“The gyro looked good.”

“Guaranteed.”

He went over, got himself a cold drink, took his seat again. “Is everything okay with you?”

“Well, I could use a break in the weather and a couple extra hours in the day. Otherwise? All good.”

“Avery.”

The tone forced her to look up, meet his eyes. “What? It’s a busy time, Owen. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah, I do know how it goes. That’s why I’m asking.”

“And I’m telling you I’m fine. I’ve got to run this place. I’ve got to find a new delivery guy since I caught the one I just hired smoking a joint in the basement. I’m refining my business plans for the new place, have to decide on lighting, furniture, perfect the menu, help Hope throw a bridal shower for Clare. My car needs new tires, and my rep just told me cheese is going up.”

And when she unreeled it that way, she decided she had every reason in the world to be impatient and stressed.

“I just don’t have time to make you dinner and play right now.”

“I got that, and it’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then there’s nothing to talk about. I’ve got stuff to do. That’s it, that’s all.”

She stalked over to put his gyro in, take the other out, and caught the inside of her forearm on the oven.

“Shit.”

By the time she slammed the oven shut, turned, Owen was around the counter. He gripped her wrist when she tried to jerk away.

“Let me see.”

“It’s nothing. It happens.”

“Where’s your first-aid kit?”

“I just need some aloe. That’s why I keep a plant in the kitchen. Let me—”

He simply pulled her into the closed kitchen where Franny worked. Before Franny could speak, Owen jerked his head to indicate she needed to go out, and kept pulling Avery to the back.

“Will you let go!” she demanded. “I know how to take care of a damn burn. I’ve got customers.”

“Stop it, right now.”

The whip-snap of his tone, so rare, stopped her protests. She said nothing as he switched on the cold water in the sink, held her arm under it.

“You weren’t paying attention. That’s not like you.”

“You wouldn’t shut up.” She set her jaw when he stared down at her. “Well, you wouldn’t. I can take care of this, Owen. It’s just a burn.”

“It’s not blistering. Why weren’t you paying attention?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I’ve got a lot on my mind, I’m busy. I messed up. It’s not like I sliced a finger off.”

He continued to hold her arm under the cool water while he studied her face. “I’ve seen you with a lot on your mind. I’ve seen you busy. If you don’t think I know you well enough to see something else is going on, you’re stupid. Is there a problem with you and me?”

“There’s about to be.”

“Keep the water on that,” he told her, then broke off a piece of her aloe plant. “All I know is everything was fine when you were on your way home from shopping with Clare and Hope.”

He cut open the fat leaf, scooped out the inside. “And the next day, you’re canceling and don’t have time for two words.”

He pulled a spoon out of the tray, mashed the aloe into paste.

She should’ve known he’d be up on home remedies. Right at the moment, his patient efficiency made her want to stab him with a fork.

“Let’s see that now.” He switched off the water, carefully dried her arm while he examined the burn. “Not bad.”

“I told you it wasn’t bad.”

“You also told me nothing’s wrong, when it clearly is. Hold still.” Gentle, thorough—in a way that made tears burn the back of her eyes—he coated the burn with aloe paste.

“So something happened between the drive home and the next day. What?”

“Maybe I just realized I had a lot on my plate, and I need to get some of it off—prioritize. Organize. We went from zero to sixty . . . Okay, more like thirty to sixty,” she amended when she got another Owen look. “I need a little time to sort through everything, get my work squared away. The new restaurant needs attention now if it’s going to work later. I got caught up in the sixty. I let stuff slide.”

“Maybe. Maybe that’s some of it, but it’s not all of it. We’re going to have to talk about this, Avery.”

“This isn’t the time. I’m at work. I—”

“No, it’s not the time.” He laid a dry dressing from the first-aid kit over the coated burn. “But we’re going to make the time. Make sure somebody changes that dressing later.” He studied her face another moment, bent down, laid his lips on hers.

“Okay.” He nodded, eyes on hers again. “Okay. I’m going to take the gyro to go, get back to work myself. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.”

When he’d gone she leaned on the sink, had a vicious argument with herself followed by a short pity party.

“Are you okay, Avery?”

With a sigh, and a wish people would stop asking, she glanced toward the doorway and Franny. “Fine. It’s just a burn, nothing major. How is it out there?”

“We’re pretty slow today.”

“Listen, I’m going to go upstairs, get some things done. If we pick up, just call, and I’ll come back down.”

“No problem.”

*   *   *

She cooked. Cooking was her teddy bear when upset, so she comforted herself by experimenting with a ham and potato soup and a smoked tomato bisque. She used her laptop in the kitchen to note down her tweaks.

It calmed her, soothed her, settled her enough so she sat awhile, soups simmering on the stove, worked on a layout for booths, high tops, low tops, sofa and chairs in her new space.

“Knock, knock!” Clare called out.

“In the kitchen.” So much, Avery thought, for alone with her teddy bear time.

“I was going to grab a salad downstairs, and Franny said you’d burned your arm and had a fight with Owen.”

“I didn’t have a fight with Owen. I did burn my arm, but it’s nothing.”

Clare frowned at the simmering pots. “Then why are you cooking up here? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. And the next person who asks me that is going to get a knuckle sandwich that won’t be so freaking tasty. I’m testing recipes. We’re slow downstairs, as I’m sure you saw for yourself. I’m grabbing some time to refine the menu for the new place.”

“I thought you were refining the menu on Owen.”

“Do you see Owen?” Avery demanded. “I have time now. I’m refining now.”

“You’re upset. I haven’t seen you for a couple days because you’ve been so busy, and now you’re upset and fighting with Owen.”

“I’m not fighting with Owen, and if I’m upset it’s because everybody keeps hovering and asking me why I’m upset. Including Owen, who just won’t back the hell off!”

“You are fighting with Owen.”

“I’m not.” Though she ground her teeth nearly to dust, Avery managed a calmer voice. “I’ve been busy. Beckett’s done with the plans, and they’re submitted for the demo permit. Now the mechanical plans are in the works. I’ve got a ton to do yet, to plan and decide on, all while I run Vesta.”

“So you’re nervous. I’d be nervous, too. But you know it’s going to be great.”

“Knowing it and making it great aren’t the same.” Her stomach hurt from the evasions. Lying always made her stomach hurt—and added to the side effect, she just sucked at lying, evasions, and half-truths.

“It takes a lot of time and thought,” she continued, sticking with the theme. “And that doesn’t leave a lot of time and thought for boyfriends. So I think we should slow it down a little until I’m back on keel. That’s all.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I swear.” Too tired to cry, Avery just laughed at Clare’s automatic assumption. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now.”

At last! she thought. The truth.

“It’ll work itself out. Here, instead of a salad, try this.”

Avery got out a bowl, ladled in some of the potato soup, then sprinkled a little parsley, a little grated Parmesan on top.

“I have to decide on dinnerware, too. I may just go with restaurant white, then play up the linens, the glassware. Or maybe I need something bolder.”

“It’s not going to matter.” Clare spooned up another bite. “Nobody’s going to care what this is in. It’s delicious. Why were you so stingy with it?”

“Because you have to try the smoked tomato bisque, too.”

Another bowl, another ladle—and a sprinkle of croutons, a basil leaf.

“Oh God, this is so good. It’s smooth, a little creamy, and still has a bite.”

“Excellent.” To see for herself, Avery got out her tasting spoon. “Yes, excellent,” she decreed. “No more changes on these. I’ll give you a container of both to take home for dinner.”

“You mean I have to share?” Clare slid an arm around Avery’s waist. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready?”

Yes, she sucked at lying. Giving up, Avery leaned her head on Clare’s shoulder. “Yes. Just not right now.”

*   *   *

She’d cooked through it, Avery decided. Or nearly. Wallowing wasn’t getting her anywhere, and only drawing attention—the exact opposite of what she’d wanted.

She tubbed up the potato soup, snagged some Italian bread from downstairs. That cost her an hour, but she didn’t mind. Things had picked up for dinner, and though she wasn’t scheduled, she pitched in awhile.

That, too, smoothed her mood.

She needed to talk to her father, and hoped that would top off the recovery. He deserved to know, she reminded herself as she drove out of town. And he was the only person in the world from whom she never, ever kept secrets.

She’d treat him to some soup, and they’d talk it out. They could talk anything out.

But when she pulled in, spotted the bright blue Lexus with Nevada plates in his drive, her temper spiked.