Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance by Hazel Parker (sad books to read txt) 📕

“I think you’ve risen above that.”

“Yes?”

“Definitely. I am impressed.”

The food is beyond excellent, melting in my mouth.

“I never thought I’d be eating this kind of food,” I say.

“I thought this would be right up your alley.”

“Making it, one day, sure. But sitting down and enjoying it? No way.”

“So are you the chef who secretly lives on peanut butter sandwiches?” Trent asks.

“Don’t knock it. There’s something to be said for gourmet peanut butter on homemade ciabatta bread.”

“Point taken.” He examines his own half-empty plate. “I still can’t believe that I get to sit down and enjoy food like this.”

“I would think you’d be used to it,” I say.

He shrugs. “If you had asked me when I was a kid, I would have told you that caviar was something that rich cartoon characters ate. Plus, I wouldn’t know where caviar came from.”

It seems like the perfect opening to satisfy some of my curiosity. “So you haven’t always been…”

“Trent Stone, billionaire extraordinaire? Not at all. My folks were about as in the middle of middle class as you can imagine. My dad was a businessman, but my mother stayed at home to raise me.” He looks off into the night, remembering. “My dad worked hard every day of his life. Nights, weekends, you name it, all so he could inch his way up the ladder. It worked, too…he was making a name for himself when he died suddenly.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I want to reach across the table and touch his hand, but I’m afraid to break the spell of his recall.

“Anyway,” he continues, “when he passed away, I told myself that I was going to make sure that he didn’t work so hard to provide for my mother and me for nothing. As soon as I was old enough, I went to work in the same office that he had been with and started climbing myself. Like father, like son, I guess you’d say.”

“How’s your mother? Is she still—”

“She died two years ago this June.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time I do reach over and put my hand over his. He pats my hand with his other one, then starts talking again.

“Mom never held my work ethic against me, even though I missed more than my fair share of birthdays and Thanksgiving get-togethers. Maybe she was used to it because that’s the way my father had been.

“Then she died, and it was like I’d lost my biggest supporter. It was right around that time that things started to go bad with Sharon.”

“What’s she doing now?” I ask.

“Sharon? To be honest, I don’t know. I didn’t keep tabs on her once the divorce was finalized. Her friends all got together and agreed to never speak to me again, so I didn’t hear any news from that outlet. Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, I hope she’s happy.”

“It’s really healthy of you to say that.”

“I mean it. I joke and call her ‘Hurricane Sharon,’ but I respect her point of view. I wasn’t home that much, and there’s no way to dance around that plain and simple fact.” He sips his wine. “Losing my mother and then Sharon bailing on me…it made for a hard time. I thought that throwing myself into my work even harder would fill in the new voids in my life, but on the few occasions I came home, it was to an empty house that just reminded me of my situation all over again.

“So I resolved to spend this year slowing down. Enjoy life a bit more.”

“And how’s that working out for you so far?”

He waggles a hand. “So-so. Business always seems to have a way of piggybacking onto pleasure.” He looks at me. “Well, almost always.”

“I guess there are always exceptions to the rules,” I say. My cheeks feel warm.

“That there are,” he replies. “That’s why I like spending time with you, Steph. It feels like an honest experience unto itself, with no ulterior motives.” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “I feel like when I’m with you, I’m Trent, not just Trent Stone. Or ‘Mister Stone.’”

“I feel the same way,” I say. “When I’m with you, it’s one of the few times when I don’t think about work in some all-consuming way. Or when I do think about it, it doesn’t pull at me the way it normally does, where it throws a wet blanket over any fun I manage to be having.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. And I’m glad I was able to coax you out for dinner tonight.”

“Me, too. You still shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”

“Just be thankful it’s nighttime. If it had been lunch or breakfast, I might really have had the food parachuted in from above.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing you’d do if you were on a deserted island.”

“Or if you’re seeing someone who’s ultra-busy and doesn’t want to leave her kitchen.”

Seeing someone. I was being seen. A small flock of butterflies does a lap around my stomach.

Dinner is followed by Japanese crepes for dessert, each one stuffed with ice cream, fruit and nuts and topped with elaborate garnishes. It’s even more decadent than your standard French crepe.

“And look at that,” Trent announces, looking at his watch. “Only nine o’clock. See, I promised you wouldn’t be out late, didn’t I?”

Despite my looming responsibilities, I didn’t want the evening to end just yet. “So what happens now?” I ask.

“Now,” he says, “I walk you home. Thank you, Louis,” he says to the server, who tips him a tiny bow in return.

“My pleasure, sir,” Louis replies. “Ma’am. Have a good evening.”

“I don’t know,” Trent says, but he’s looking at me. “Is it