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

cheerful as we make our way to the clubhouse for dinner. Even though I’ve rarely eaten here, it doesn’t take me long to winnow through the items on the menu.

“You find something you can eat and not bad-mouth too badly?” Tira asks, smiling.

“Curse of being a chef,” I tell her. “It’s hard to find things to enjoy without being too professionally critical.”

“You don’t even take a day off when you take a day off, do you?” she replies.

“You know me,” I say. “Always on the clock when it comes to food.”

The girls and I are chatting—all right, and enjoying another G & T—when all of my good feelings suddenly have the air kicked out of them. Who should walk in through the door of the clubhouse’s restaurant but Trent “I-don’t-want-your-sorrys” Stone?

My stomach seems to bottom out, split into two halves, and sink down into my knees. If there’s anyone on Earth I want to see less than Stone, I can’t think of them. What would happen if he spotted me?

Actually, I have a pretty good idea of what would happen. His eyes would widen a little in recognition, and then the contempt would jet out of them, across the room, and drown me. He seemed like he would be very good at contempt. Probably excels in it like he does with dismissiveness and hard-heartedness.

Given the number I had done on his kitchen, he would probably follow up that look with some choice words, none of them about the fine weather we were enjoying. I feel sick with dread as I watch him make his way across the room.

“Are you okay?” Tira asks, concerned. “You look like you’re choking on something!”

I shake my head, not wanting to make even the smallest sound that might attract attention. I wish that I hadn’t already ordered so that I could at least hide behind the menu.

At first, it looks like I will be spared Stone’s death glare, as he hasn’t noticed me. He’s too busy being recognized by a host of other golfers, smiling and shaking hands all around.

His golfing buddy, on the other hand…that’s another story. He sees me almost instantly and does a mega-swerve to head directly towards my table. His name is Jeff, and he was a regular at my second restaurant. He was such a regular that he had felt comfortable enough to ask me out. He had also been comfortable enough to ask more than once, not a bit put out when I declined each time. We were about to entire the murky zone between a date and a formal setting—the casual meeting.

“Hey, Steph,” he beams. I suddenly remember an unspoken but very real feeling of grace I get by spending the bulk of my time in my third restaurant and away from that beam. “Fancy meeting you here!”

Fancy meeting you here? Who says that? Who fancies anything these days?

Please, don’t hang around, I silently will. Please take the hint and keep on keeping on.

Contrary to my desperate mental commands, he drags over not one but two chairs.

Oh, no.

I have to get out of here, and fast. I’m not going to go so far as to excuse myself to the ladies’ room and go out the window, but I definitely need to make a speedy exit before—

“Trent,” Jeff calls to Stone, waving to him. “Over here, buddy.”

Stone disengages from the small posse of business partners that seem more like admirers and walks over. To his credit, when he sees me, he doesn’t snatch up a roll from the basket on the nearest table and peg it at me like they would throw stones at witches in the old days, but his pace definitely slows.

Clearly, he is looking forward to this little reunion every bit as much as me.

Chapter 4 - Trent

(12 hours earlier)

Although I do own more than one property, the rest of them are in other cities. Workaholics mostly have colleagues as opposed to friends, and you don’t ask a colleague if you can borrow their couch for the night, even if a significant portion of your own residence has gone up in smoke. Money, however, solves all kinds of problems, including the issue of being able to rent a more-than-adequate hotel suite at this late hour.

In spite of it being well after midnight, the first thing I do after going up to my room is summon up room service. Not for food, though. I’ve had enough of that for one day, thanks very much. Rather, I order some workout clothes. This hotel has a gym on the second floor, and I intend to take full advantage of it.

You might think that the first thing I would want to do would be to flop into bed and sleep for twenty-four hours. That’s a laugh. I have to be at work in seven hours. I’m going in early so that I can get in a round of golf with a client later.

“Later this afternoon,” I tell the empty penthouse. I could cancel one or both activities, but you don’t get to where I am through cancellations or even reschedulings. Things get done when I say they get done.

The concierge delivers my workout clothes in short order, even though I’m sure it must have been a scramble to get them. I tip him heavily for both his effort and the time.

The gym is, understandably, deserted. That’s okay. I’m glad for the solitude. It means there won’t be anyone around to see me fume.

You can’t really get your anger out with free weights, so I settle for battering the collection of exercise machines, one after the other.

“‘I’m sorry,’” I mutter, hauling the military press bar down to my chest. “Sorry,” I snarl, letting it zip back up before jerking it down again. “‘I’m sorry I torched your home?’”

I’m sweating