Another flash of panic hit her—did he already know about Percy? Or was he just mad that she wasn’t falling at her feet in gratitude for being acknowledged?

“I need a designer,” he said quietly. He didn’t sound angry, which was at direct odds with the way he was looking at her. “I’m going to be opening up my own restaurant.”

“Here?”

“Here,” he agreed, sounding resigned to it. “It’s a massive job and I—” she saw him swallow “—I wanted to see if it was the kind of thing you were still interested it.”

“You’re going to stay in Denver?” The question came out with more of an edge than she meant it to, but that was the thing she needed to know. If he were going to stay in Denver, then...

Then he’d have to know about Percy. They’d have to figure something out, something involving child support and visitation and...

Well, not their relationship. There was no relationship. That part of her life was over now.

And if he were opening up his own restaurant—her mind spun around the facts. Her father, Leon Harper, would find out that Byron had come home.

Oh, God. Her father would get out his old axes and grind them all over again. Her father would shove his way back into her life, ignoring all the ways she had tried to extricate herself from her parents. Her father would do everything he could to destroy Byron—again.

Her father would do everything to punish her again.

“Yes,” Byron said, turning away from her and looking up at the old buildings. “I’ve come home.”

Two

Byron walked into the darkened room that, somehow, would become a restaurant. Somehow. “Here we are. The dungeon.”

Behind him, he heard Leona cough lightly. “Is that the theme you’re working with?”

“No.”

What the hell was he doing? Touching her face? Kissing her hand? That was not part of his plan. His plan was to hire her, get his restaurant going and kick her right back out of his life—this time, on his terms. She hadn’t needed him. He didn’t need her. Except for design purposes.

But that’s not what had happened because something as simple as seeing Leona Harper again—and seeing that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring—had blown all to hell his simple plan to get simple answers.

There was nothing simple about Leona. A fact she’d made abundantly clear when she’d closed her eyes—when she’d refused to even look at him.

“Pity,” she sniffed. “You wouldn’t have to change a thing.”

He grinned in spite of himself. Leona had always been something of a contradiction. She was, in general, a quiet woman who avoided confrontation. But when she’d been alone with him, she’d let out the real her—snarky and sarcastic with a biting observation ready at all times. She’d made him laugh—him. He’d thought he was too jaded, too cynical to laugh anymore, to feel much of anything anymore. But he’d laughed with her. He’d had all these feelings with her. For her.

He’d loved her. Or thought he had. But maybe that’d all been part of the trick, a Harper trapping a Beaumont. She hadn’t told him who she was, after all, until it was too late.

“So if you’re not going with torture chamber,” she went on, “what do you want?”

“Whatever.”

“Be serious, Byron.” If he hadn’t been looking at her, he wouldn’t have seen the tiny stamp of her foot that set off eddies of dust.

He paused. “I am being serious. You can do whatever you want. I can cook what I want. The only caveat is that the beverage menu has to feature our beer. The restaurant can be whatever it wants.”

Clutching her tablet to her chest, she gave him a long look that he couldn’t quite make out in the dim light. “You have to have some idea of what you’re interested in,” she finally said in a soft voice.

“I do. I’ve always known what I wanted.” He turned away from her. This was a bad idea. But then again, it was Leona—she’d always been a bad idea. “But I’m used to not getting it.”

She gasped, but he kept walking back toward the soon-to-be-kitchen. He couldn’t let her get under his skin. He never should have asked her here. He was safer in Spain, where she was nothing but a memory—not a flesh and blood woman who would always push him past the point of reason.

The reasonable thing to do was to keep as much space between the Beaumonts and the Harpers as possible. That’s the way it’d always been, before he’d unwittingly crossed that line. That’s the way it should have stayed.

He dragged open the doors to the workroom and flipped on all the lights. “This needs to be upgraded considerably,” he said. He couldn’t fix the past, couldn’t undo his great mistake. But he could stop making it over again. He just had to focus on the job—it was the reason they were both here. He needed to find a way to be Byron Beaumont in a place where his last name permanently branded him, and he needed to make sure that Leona Harper knew she would never exert any power over him ever again.

She followed him into the cleaner space. “I see.” She took several pictures with her tablet. “Do you have a menu yet?”

“No. I only agreed to do this yesterday. I thought I’d be on my way back to Madrid by now.”

“Madrid? Is that where you went?”

Of course she wouldn’t know. She probably hadn’t bothered to look him up at all.

But there was something in the way she said it—as if she couldn’t believe that was the answer—that made him turn back to her. She stared at him with big eyes and this time, there was no hiding that look. She was stunned—confused? She was hurt.

Well, that made two of them “Yes. Well, I spent six months in France first. Then Spain.”

Her eyes cut down to his left hand—his ring finger. “Did you...”

He tensed. “No. I was working.”

She exhaled. “Ah.” But that was all she said. He was about to turn away when she added, “Where did you work?”

“George, you remember him?”

“Your father’s old chef?”

For some reason, the fact that she remembered who George was made Byron relax a little. It wasn’t like she’d forgotten him. Not entirely, anyway. “Yes. One of his old friends from Le Cordon Bleu gave me a job in Paris. Then I heard about an opening at El Gallio in Madrid and took the job.”

Her eyes widened again. “You were at El Gallio? That’s a three-star restaurant!”

He relaxed more. She remembered. Even though her reaction was probably all part of the same ruse to undermine the Beaumont family, he couldn’t help himself.

For months, he and Leona had talked about restaurants—how they’d love to travel and dine at the world’s best establishments and then open up their own. She’d design everything and Byron would handle the food, and it’d be so much better than working for Rory McMaken, the egotistical bastard.

Leona spoke, pulling him out of the past. “You’re leaving behind El Gallio to open your own restaurant here?”

“Crazy, right?” He looked around the workroom. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved Europe. No one there knew or cared that I was a Beaumont. I could just be Byron, a chef. That was...” Freeing.

He’d been free of the family drama, free of the long-standing feud between the Beaumonts and the Harpers.

“That must have been amazing,” she said in a wistful tone. Which was so at odds with how he remembered the way things had gone down that he turned back to her in surprise.

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back to all of this. But this is an opportunity I can’t pass up. It’s a chance to be a part of the family business on my terms.”

“I see. So you’ve decided to be a Beaumont, then.” Her voice was quiet, as if he’d somehow confirmed her worst fears.

He would not let her get away with using guilt on him. Guilt? For what? He was the injured party here. She’d lied about who she was—not once, but for almost a year. And then she’d cast him aside the moment her father asked her to. Hell, for all he knew, that had always been the plan. It’d only been after he’d left the country that Leon Harper had managed to sell the Beaumont Brewery out from under the Beaumonts. Maybe he’d told Leona to split one of them off—divide and then conquer.

Right. If anyone should be feeling guilty here, it was her. He’d never lied about his last name or his family. He’d never made promises and then broken them. Thank God he hadn’t actually asked her to marry him before she betrayed him.

“I’ve always been a Beaumont,” he answered decisively. “And we are not to be trifled with.”

He shouldn’t have said that last bit, but he couldn’t help it. He was the boss here. She worked for him. Emotionally, he didn’t need her. If she was getting any ideas about turning the tables on him, she’d best forget them now.

She looked away.

“Anyway,” he went on, focusing on the job. His restaurant. “I’m starting from scratch and I wanted...” Unexpectedly, his words dried up. He wanted so much, but like he’d said, he’d gotten used to disappointment. “I know there was a time in our past when we talked about a restaurant.”

Even though she was studying the tips of her shoes very closely, he still saw her eyes close.

He remembered that look of defeat—he’d only seen it one other time—when her father, Leon Harper himself, had shown up at Sauce and gotten Byron fired and demanded that Leona come home with her parents right now or else. Leona had looked at the ground and closed her eyes and Byron had said “babe” and...

Well. And here they were.

“If you don’t want the job, that’s fine. I know that Harpers and Beaumonts don’t work well together and I wouldn’t want to make your father mad.” He didn’t quite manage to say father without sneering.

He watched her chest rise and fall with a deep breath. “I want...”

Her words were so quiet that he couldn’t hear her. He stepped in closer and took a deep breath.

Which was a mistake. The scent of Leona—sweet and soft, roses and vanilla—was all it took to transport him to another time and place, before he’d realized that she wasn’t just someone with the last name of Harper, but one of those Harpers.

He leaned forward, unable to stop himself. He’d never been able to stay away from her, not from the first moment she’d been hired at Sauce as a hostess. “What do you want, Leona?”

“I need to tell you...” Her words were still little more than a whisper.

He touched her then, which was another mistake. But she took what control he had and blew it to bits. He cupped her face in his hand and lifted her chin until he could look into her hazel eyes. “What do you need?”

Her eyes widened again as his face moved within inches of hers, and she exhaled, something that sounded a hell of a lot like satisfaction. His gut clenched. Despite her lies and betrayal, the messy ending to their relationship and the long year on a different continent—despite it all—he wanted her.

“The job,” she said in a voice that didn’t even make it to a whisper. “I need the job, Byron.”

She didn’t kiss him, didn’t tell him she was so sorry she’d picked her family over him. At no point did she apologize for lying to him. She just stood there.

“Right, right.” She couldn’t be clearer. She was here for the job.

Not for him.

* * *

Her heart pounded and she wasn’t sure she was still breathing.

Byron had dropped his hand and turned back to the stove, leaving her in a state of paralysis.

If he was going to stay in Denver, he had to know and the longer she didn’t tell him—well, that would just make everything worse.

Somehow. She wasn’t sure how things could get much worse, frankly. Byron hiring her to design a restaurant—and then switching between unbridled lust and a cold shoulder?

That thought made her angry. Why did he have to hire her to see her? He could have called. Sent a text.

The anger felt good. It gave her back some power. She was not a helpless girl at the mercies of the men in her life, not anymore. She’d gotten away from her father and had a son and done just fine without Byron. So what if all he had to do was look at her and her knees turned to jelly? Didn’t matter. He’d left her behind. She was only here for the paycheck. Not for him.

She could not tell him about Percy, not when she couldn’t be sure what version of Byron she would get. She’d spent the past year carving out a life that made her as happy as possible—a job she liked and a family she loved, with May and Percy. She’d spent a whole year free to make her own choices and live her own life. She’d stopped being Leon Harper’s wayward oldest daughter, and she’d stopped dreaming of being Byron Beaumont’s wife. She was just Leona Harper and that was a good thing.

Now she had to remember that.

“Well,” she started, then cleared her throat to get her voice working properly. “I guess what I need is a menu. It doesn’t have to be specific, but are you going to serve burgers and fries or haute cuisine or what? That will guide the rest of the design choices.”

“Something in the middle,” he replied quickly. “Accessible food and beer, but better than burgers and fries. You can get that anywhere. I want this to be a different kind of restaurant—not about me, but about the meal. The experience.” He looked out at the depressing room that she was somehow going to transform into a dining hall. “A different experience than this,” he added with a shake of his head.

“Okay, that’s a good start. What else?”

“Fusion,” he added. “I was cooking things in Europe that I didn’t cook here. Locally sourced ingredients, advanced techniques—the whole nine yards.”

She took notes on her tablet. “Any ideas for the actual menu items?”

“A few.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, she looked up again. “Such as?”

He didn’t look at her. “Why don’t you come by the house tomorrow and I’ll make you a tasting menu? You can tell me what might work and what doesn’t.”

She should say no. She should insist that their interactions be limited to this dank building. “The house?”

“The Beaumont Mansion. I’m staying there until I get my own place.” He pivoted and fixed her with a look that she’d always been powerless to resist. “If you can tolerate being in the lair of the Beaumonts, that is.”

“I tolerate you, don’t I?” she snapped back. She would not allow him to make her the bad guy, and she would not let him paint her as the coward. He was the one who’d run off. She was the one who’d stayed and dealt with the fallout.

She didn’t know how she’d expected him to respond, but that lazy smile? That wasn’t it. “Shall we say six, then?”

Leona mentally ran through her calendar. May had class tonight—but tomorrow night she should be able to stay with Percy.

“Who else will be home?” Because no matter what had happened between Leona and Byron, that didn’t change the larger fact that the Beaumonts and the Harpers got on much worse than oil and water ever had.

He shrugged. “Chadwick and his family live there full-time, but they eat on their own schedule. Frances just moved back in, but she’s rarely home. A couple of my younger half siblings are still there—but again, everyone’s on their own schedule. Should be just us.”

For a brief, insane second, she entertained the notion of bringing Percy with her. But the moment the thought occurred to her, she dismissed it. The Beaumonts were notorious for keeping the children from broken relationships. That’s what her father had always told her—Hardwick Beaumont always got rid of the women and kept the babies, never letting the children see their mothers again. That’s what Byron had said happened to him and his siblings. It wasn’t until later in his life that he’d gotten to know his mother.

At the time, that story had broken her heart for him. He’d been a lost little boy in a cold, unloving house. But now she knew better. He hadn’t been looking for sympathy.

He’d been warning her. And she was more the fool for not realizing it until it was too late.

She was done being the fool. No, she would not bring Percy. Not until she had a better grasp on Byron’s reaction to the idea of having a five-month-old son. Not until she knew if he would decree that the boy would be better off a Beaumont instead of a Harper.

Byron had to know about his child eventually, but she could not lose her son.

“All right,” she finally said. “Dinner tomorrow night at six. I’ll draft a few ideas and you can provide feedback.” Her phone chimed—it was a text from May, reminding Leona about her class tonight. “Anything else?”

The question hung in the air like the cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Byron looked at her with such longing that she almost weakened.

Then the look shifted and anything warm or welcoming was gone and all that was left was an iciness she hadn’t seen before. It chilled her to the bone.

“No,” he said, his voice freezing. “There’s nothing else I need from you.”

That was an answer, all right.

But not the one she wanted to hear.

Three

“Your sauce is going to burn.”

This simple observation from George made Byron jump. “Damn.” He hurried over to reduce the heat under the saucepan, mentally kicking himself for making a rookie mistake.

George Jackson chuckled from his perch on a stool—the same place he’d been sitting for the past thirty-five years. Mothers and stepmothers came and went, more children showed up—being a Beaumont meant living in a constant state of uncertainty. Except for the kitchen. Except for George. Sure, his brown skin was more wrinkled and, yes, more of his hair was white than not. But otherwise, he was the same man—one of the very few, black or white, who didn’t take crap from any Beaumont. Not even Hardwick. Maybe that’s why Hardwick had kept George around and why Chadwick had kept him on after Hardwick’s death. George was constant and honest.

Like right now. “Boy, you’re a wreck.”

“I’m fine,” Byron lied. Which was pointless because George knew him far too well to buy that line.

George shook his head. “Why are you trying so hard to impress this girl? I thought she was the whole reason you left town.”

“I’m not,” Byron said, stirring the scalded sauce. “We’re working together. She’s designing the restaurant. I’m preparing food that might be on the menu in said restaurant. That’s not trying to impress her.”

George chuckled again. “Yeah, sure it’s not. You Beaumont men are all alike,” he added under his breath.

“I am absolutely not like my father and you know it,” Byron shot off, checking the roast in the oven. “I’ve never married anyone, much less a string of people, and I certainly don’t have any kids running around.”

George snorted at this. “Be that as it may, you’re exactly like your old man. Even like Chadwick, sitting up there with his second wife. None of you all could be honest with yourselves when it came to women.” He seemed to reconsider this statement. “Well, maybe not Chadwick this time. Miss Serena is different. Hope your brother doesn’t screw it up. But my point is, you all are fools.”

“Thanks, George,” Byron replied sarcastically. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

From a long way away, the doorbell rang. “Watch the sauce,” Byron said as he hurried out of the kitchen.

The Beaumont Mansion was a huge building that had been built by his grandfather, John Beaumont, after prohibition and after World War II, when beer had been legal and soldiers had come home to drink it. The Beaumont Brewery had barely managed to stay afloat for twenty years, and then suddenly John had been making money faster than he could count it. He’d built several new buildings on the brewery campus as well as the mansion, a 15,000 square-foot pile of brick designed to show up the older mansions of the silver barons. The mansion had turrets and stained glass and gargoyles, for God’s sake. Nothing was ever over-the-top to a Beaumont, apparently.

Byron had always hated this house, the way it made people act. The house was toxic with the ghosts of John and Hardwick. This was not a house that had known happiness. He couldn’t understand why Chadwick insisted on raising his family here.

Byron hadn’t even bothered to unpack the rest of his stuff because he wasn’t going to be here long enough to settle in. He’d get a nice apartment with a good kitchen close to the Percheron Drafts brewery and that’d be fine. In the meantime, he’d spend as much time in the one room that had always been free from drama and grief—the kitchen.

He almost ran into Chadwick, who was coming downstairs to answer the door. “I’ve got it,” Byron said, sidestepping his oldest brother.

Chadwick made no move to go back upstairs. “Expecting company?”

“It’s the interior designer,” Byron replied, happy to have that truth to hide behind. “I’ve prepared a sampling of dishes for her so we can build the theme of the restaurant around them.”

“Ah, good.” Chadwick looked at him, that stern look that always made Byron feel as though he wasn’t measuring up. “Anything else I should know?”

Byron froze and the doorbell rang again. “George is making apple cobbler for dessert tonight,” he said.

Then—weirdly—Chadwick smiled. It wasn’t something Byron remembered happening when they were growing up. Back then, Chadwick had been imposing and their father’s clear favorite, and Byron had been the irritating little brother who liked to play in the kitchen.

“If you need another opinion, let me know,” Chadwick said, turning to head back upstairs. But that was all. No judgments, no cutting words—not even a dismissive glance.

“Yeah, will do,” Byron said, waiting until Chadwick had disappeared before he opened the door.

There stood Leona. Something in his chest eased. It wasn’t as if she was dressed to kill—in fact, she looked quite businesslike with a coordinating skirt and jacket. For the first time, he realized how much she’d changed in the past year—something that went much deeper than just her hair. Maybe, an insidious voice in his head whispered, she’s moved on and you haven’t.

Perhaps that was true. But there was no missing the fact that he was glad to see her. He should hate her and all the Harpers. Not a one of them were to be trusted.

He needed to remember that. “Hi. Come in.”

She paused. Despite their year-long relationship, he’d never once brought her back to the mansion nor had she ever asked to visit. That had been part of what had attracted him to her—she had no interest in the trappings of Beaumont wealth and fame.

He hadn’t realized her disinterest was because she had her own money. Maybe George had been right. Byron was a fool.

“Thank you.” She stepped into the house and he closed the door behind her. “Oh,” she said, staring up at the vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers. “This is lovely.”

“Not my style,” he admitted. “This way.”

He led her down the wide hallway that bisected the first floor, past the formal dining room, the receiving room, the men’s parlor, the women’s parlor and the library. Finally, they reached the hallway that led around the back of the dining room and down the six steps to the kitchen.

The whole time, they walked silently. Byron didn’t know much about the Harper house—it wasn’t as if Leon Harper would invite him over—but he was sure this level of wealth wasn’t unfamiliar to Leona and he had no desire to rehash old memories of his parents slamming doors after yet another disastrous meal.

Byron opened the door to the kitchen. “Here we are,” he said, holding the door for Leona.

She stepped into the warm room. Early-evening sunlight glinted through the windows set above the countertop. The room had an impressive view of the Rocky Mountains. The light reflected off the rows of copper pots and pans that hung from racks, bathing the room in comfortable warmth.

Leona gasped. “This is beautiful.” She looked at him, her eyes full of understanding, and in that moment, he nearly forgot how she’d lied and broken his heart. This was his Leona, the one he’d shared his deepest thoughts and feelings with. “Oh, Byron...”

“And George,” George said, straightening from where he’d bent over to check the oven.

“Oh!” Leona took a step back in surprise and ran right into Byron. Instinctively, his arm went around her waist, steadying her—and pulling her into his chest. Heat—and maybe something more—flowed between them and he suddenly had to fight the urge to press his lips against the base of her neck, in the spot where she’d always loved to be kissed.

She pulled away from him. “George! I’ve heard so much about you! It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person.”

Then, to Byron’s surprise—and George’s, given his expression—Leona walked right up to the older man and hugged him.

“Yeah,” George said in shock, shooting Byron a look. “I’ve heard—well,” he quickly corrected when Byron shook his head. “It’s good to finally meet you, too.”

Byron exhaled in relief. George was the only person who knew the entire story about Leona—he hadn’t even told Frances the whole thing. God only knew what the older man might have said to Leona.

“George is advising on the menu,” Byron told her when she finally released George from the hug. “He’ll be dining with us tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.” For some reason, Leona looked...disappointed?

Had she been thinking this would be an intimate dinner for two? She wasn’t dressed for it—she looked as though she’d come directly from work. There would be no hot dates. Not now, not at any time in the future. If that’s what she was angling for, she was in for a surprise.

A timer went off and Byron pushed that thought from his mind. He had food to prepare, after all. “This is going to be a tapas-style meal—all small plates,” he explained, directing Leona to a stool across from George’s normal perch. “Chadwick has all the current Percheron Drafts in stock so we can pair them up.” He opened up one of the three refrigerators in the room, the one with all the beverages. “Which would you like to start with?”

Leona blinked at him. “I don’t drink.”

He stared at her. This was a new development. They’d always shared wine with a meal. Odd. “All right,” he said slowly, snagging a White Horse Pale Ale for himself. “Then I’ll get you some water.”

Then he got to work. He plated the braised lamb shoulder, the croquetas de jamón serrano, the coq au vin, the ratatouille, the herb-crusted swordfish and the duck confit. He ladled the vichyssoise soup into a small bowl, and did the same with the bowl of Castilian roasted garlic soup and the gazpacho. George sliced the French bread and the homemade root vegetable chips fried in truffle oil.

Leona took a picture of every dish and made notes as Byron explained what the dishes were. “I don’t know if I should have a hamburger and fries on the menu,” he told her as he spooned the hollandaise sauce onto the asparagus spears. “What do you think?”

“It’s a safe dish,” she replied. “If you can handle having it on the menu...”

Byron sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Food for the masses and all that.”

They all sat down. Leona looked at him. Was she blushing? “It’s been a long time since you cooked for me.”

Before Byron could come up with a response, George said, “Yeah, same here.” He took a bite of the duck confit. “I’ll give you this, boy. You’ve gotten better.”

“Oh?” Leona said.

“When he started in my kitchen,” George went on, “he could barely make cereal.”

“Hey! I was what—five?”

“Four,” George corrected him. He turned his attention back to Leona. “He wanted more cookies and I told him he had to work for them—he had to wash dishes.”

Leona beamed at George. Then she shot a reproving glance at Byron. “He never told me that.”

“Oh, he didn’t do it at first. But the boy always had a weak spot for my chocolate chip cookies. He came back a few weeks later, after...” George trailed off thoughtfully.

Byron knew what the older man was thinking about—that Byron’s parents had fought horribly at dinner, screaming obscenities and throwing dishes. A plate had nearly hit Chadwick in the head and Byron and Frances had ducked to avoid flying soup. He and Frances had been crying and their father had yelled at them.

Byron had run away from the noise. Frances had come with him and they’d wound up in the kitchen. It was the safest place he could think of, somewhere his father would never go. Frances had no interest in working for a cookie and a glass of warm milk, but Byron had needed...something. Anything that would take him away from the stress and drama, although that’s not how he’d thought of it at the time. No, at the time, he’d just wanted to feel like everything was going to be okay.

Washing the dishes required enough focus that it had distracted him from what he’d seen at dinner. And then he’d gotten a cookie and a pat on the shoulder and George had told him he’d done a good job and next time George would show him how to bake the cookies himself. And that had made everything okay.

“I washed the dishes,” he told Leona. “The cookies were worth it.”

“You did an absolutely lousy job, I might add,” George said with a chuckle.

Byron groaned. “I got better. Here, try the gazpacho.” He ladled a few spoonfuls into Leona’s bowl. “It’s not quite as good as it was in Spain—the peppers aren’t as fresh.”

George scoffed as Leona tasted the soup. “Boy, don’t tell them what they don’t know. She never had the stuff you were making in Madrid.”

“Mmm,” Leona said, licking her spoon. Byron found himself staring at her mouth as her tongue moved slowly over the surface of the spoon. She caught him looking and dropped her gaze. He swore she was blushing as she cleared her throat and said, “He’s right. As long as we can say ‘locally sourced ingredients’—preferably with the name of the farm where you get your vegetables—that’s what foodies value.”

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