Only ten tables are occupied at The Flavor. I sit at one of them, studying the menu I know by heart while my father is discussing something with Rick, the manager of the restaurant, in his office.

I hope they're trying to come up with ways to do more promo. The business checks all the boxes. Centric location and lots of office buildings in the vicinity? Check. Tasteful minimalistic interior that would leave anyone slack-jawed? Check. And, most importantly, the food — the right mix of innovative and traditional. If you dine here, you won't pay for a microscopic piece of meat strategically placed in the center of a huge white plate that has a few drops of sauce smeared on the side and something green to add joy to the few sad calories. You'll get a dish that will sate you, and that's why ten tables out of twenty-five on a Saturday afternoon seem like a joke. Or bad marketing.

My father walks out of the door in the back and comes up to me. He unbuttons his suit jacket before pulling a chair out and lowering himself into it. "Have you decided what you want?"

"A steak. With some salad."

He motions to a server and places our order. That he chooses the same dish I do might be the only thing we'll agree on today.

"How's college?" he asks as we dig into our food fifteen minutes later.

I chew and swallow before answering, "Good. I chose my major. Business Management."

And I didn't do that to please him — just the opposite. Some people think all wealthy parents build an empire and dream of their kids running it once they retire, but that requires trust in their children's intelligence. Vincent Van Doren has none in his daughter's ability to make a business thrive.

"Do you need money?"

I scoop up a piece of avocado with my fork. "No."

My father cocks his head to the side. "You didn't touch the money in your account."

All I do is shrug. All he does is stare.

"Tara. Don't be ridiculous."

"I don't need to buy anything," I mumble.

That isn't a lie. The perks of being an influencer include free cosmetic products and clothes. But while Tara Van Doren isn't on social media, Tara Hagen has two million Instagram followers and a successful business my father and my friends have no clue about.

My father sighs. "Well, it's there. Use it."

"I will." That is a lie, but he's too busy to remember what I say and do.

"The restaurant's a bit empty," I say once our steaks are gone, and the same server places two espressos on the white tablecloth.

"We're fully booked for dinner," my father says. "The Flavor is doing great, don't worry."

I pretend to study the dark brown liquid in my white cup. "Sure."

"That's not what a girl like you should be concerned about."

A girl like me. Someone stupid. Someone who isn't a good partner in Ethics class. Someone you won't allow to help you with your restaurant because you think she'll screw up.

I down my coffee in one gulp and jump to my feet. "Thanks for lunch. I have somewhere to be."

"Sure," my father says, standing. "And Tara?"

"What?"

He rounds the table, grabs my red coat, and stands behind me, opening it so I'd shove my arms in the sleeves. "Use the money."

***

When I make my way into Hill Cottage forty minutes later, silence greets me. It's nap time for the little ones. As I peek into the living room, my eyes land on the three teenage boys sprawled on the couch, watching TV with the sound off. Mason is one of them.

"Hey," I whisper.

The boys glance at me.

"Tara," Mason says, keeping his voice low, "Mary's waiting for you in the kitchen."

"Great. See you later."

"Sure."

Just like many other kids living in Hill Cottage group home, Mason wasn't lucky to be fostered or adopted, at least not yet. I always tell him it's going to change. There must be a family waiting for him somewhere, and I don't want him to lose hope.

But he's almost fourteen, and although I believe he won't stay in the home for much longer, Mason is skeptical as every teenager in a similar situation. Not that I can blame him — seeing other kids leave and knowing you're staying must be heartbreaking.

I pad to the kitchen, and just like Mason said, Mary is there, getting dinner ready.

"It smells amazing, " I say.

Mary wipes her hands with a kitchen towel and rushes toward me. Just like Cara, she barely reaches my chin when she hugs me, and just like our housekeeper, she's been a constant  in my life since I was a child.

I lean down and kiss her cheek. "I have something for you."

"I just wanted to see you," she says. "We have everything."

I pull an envelope from the side pouch of my purse and put it on the kitchen island.

Mary heaves a sigh. "Tara."

"Tara, what? Halloween is almost here. The kids deserve a party."

"But we have money."

"And too many kids to feed. I saw a couple of new boys."

"Benji and Kevin arrived yesterday. Mason took them under his wing. That boy's a saint. I don't know what I'll do when someone comes for him."

"But we want someone to come for him, don't we?"

"As long as they're good people."

I shrug off my coat, leave it on the back of a chair, and roll up the sleeves of my sweater. "Give me a knife. I'll help you make a salad."

We work in silence at first, but then, she rests the knife on the cutting board, and her hazel eyes dart to the doorway before pausing on my face. "I was going to wait to tell you, but it won't be a secret for much longer."

"What's going on?"

"Betty's retiring in January. And although we're happy for her, that leaves us without our most qualified worker."

"She's been working here forever."

"Even longer than me, and I've been here for two decades. I'm so worried we won't find a good replacement. She wants to help us find someone."

"Fingers crossed," I say, returning to my task.

"And you know some things are still in her office. Maybe now you want—"

"Not yet."

Mary draws an arm around my waist and squeezes me gently. "It's okay. Betty has the key. Just remember to ask her for it before she's gone."

"I'm more worried about the kids. They love her."

"That's why we have to keep our eyes open. If you happen to know someone qualified, tell us. It's not a lot of money, but if we get more funding, that might change soon."

"I'll ask around," I say.

When dinner's ready, I help Mary feed the kids and stay to play with them until bedtime. Most people would be at a party on Saturday night, but I never regretted volunteering at Hill Cottage. There's something fulfilling about helping others, especially kids. Plus, with insufficient resources and too much work, the staff needs me.

It's almost ten p.m. when I get behind the wheel of my Maserati. Leah is spending the night at Brian's, and although I have our place to myself, I won't do much apart from retouching the photos of my last client in her new outfits to upload the pictures to my blog and Instagram.

An upbeat tune from my Girl Power playlist fills the interior of my car as I join the stream of vehicles on the highway. I'm less focused than I should be because Mary's words keep replaying in my head.

I'm not a coward, but it's been years, and I haven't mustered the courage to open Mom's locker at the group home where she volunteered like me. I know what's inside — my framed picture, a drawing I made for her, and her pink scarf. But knowing doesn't hurt as much as touching those things.

Maybe I am a coward, after all.

My car's headlights cut through the darkness, bathing the asphalt ahead of me in a yellow glow. There are fewer vehicles on the road, and just when I allow myself to relax and focus on the female voice crooning from the speakers, I spot someone walking toward me in the opposite direction of the traffic.

I sit straighter, gripping the wheel with both hands. The person staggers but regains their balance and takes another step forward. As I get closer, the tall figure becomes more distinct.

It's a guy, and I know him.

Sebastian.

Car horns blare, overpowering the music I was listening to. My heart pounds, and I slow the Maserati.

Doctor Jennings told me my constant need to help others might stem from what happened years back. Even though he's right, I ignore the truth in his words because not helping isn't an option when someone, the obnoxious, rude, and annoying someone might get killed in front of my eyes.

I park in the emergency lane and get out of the car.

"Bast!"

He keeps walking in my direction but seems to be looking right past me as if I were a ghost. Is he high?

I sprint toward him and grip his wrist, pulling him away from the traffic. He looks at me but says nothing, and the stench of alcohol that hits my nostrils is the likely culprit of his semi-conscious state.

"Come on," I say, leading him to my car.

The little strength he had leaves him when we're a few feet away from it. I put his heavy arm around my shoulders and drag him to the vehicle, panting from the exertion of handling someone too heavy and tall. That he's in no condition to cooperate makes the task even more daunting.

When I manage to sit Bast in the passenger seat, I exhale, bracing my forearms on the roof of my car.

Sebastian doesn't move. His head tilts to the side, and his mouth parts.

I buckle him in and round the Maserati to start it.

Bast is asleep, and if he drank as much as I think he did, he might throw up before I deliver him home.

Crap. I'll have to ruin Leah's night, but I have no choice. I can't take him to our place, not only because I don't want him there, but also because I'm not strong enough to deal with his drunk,  nerdy six foot two. Or maybe three.

The engine rumbles to life, but I ignore it, leaning my head against the headrest.

A light snore leaves Bast's lips. It should be gross, but I find it almost endearing. He's not mean to me. He doesn't scowl or smirk. Too bad everything's different when he's sober.

"Why are you such an asshole?" I ask. "And why are you so handsome, Basti?"

I'd freak out if he answered, but he doesn't. I send Leah a text and head home with the unconscious Bast by my side and Adele singing about her remedy. That song doesn't belong in that playlist, just like Sebastian doesn't belong in my Maserati, but here we are.

♡♡♡

When Brian and Leah walk over to my car I parked close to Sebastian's apartment building, guilt washes over me.  They had to cut their date short, and I wouldn't blame either of them if they were mad at me. "Hey. I'm sorry, guys. I didn't know what else to do," I say.

"Hey. It's okay," Brian speaks. "What happened?"

"I was driving back to the city when I saw him walking."

"Wait a minute." Brian frowns. "Walking where? He was out. I thought you'd seen him at a bar or something."

I roll my eyes. "Well, I guess a stroll along the highway is a weird definition of going out. He could've been hit by a car or a truck. At first, I thought he was high, but I guess it's only the alcohol. Anyway, he didn't recognize me. I don't know how he could stand at all, let alone walk. I'll need your help getting him out of the vehicle. The guy's heavy."

I nod toward the passenger seat and unlock the door. The three of us manage to get Bast out and drag him to the elevator.

"I'll move him to his room," Brian says once we're in the apartment.

Leah and I wait in the living room while her boyfriend takes care of his friend.

"He didn't get sick, did he?" Brian asks me when he's back.

I shake my head. "He might later, though."

Letting out a mix of a sigh and a groan, Brian runs his fingers through his hair.

"Do you need my help?" Leah asks.

"No, baby. I'll stay in his room in case he gets sick or needs something."

"I can take you home," I tell my roommate. "Unless you're staying."

Something tells me Brian doesn't want her to stay. Does Bast get drunk often? I remind myself it's none of my business in time to hear Brian's next words.

"Go home, baby. We can try to meet tomorrow."

"If I manage to finish the paper," Leah says. "It's for Tuesday, and I've barely started."

Brian kisses her cheek. "Okay. Text me when you're home."

I look elsewhere, giving them privacy to say goodbye, but when Leah and I are by the front door, I pause.

"Brian, I need you to do me a favor."

His brows scrunch up. "Yeah?"

"Don't tell Sebastian I was the one to bring him home, okay?"

"What? Why?"

"He hates me," I say, studying my nails. "I'd rather he thought it was someone else. One of the guys or his minion, I don't care. I don't want to have more problems with him."

"Minion." Leah giggles under her breath.

"Yeah. Elena."

"I think he should know, but okay," Brian says.

"He can live without the embarrassment of knowing the stupid Barbie saved his ass from being run over by a truck or ten," I tell him, ignoring the questioning look Leah gives me.

Truth is, I don't want Sebastian's gratitude. I'd rather he didn't pretend he likes me just because I took him home. Besides, good deeds stop being such once you start blabbering about them.

I'd do the same for any guy I know.

Or so I think.

Hey guys!

Hope you're enjoying the story!

What are your thoughts so far?

Bast and Tara will be forced to spend some alone time soon. They should tall, don't you think so?

On another note, I don't believe in an instant redemption of a guy like Bast. It'll take some events, but that's what enemies to lovers is about, right?

You're not supposed to understand everything just yet. Both Bast and Tara hide things, and the subgenre of this book is mystery/crime. So everyone and everything appearing here will be relevant at some point.

If you have questions, let me know❤