“Honest.”

I squirmed, trying not to glance in the direction of my laptop. I hadn’t been all that honest. “You only say that because you don’t have to live with my big mouth.”

“You speak your mind. That’s a good thing. Otherwise nobody pays attention until everything goes to shit.”

“Speaking from experience?” Momma taught us girls not to ask personal questions. But I wasn’t simply curious. I . . . cared.

He shrugged. “I was a bastard husband. Typical chef, working all the time.”

So his hours sucked. Like my father’s. But despite Eric’s devotion to his work, his ambition, his passion, I didn’t see him as uncaring. Or self-absorbed.

“It’s not like you were cheating on her,” I said. “Unless . . . Oh. Um. Sorry.”

Eric gave me that look, the one that said I amused him.

I bumbled on. “It’s just that Trey—my friend—says given the chance, the majority of men would sleep with the majority of women. Of course, he’s . . .” A horndog. “He’s hardly a relationship expert. He doesn’t know you at all. Obviously you wouldn’t cheat on your wife.”

Eric smiled wryly. “Only with the restaurant.”

“You were a chef when she married you, though, right? You didn’t change.”

“Maybe I should have. She deserved better from me. I should have paid more attention. I should have been there for her.” His eyes met mine. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

I lost my breath. There was definitely not enough air in my apartment. Not with him in it. Did he mean . . . ?

“You mean, when you see her again? At Christmas.”

“Jo.” His voice was deep, a vibration along my nerves. “I am there for Christmas with the boys. Nothing more. I am with you now.”

The words wrapped around me like a blanket.

“With me,” I repeated, testing the idea. I waited for the familiar stifling panic to envelop me but . . . Nope. Nothing. Only that odd, lovely warmth.

I grinned. “Then I guess we’re going to your place.”

“Good.” He smiled.

For a minute, we just sat there, looking and smiling at each other over the breakfast dishes, and it was . . . pretty great, actually.

Eric swore. “Scheisse.”

“What?”

“I have to meet the liquor distributor today.”

“Okay.”

“And”—he shot me a guilty look—“I need to go in and talk to Ray about the specials.”

Like he had to apologize for being . . . Chef. I widened my eyes in mock horror. “On your day off? I’m shocked.”

“There are no days off when you own a restaurant,” he said a little grumpily. “Ray can handle the service, no problem. But it isn’t his name on the menu.”

My name was on my blog. Well, my pseudonym, actually, but the principle was the same. I couldn’t take the day off, either. “It’s fine. I’m used to having my own space.”

His brow wrinkled.

“Really,” I assured him. “Actually, this will be great.”