“You’re responsible for your own happiness,” Emmaline said, talking almost to herself. “Remember that.”

Gracie nodded.

“I think it’s time for some cake.” Emmaline picked up the cake platter and started towards the dining room.

“I have to go.” Gracie sighed. “This was enough family drama for one day.”

Emmaline frowned. “Don’t worry about settling down or about pleasing Mother. You need to please yourself. Promise?”

Gracie forced a smile and gave her sister a kiss on the cheek. Emmaline made it all sound so easy but Gracie knew she’d married to keep their mother happy. She hadn’t taken her own advice.

Maybe she wants you to avoid years of being married to someone chosen for the wrong reasons?

After feigning a problem at the office, Gracie caught the tram to the city. She’d intended to go home, but when First came into view she experienced the familiar gravitational pull. Des had called her a few days ago, but she’d let it go to voicemail and then she’d listened to it over and over to hear the bone-tingling baritone of his voice.

Gracie, he’d said. I won’t apologize for kissing you because I don’t regret it. But I can’t stand not talking to you. Please call me.

She had no idea what to say to him—she couldn’t possibly tell him that she’d woken in the middle of each night, hot with the memory of his kiss. She didn’t regret it either, and that was exactly the reason she hadn’t called him back.

The tram whooshed down the street. She hesitated before jumping up at the last minute to yank the signal chain. A bell dinged and the tram slowed to a stop.

“You’re a mess,” she muttered, stepping off the tram.

The sun beat down overhead. First looked full, not unusual for a Saturday afternoon, but this time it made her think twice about going inside. She could see Des through a huge window that ran along the length of the restaurant.

Her heart thudded as she hovered at the threshold. She was in her weekend clothes, her hair in a boring bun and her face bare. If she wanted to leave a positive impression on Des this probably wasn’t the way to go about it.

But she couldn’t leave. Somehow, she’d crossed a line and something told her there was no going back.

You don’t have to do this. You can walk away. You don’t have to come here ever again.

The thought of not returning to First and seeing Des again made her stomach plummet. Emmaline’s words swirled in her mind: don’t worry about settling down…you need to please yourself.

If she was being honest with herself, none of the dates she’d been on in the last year had pleased her. The guys were stuffy, boring. There was no zing. No tingle of anticipation, just an overwhelming feeling of here we go again. Wasn’t it about time she did something for herself? Hadn’t she earned it?

Tomorrow she could go back to being rule-abiding, responsible, good-girl Gracie. Tonight she wanted to be bad. She wanted to break the rules and throw everything she knew out the window.

Tonight she wanted Des.

Chapter Five

He had to keep his hands busy, and serving drinks at First on a Saturday afternoon was the ticket. If he didn’t distract himself, he was at severe risk of calling Gracie again and leaving another gruff, pointless voicemail. Not that it mattered—she hadn’t returned the first one, so why would she return a second?

Reaching for a bottle of tequila, Des poured a row of five shots for a group of girls in matching pink T-shirts. The bachelorette party was already looking messy, and one of the girls winked suggestively at him as he slid the shots over to their side of the bar. The other men ogled the girls in their tighter-than-tight T-shirts and matching skin-tight jeans, but all he could think was how none of them held a candle to Gracie.

“Not your type?” Paul took a not-so-subtle look at the girls.

Des walked over to the shelves where the spirits were housed and shook his head. “Not my type at all.”

“Then you won’t mind if I strike up a conversation with the blond one?” Paul was a ladies man, and he liked his ladies forward and fair-haired. Lucky for him, First was full of his type over the weekend.

“Whatever you do on your own time is up to you, bud, but you’re on the clock, so don’t even think about it.”

“You’re such a buzz kill.” Paul flipped a bottle of vodka and poured a shot into the cocktail shaker in front of him.

Des often wondered how he and Paul were related—they were chalk and cheese, despite having identical mops of dark hair, darker eyes, and a shared affinity for home cooked Italian food. The younger Chapman brother was his opposite in almost every way—Paul thrived on fast and frequent rotations of the women in his life. He avoided responsibility and seemed quite content to float through life without ambition. He was a good person at the heart of it all, but Des often found himself wishing his brother would grow up and take charge of his life.

“I’m running a business, Paul.” He rearranged the bottles that had been carelessly stacked out of order. “Not a personal pick-up service.”

“Hey, don’t take your frustrations out on me.” Paul said, vigorously shaking the cocktail shaker and putting on a show for the ladies sitting at the bar. “Not my fault you refuse to get laid.”

“Not all of us have the desire to fuck anything that moves.”

Paul put his palm to his chest. “That hurts. You know I only go for blondes.” He opened the cocktail shaker and poured the pink milky liquid into two tulip-shaped glasses. He pressed a wedge of lime onto the rim of each glass and signalled to a waiter.

“Seriously, Des, this is becoming a problem. The staff are tiptoeing around you because you’re such a cranky bastard right now.” Paul clapped a hand on Des’s back. “Let me help you out. I’m sure one of those lovely ladies would be more than happy to help you let go of some of that negativity. You can have the brunette…or the redhead. Or both.”

“I’m not interested.” Des shrugged off his brother’s hand and continued to rearrange the spirit shelf.

“No, because you’re too hung up on that girl who brings all her dates here.” Paul rolled his eyes. “Can’t you see what’s wrong with that picture?”

“I’m not hung up on her.”

“Bullshit. Whenever she comes in you watch her like a hawk and get all moony when she finally gets rid of her guy.” Paul plucked an order from the bar and started working on the next round of cocktails. “It’s pathetic. If you like her, why don’t you take her out?”

Paul didn’t know about his trip to the market with Gracie, which was probably for the best. He wouldn’t understand something more complicated than a screw-and-dash. Paul kept his dalliances frequent and varied but brief above all else.

His younger brother had barely entered his twenties when Des’s engagement had fallen apart, and he had been there to ply Des with alcohol until he forgot. His brother was the one who’d helped him wallow, then pushed him to get back out into the dating field, and had supported his idea to open First. He might be the most irresponsible person Des knew, but his brother had stuck by him through a lot of crappy times.

Would he be asking Paul to do that all again if he kept chasing what he couldn’t have?

“It’s not that easy.”

“Yeah it is.” Paul nodded towards the bar. “She’s right there. Ask her out.”

Gracie hovered by the bar. She looked different; her olive skin was clear and glowing, her wild curls restrained into a neat bun on top of her head. There were no dangly earrings, no rose-colored lips, and she wore jeans and a simple white shirt. He’d never seen her in jeans before.