Unless this is all just a cruel prank and my crazy dad is messing with my hopes, dangling the prospect of inheritance money in front of me like an unreachable carrot.

I shake my head. “I have no idea. A few thousand dollars, maybe?”

He lets out a low whistle. “That would be nice.”

I frown at him and his designer shirt. A few thousand dollars is pocket change to a guy like Daren. To me, it’s the difference between sleeping on a park bench and having a bed to crawl into.

“Or knowing my father,” I say dryly, “it might only be twenty bucks.”

“Maybe.” He nods with a grin. “But then we’d each be ten dollars richer.”

He has a point.

“So it’s decided then?” I toss the napkin aside and face him. “We’re going to handcuff ourselves together for what may or may not end up being a twenty-dollar bill?”

Amusement flashes in his eyes. “I’m game if you are.”

“Oh, I’m game,” I say with a slow smile. “I’m very game.”

He lifts his glass with a crooked grin. “Then here’s to handcuffs.”

I lift my drink to his. “Here’s to handcuffs.”

8 Daren

After cleaning up my plate, I head back to the kitchen. Jake is at the grill, calling out instructions to the staff when I walk in.

“Daren,” he calls out. “You’re on prep.”

“Sure thing,” I say. “Thanks for letting me help out. Again.”

“Anytime.” He shouts out an order to the guys on the line and flips a burger before giving me a curious look. “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?” I start washing my hands.

He shrugs. “You look… happy.”

I smirk. Hell yes, I’m happy. I just found out that I’m heir to an inheritance.

“Was it the blonde out there?” Jake nods toward the restaurant. “Is she the reason you’re in such a good mood?”

“What? No.” I scrub my fingers. “Well kind of, yes. But not like that.”

He slants his eyes to me. “Riiight.”

I scoff. “Come on, Jake. When have you ever known me to get happy over a girl?”

He considers. “Good point.” He throws a raw steak on the grill and pulls a cooked one off. “So what’s up with you then?”

I shrug. “Nothing.”

Yet.

After I finish washing up, I head to the chopping block while biting back a smile.

I still can’t believe it. James Turner left me an inheritance, that old dog.

Twenty dollars would be fine. But if it was more money… if it was a lot more money… my whole world could change. All the shit I’ve had to deal with these past few years, all the stress, it could all disappear—or some of it, at least—and I could have options.

And I didn’t think I’d ever have options. Not as far as my future was concerned.

I spend the next hour and a half slicing and dicing ingredients while bantering with the kitchen guys.

I love being in the kitchen of Latecomers. I love being in kitchens, period. There’s nothing quite as invigorating as the hustle and bustle of cooking. The prep, the flavor pairings, the sautéing and grilling. It relaxes me in a way nothing else ever has.

The first time I ever “cooked” was when I was nine. Marcella was making spaghetti sauce and asked me to help stir the simmering tomatoes. While I was stirring, she started to toss in some olives and I made a face. I hated olives in my spaghetti sauce. Laughing, Marcella asked me what I did like in spaghetti sauce. I told her I wasn’t sure what I liked because I didn’t know all of the ingredients. So she pulled out some basil, mushrooms, onions, and spices and had me taste each one. Then she let me make my own spaghetti sauce using the ingredients I liked. I cut up the mushrooms and onions and sprinkled oregano. Then I stirred the simmering sauce, the rich aroma filling my nose, until it was ready. We sat down to eat together, just the two of us in my parents’ giant kitchen, and I took my first bite.

It was the most amazing spaghetti sauce I’d ever had.

I asked Marcella why it tasted so much better than the kind she made. She laughed and said, “Because you created it, mijo. Food always tastes sweeter when you work hard to make it.”

From that day on, I was obsessed with cooking. Marcella obliged me in every way she could. She taught me how to whisk, measure, knead, and dice. And I never grew tired of it. Even after we could no longer afford Marcella and she had to move away to find work, I still spent endless hours in the kitchen.

It wasn’t the same, though. The kitchen wasn’t as warm or happy without Marcella. There was no one to talk to. No one to call me mijo.

Nothing was the same after Marcella left. She was the last piece of warmth I had in an otherwise cold home. And the only comfort I could find in her absence was in the heat of a kitchen. So cooking became my haven and has been ever since.

Halfway through the dinner rush, I realize we’re running low on dessert so I exit the kitchen door to get more from the spare freezer out back. The freezer is located in a fenced courtyard on the side of Latecomers, next to the parking lot. Jake has plans to make it a patio with outdoor seating but for the time being it’s more of a storage area.

As I reach the freezer, something on the other side of the short fence catches my eye. Kayla stands outside of Latecomers, helping an elderly woman walk down the steep steps of the entrance. She holds the old woman’s hand in her own and carefully guides her down the stairs and over to where a taxi waits. Kayla gets the woman settled in the cab before shutting the door and walking away.

I watch her sexy hips swinging through the parking lot until she’s just a few yards away.

I open the courtyard gate and smile. “A friend of yours?”

Kayla spins around, clutching her chest. Then sighs in relief when she sees me. “Oh. Daren.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

She waves me off. “It’s fine. I’m just jumpy. Uh… no. I didn’t know that woman, but she was having trouble and no one was around to help her.” In the soft yellow glow from the courtyard lamps, her hair shines golden and her big blue eyes glimmer. She really is stunning.

“That was nice of you,” I say, smiling. “So how was dinner?”

“It was good.” She nods and her blue eyes widen. “It was really good, actually.”

I laugh. “You sound surprised.”

“Well I am. I’m not used to bars having gourmet food. But it was really fantastic.”

My chest swells with pride. Even though I didn’t make her dinner, I’m still proud of the kitchen that did.

“So this is where you work?” She gestures at the closed kitchen door behind me as she approaches.

I step back so she can enter the courtyard then glance over my shoulder. “It’s more like the place where I help out in the kitchen, occasionally,” I say. “I like to cook so sometimes the owner, Jake, let’s me jump on the line.”

She tilts her head. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the cooking type.”

“No?” I arch a brow. “What type am I?”

“Well the professional lover type, obviously.”

I grin. “That too.”

The teasing in her eyes along with the lightness of her smile does something soft to my insides. This is a different Kayla than the one I was sitting next to at the bar. That girl was stressed and burdened, but this girl… this girl is hopeful and happy.

The only reason I can think of for the change in her tone is the inheritance. Does the idea of getting money please her so much that she’s suddenly this cheerful person? Does it please me that much?

I remember Jake’s comment earlier, about my being happy, and realize with a sinking feeling that yes, the idea of an inheritance has made me happy. Money would alleviate some of my problems and, therefore, it gives me a security in my future that pleases me.

I’m not sure how I feel about money having so much control over my contentment. It makes me sound an awful lot like my dad.