Aida knew Winter was avoiding her. He was mad because she was leaving—maybe mad that he’d said those things to her that night they were together. Everything I have is yours. At the time she’d thought he meant it. Now she worried it was merely a lover’s oath, said in a moment of passion, forgotten the morning after. And yet the words hounded her thoughts days later. She felt silly for letting them affect her, sillier still for wanting to believe them. But she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been able to say something back, would he be avoiding her now? Would she still be going to New Orleans?

She wanted to talk to him, but she didn’t know how.

On her next-to-last night in the city, she followed him into the kitchen after dinner, where he was talking to Bo at a large prep table that sat in the center of the room.

Aida felt the temperature change as she stepped across the doorway; the room was humid and warm with earlier dinner preparations. “I am leaving in a day,” she announced to Winter’s back. “Are you going to refuse to look at me until I walk out the door?”

His body stilled, but he didn’t turn around to face her. The cook did, however—and after shelving the plate she’d been washing on a rack above the sink, she mumbled something in Swedish, then scurried out the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

Bo coughed into his fist before scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll . . . just be in my room.” He gave her a sympathetic look as he passed.

The heels of her leather pumps clicked on black-and-white checkerboard tiles as she walked around the table. Steam puffed from a simmering pot on the stove behind her, where bones from their meal were being used to prepare stock for tomorrow.

“If you’re angry at me, I wish you’d just come out and say it.”

He still wouldn’t look at her. Just gathered the paperwork that was spread out on the table. “I’ve been busy.”

“Liar.”

His hand flinched. “What do you want me to say, Aida—have a great trip? It’s been nice knowing you?”

“It’s not easy for me, either. I’m not jumping with excitement to leave. I’m dreading it, if you want to know the truth. I don’t want to go.”

Mismatched eyes slanted toward hers. “Then don’t.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my job. I’ve made a name for myself. Try to understand. I used to beg for work, now clubs are seeking me out. I’ve been given this window of success—if I squander it, I might never have it again.”

“You said yourself that you don’t want to do this forever.”

“I don’t. But what am I supposed to do? I just lost everything I’ve saved for the last few years—”

He tossed the paperwork on the table. “Oh, for the love of God, you know I’ll replace that. I’ve probably got it in petty cash in my study.”

“Of course you do,” she said bitterly. “Because it’s nothing to you. Do you have any idea how hard I struggled to save that? Years of scrimping, choosing second-best, doing without, only to have all of that brushed aside as your petty cash?”

“So I’m to be penalized because I have money?”

She waved a hand in frustration. “This isn’t about money. It’s about my independence—my life. Who I am. I won’t sacrifice everything I’ve worked for on a whim.”

“I thought you lived in the moment.”

“I do—but I’m not careless. I plan for my future.”

“Then plan for it here,” he said, planting both palms on the wood as he leaned over the table and spoke intently. “The Bay is where you were born. This is your home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

“Then make one.”

“I will. That’s what I’m trying to do—I’m trying to save, but it’s hard.”

“You know what I think?” he said, biceps straining his suit as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I think this isn’t really about money at all.”

“It’s about my money. My pride.”

“And what if you were to find out that you do have money. Yours.”

“I’m not looking for a handout—how many times do I have to say that?”

He started to reply, then thought better of it and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to make a decision to stay because of money. I want you to want to stay. I told you how I felt. You obviously don’t share those feelings.”

“What do you know of my feelings?”

“I only know what I see when I look in your eyes. What I hear when I listen to the emotion behind your words.” He paused, then spoke in a lower tone. “What I feel when I touch you.”

Her throat tightened. “And what do all those things tell you?” She meant to sound tough, but the words came out reeking of desperation.

“They tell me that no matter what you might feel, you are too stubborn to take a risk when it comes to your heart. Because even though you accuse me of being weighted down by my past, you’re the one living in yours.”

“Me?”

“I might be depressed and angry at times, but I didn’t stop living after the accident. I picked myself up and kept working. I didn’t let my family down. I didn’t abandon my clients or my workers or my staff.”

“And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do!” she argued.