Page 130 of Submission

Christian’s eyes harden, knowing that my comment was partly for his benefit.

“How’s everything over here?” Lena approaches again.

“Great,” Vaughn answers. “The food was delicious, Lena. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

Her lips straighten into a line as if the question has made her suddenly uncomfortable.

“In the shelter.”

Shit.

I hadn’t asked Lena much about her life before she came back into mine, partly because there hasn’t been time for heart-to-heart conversations, and I guess the other reason is that I didn’t want to really know.

“Well, they taught you well, girl. I’m sure Hunt is going to have a tough time picking what items to put on the menu.”

“Yep,” Christian agrees. “It was all really good.”

“I think there’s room for them all to go on the menu,” I say.

“We’re not a restaurant, Hunter,” Lena says as if she’s reminding me about what I already know. “We only have the capability of serving a few items a night.”

“Why?” I ask her, pulling another chair to the table for her to sit down.

“Well, it’s a kitchen designed for just a few people to work in. You don’t have the room for a full kitchen staff. Plus, it’s expensive. Keeping your menu streamlined to a few bestselling items is the best approach for a place like this.”

I raise an eyebrow, delighted that Lena has an opinion about how the kitchen should be run. It means that she’s starting to feel a part of it. Sometimes, the Blue Whiskey has that effect on people.

“Just my opinion, of course,” she adds.

“You’re allowed to have an opinion at this table,” Christian says, and I give both him and Vaughn a look that tells them that I want them to leave. I need to talk to Lena alone. I can’t put this off any longer.

Without another word, the two of them rise from their seats.

“I have to call my divorce lawyer,” Vaughn says.

“And I’m going to make sure he asks all the right questions,” Christian says. “Or she’ll take his ass to the cleaners.”

Now, it’s just the two of us at Table 21, staring at each other with a bit of reserve. Lena blinks a few times with a quiet unease that I’m learning is part of her personality. In time, I hope that will change, at least when she’s around me.

“Lena–”

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me what you remember about your childhood?”

“You mean how I came to be in the foster care system?”

“Yes, do you remember any of that, or do you know from some other way?”

“I was told by a social worker that my parents were deceased. I wasn’t told how they died. Based on the records that were shared with me, I was placed into the system at two years old. I lived in several decent foster homes over my elementary school years until I ended up in a group home at twelve.”

I stop her there.

“Why were you placed in a group home?”

“Most families don’t want to bother with a teenager, and my foster mother at that time was older and having health issues.”

“So she just gave you up?”

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