her first really hard crushes—Beau Petty had aged really, really well. He had the kind of face that would only get better as he aged. At seventy-five, he’d still be searingly hot because it wasn’t just that he was chiseled and taut and broad shouldered, his attitude seemed to pump out confident alpha male.

      He’d been gorgeous when she’d been sixteen and he twenty-one or -two, but seventeen years later, he was magnetic and intense on a whole new level. It made her heart skip a little just looking at him.

      Cora had to lock her knees when his gaze flicked from Rachel over to her and his expression melted from surprise into pleasure as he dried his hands on a towel and headed toward her.

      And then he hugged her and holy wow it was better than a doughnut. He smelled good and was big and hard and, wow, he was hugging her and when he stepped back he said her name. “Cora.”

      It seemed as if the word echoed through her, plucked her like a musical note.

       Wow.

      “It’s really good to see you,” he said as he stepped back, and she had to crane her neck to look up, and up, into his face.

      “What an unexpected surprise,” Cora told him.

      “We have some catching up to do.”

      The lines around his eyes begged for a kiss.

      “You guys know each other? I mean, duh. Obviously as you just said her name and there was a hug and stuff.” Maybe smiled brightly, fishing for details in her cheerful, relentless way.

      “First champagne and introductions, and then we will hear that story,” Gregori said, interrupting Maybe’s nosiness long enough to hand out glasses.

      * * *

      HE’D KNOWN BACK then that she’d had a crush on him, but she was still a kid. Then. Now? She still carried herself as if a secret song played in her head. But there was nothing girlish about her now.

      Her hair—shades of brunette from milk chocolate to red wine—was captured back from her face in a ponytail, tied with a scarf that managed to look artsy and retro instead of silly. It only accentuated how big her eyes were, how high her cheekbones, the swell of her bottom lip that looked so juicy he wanted to bite it.

      “Get started, if you’re hungry.” He indicated the long butcher-block counter where he’d set up some appetizers. “I was down at Pike Place earlier so the oysters are sweet and fresh. That’s also where the octopus in the salad came from, caught today. Just a quick grill with lemon and olive oil and pickled red onions.”

      “Oh my god, really?” Cora cruised straight over and grabbed a plate.

      A woman with an appreciation for food was sexy as hell.

      “Update me on your life. What are you doing here in Seattle?” she asked, after eating two of the oysters and humming her satisfaction. “So good. This octopus is ridiculous. Is that jalapeño?”

      “Good catch. Yes, in the olive oil I used to dress it.”

      “I like it. What else are you making? Not that this isn’t really good, but I’m greedy.”

      Watching her enjoy his food was a carnal shot to his gut. It set him off balance enough that he focused on the food for a few beats.

      “I’m working on a new cookbook so I’m trying out some seafood recipes. Scallop and crab cakes with a couscous salad,” he said, pointing at the food.

      “Yum! Ah, that’s why you’re in town?”

      “I’ve been in Los Angeles for a long time.” Feeling antsy. He had houses, but no home. “I felt a change would be good. A friend who owns a number of restaurants in the area has given me access to his kitchens so I can try my ideas out there, as well.” He liked working around other chefs, found creative challenge in that atmosphere in a kitchen where the whole team loved to cook.

      It was a good sort of competitive spirit. Pushed him to up his game, to be better. Far healthier for his liver and heart than all the drugs and alcohol that’d fueled his early twenties.

      “That’s excellent,” she said. “Sometimes a change in surroundings is what you need to hit the reset button. Congratulations on your success. Every time I see your face on a cookbook or on television it makes me