Caged in Winter Read online

  I didn’t think it’d feel like this. In all the times I let myself go down this path, indulge in this daydream, I thought there’d be waves of panic, a crushing weight on my chest, shackles chained to my ankles from being connected to someone. From being on the receiving end of someone’s love. There’s too much responsibility, too much faith lying in your actions, too much possibility of heartache.

  I didn’t want any of it.

  And then Cade came, sweeping his way into my life, imposing and relentless and persistent, and I’m not the same.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2014 by Brighton Walsh.

  Excerpt from Tessa Ever After by Brighton Walsh copyright © 2014 by Brighton Walsh.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-17020-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Walsh, Brighton.

  Caged in Winter / Brighton Walsh.—Berkley trade paperback edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-425-27648-8 (paperback)

  1. Love stories. I. Title.

  PS3623.A4454C34 2014

  813'.6—dc23

  2014025372

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / November 2014

  Cover photo by Maksim/Shutterstock.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Special Preview of Tessa Ever After

  For Christina, because two little words from you sparked this entire thing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  They say it takes a village to raise a child. A book-baby totally counts. Thank you to the following glorious people for being my village:

  To my agent, Mandy Hubbard, for reading and loving Cade and Winter as much as I do. For being the perfect mix of professionalism, knowledge, and Saved by the Bell gifs. Thank you a million times for taking the stress out of the business side of writing. You are a life and sanity saver.

  To the entire team at The Berkley Publishing Group, especially my editor, Leis Pederson, for molding this into the best book it could be. Thank you for making my first foray into traditional publishing utterly painless.

  To Christina, for the possibly—probably—thousands of texts exchanged when I’d hit a bump or stumble from my outline and need a push in the right direction. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to have you be my Plot Whisperer, but I’m keeping you.

  To Jeanette Grey for sticking by my side through everything I’ve ever written and holding my hand every step of the way. I’m running out of ways to say thank you (have I said that before?). My words never feel like they’re ready for the world until I’ve had your input. Here’s to another six (yes, it’s really been six!) years. Can’t wait to go to Paris as bawdy old ladies and eat Nutella by the Seine.

  To Jaime, Caren, Tonya, and Avery for reading, offering your thoughtful critique, and generally being amazing (and pretty) cheerleaders every step of the way. I love you guys like whoa.

  To Chef Amy for all your helpful insight and careful advice on the culinary portions of this book, for taking endless pictures of your workstation, the kitchens, and the restaurant and letting me borrow them as inspiration for Cade’s work spaces, for always being there with amazing ideas for recipes and giving step by step instructions on how to make them. And, finally, for reading this over in its entirety to make sure this book about a chef actually sounded like a book about a chef. I seriously couldn’t have done this without your help and guidance.

  And last but not least, to the three guys who make my world go ’round: My husband for understanding why I became a hermit the entire month I wrote this and for doing everything in your power so that I got uninterrupted time to write. Thank you for supporting me in my dream. And to the little guys who call me Mom, because you’re the most amazing, sweet, compassionate, sensitive, and fun-loving boys I’ve ever known. Because you’re as excited as anyone I’ve told about my book being in real live bookstores. And because you said, “Mommy, can you mention us in your next book?” And, really, how could I say no to that? I love you, I love you, I love you.

  ONE

  winter

  Seventy-six days.

  The number repeats as a mantra in my mind, echoing like a drumbeat with every hurried step I take.

  Seventy. Six.

  Seventy. Six.

  Stale air and dim lighting greet me as I tear down the hallway of my apartment building, jamming my key into the lock of my door and rushing inside. If I don’t get my ass in gear, I’m going to be late. If I’m late, I could get fired.

  I can’t get fired.

  I toss my bag on the floor, already stripping off my sweater and searching for the minuscule articles of clothing my employer considers a uniform. I find them piled in the corner of my tiny studio apartment. Like tossing them to the side and burying them among a hundred other things would somehow make them disappear. I hate this nightly routine. I hate walking out knowing what awaits me. Knowing what kind of front I’ll be putting on. Knowing it’s my only choice.

  Still, it beats living on the streets, and I’m about fifty bucks from having my ass kicked to the curb.

  As fast as I arrived, I’m out of there, grabbing a banana on the way. It’s not much as far as dinners go, but it’s all I’ve got. I inhale it as I head across campus, a hoodie and a pair of yoga pants thankfully covering the parts of me I don’t want to show every horny college guy I pass. Not that being
in the pub is any better. But at least there it’s expected, and I feel somewhat protected while surrounded by other people. They can look their fill, but don’t touch.

  Usually.

  When I’m working, I paint a lifeless smile on my face. Laugh. Flirt. Engage. It took me a day to figure out that smiling got me bigger tips. Took me a week to figure out that flirting got me even more.

  My head’s down as I book it two blocks from the outskirts of the opposite side of campus. Having to stay behind at my last class, I missed the bus I usually take to get to work, but I don’t mind walking. It’s warming up, the first traces of spring in every newly budded tree, in every sprouted flower. New beginnings, some would say. The season of love and light. The opposite of winter, when everything is harsh.

  Dark. Cold. Hollow.

  Fitting, really, my mother would name me that.

  It’s like she already hated me, even then.

  • • •

  I’M ONLY TWO minutes late, but to Randy, my boss, two minutes might as well be twenty. I keep my head down as I blow into the pub, trying not to draw attention to myself. I head into the back, clocking in and peeling off my armor before stuffing my hoodie and pants into my locker. I tug on the hem of my barely there shorts and crop top. Like all that adjusting will magically add three inches of material.

  I pause just inside the door of the break room. Walking out is always the hardest step. Coming into the pub, with my regular clothes on, my face down, is nothing. I’m still me. I’m still invisible.

  It’s hard to be invisible while wearing nothing but this. Hot pink top smaller than some sports bras I’ve seen. Black boy shorts that cover less of my skin than some of my underwear.

  I can hear the raucous laughs of the patrons already. Tuesday nights aren’t usually too bad. We have a few regulars, and sometimes people celebrating birthdays, but I generally don’t have to worry too much about guys getting handsy with me, or hanging around and waiting for me after closing to see if my flirting actually meant something. Those nights are the worst.

  Knowing I can’t put it off any longer, I push through the door.

  “Hey, sugar,” Annette says as she mixes up a drink behind the bar. In her late forties, she’s the floor manager-slash-bartender and the only one of us lucky enough to wear jeans and a T-shirt with the pub’s logo on it. What I wouldn’t give for that much coverage. “Randy’s in the office. He didn’t notice. You’re fine.”

  I breathe for what feels like the first time since I left class. “Thanks.”

  She nods and tells me what tables I’ve got, and I go to work.

  Shoulders rolled back. Shell in place. Smile plastered on.

  Seventy-six days to freedom.

  cade

  This is the reason I wanted to become a chef. This feeling right here. The rush of adrenaline, the high that comes from a well-done dinner service. The sense of accomplishment when someone compliments your dish. That’s me on a plate, every time, and there’s nothing in the world that feels better than when someone loves what I’ve created for them.

  The energy in the kitchen is buzzing, everyone pumped up after a great night, and I’m one of them, knowing we kicked ass tonight. I concentrate on cleaning up my station at the end of my bistro class, listening to my classmates bustle around me, excitement in the tone of their voices.

  “Hey, Cade,” Chef Foster says when he stops in front of my station. “Come see me before you leave.”

  “Sure thing.” I wipe down the stainless steel table and then pack up my knives. Once they’re secure in my bag, I head to where I see Chef Foster just as he finishes with another student.

  He glances at me, then tips his head to the back corner of the kitchen, the only place that’ll allow us a modicum of privacy. Once we’re there, he slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Excellent work tonight, Cade.”

  “Thank you, Chef.”

  “I really mean it. I always knew you had talent, even when you were little, but what you’ve developed into is more than I could’ve hoped for.”

  I stand a little taller at his words, pride swelling in me. Chef Foster—Mark when we’re not in school—is an amazing teacher and someone I’m lucky enough to call my mentor. Hearing that from him feels like winning the lottery. “That means a lot.”

  “Well, you know I don’t bullshit.” A grin lifts the side of my mouth as I nod, and he continues, “You know these last couple months are crucial for your future prospects. Do you know yet what you’d like to do after you graduate?”

  I swallow, a million thoughts bombarding me. Tessa and Haley and working in a kitchen in New York or L.A. and studying in Italy . . . My responsibilities battling with my dreams. Though it’s not really a battle at all, because there’s no competition. “Well, my long-term goal will be to open my own restaurant. Before that, I’d just be happy to work my way up to executive chef somewhere.”

  “Are you looking at strictly Italian cuisine?” he asks, referring to my specialty.

  “No, but all the better if that was where I ended up.”

  “Have you started looking?”

  “Not yet. Should I be?”

  “Probably not, but I’d start mid-May. And, of course, you know you’d increase your chances if you were open to different locations.”

  “You mean—”

  “Outside the state.”

  I stare at him, unsure of what to say to that. In the past year, he’s been hinting at me broadening my horizons for where I’d look, but it’s never been anything quite so blunt. If anyone knows how difficult that would be for me, it’s him. He’s been a family friend for as long as I can remember, and he witnessed firsthand the devastation that rocked my family. Leaving now . . . leaving Tessa and Haley? That’s not an option.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  He stares at me for a moment, his jaw ticking. Knowing him as long as I have, I have no doubt he has something he wants to say. Rather than doing so, he eventually gives a short nod, blowing out a breath. “Well, let me know when you need some recommendation letters. I’d be happy to send them.”

  “Thanks, Chef.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Keep up the good work.”

  I nod, shouldering my bag and heading out of the kitchen after offering good-byes to a few friends. I’m not even halfway to the parking lot before my phone buzzes with a text message.

  Come out 2nite

  I roll my eyes and quickly type out a response to my best friend before pocketing my phone. I haven’t taken five steps when my phone rings.

  Knowing it’s him, I answer, “Yeah.”

  “Why do you have to be such a pussy all the time?” Jason asks.

  I laugh, shaking my head as I walk toward the street. “If that’s you trying to talk me into going, it’s not working.”

  Someone shouts in the background and Jason yells back before talking into the phone again. “Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to do? You haven’t been out in months.”

  “You’re an asshole. We just hung out when Adam was home a couple weeks ago.”

  “Hanging out on your couch playing Call of Duty does not constitute going out, dumbass.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing this thing called going to classes and studying and working. Not all of us have parents willing to foot the bill through four changes in majors and the extended college plan.”

  “Hey, I’ll graduate one of these years.”

  I snort. “Maybe.”

  “And if you’re trying to sound like less of a pussy, you need to work on your tactics.”

  I chuckle, knowing exactly what he’s doing. Goading me used to be effective, back when we were fifteen, sixteen. Seven years later, not so much. “Still not working.”

  He groans. “Come on, man. It’s Sean’s birthday. Everyone is out. I’ll even buy you a round.”

  Heaving a sigh, I drop my head back as my shoulders slump. After four hours on my feet in the kitchen, I just want to relax. I feel like I have
n’t showered in a week. I feel like I haven’t slept in even longer. Even still, he’s right—I could use a night out.

  “Yeah, all right. Gimme an hour. Where are we meeting, Shooters?”

  “Not sure. Sean wants to barhop. Give me a call when you head out. I’ll let you know where we are.”

  “’Kay. Later.”

  I hang up, pocketing my phone as soon as I reach my motorcycle. It’s still a bit cold for it to be an enjoyable ride, but Tessa needed the car, so I didn’t have much of a choice. I straddle my bike and button up my coat before I rev the engine to life. The loud roar echoes around me as I peel out of the space and rumble down the street.

  Riding is my escape—the one thing I take for myself. I forget about my responsibilities—classes and bills and the people who depend on me. My mom always hated this thing, hated it the first day I brought it home, but I think she’d understand my love for it now.

  When I ride it, it’s my peace.

  • • •

  I STILL FORGET, sometimes. Even after four years. When I walk through the front door, sometimes I expect to hear her in the kitchen, the smells of her cooking greeting me. The sound of her laughter filling my ears. The sense of security and ease I always had before everything changed.

  Tonight the house is empty, not even the sounds of Tessa or Haley echoing down the hallway. I check my watch, then shoot Tess a quick text, making sure everything is okay. They probably went somewhere after Haley’s ballet practice, but there’s still lingering doubt that gnaws at my gut. After living through the kind of tragedies I have, it’s hard to turn it off—that constant worry that’s always there, lurking under the surface.

  As I wait for her text, I jump in the shower, then throw on whatever clean clothes I can find scattered around my room. I’m ready to go sooner than I expected, and I grab my keys and coat on my way out the door, checking my phone for a reply. Finding one there, my worries fade, and I reply, letting Tess know I’ll be gone till later tonight.

  Before starting up my bike, I call Jason to find out where they are. He’s already well on his way to being shit-faced, and I’m not sure this was such a good idea. I love him like a brother, but I can’t help that bit of jealousy I get as an outsider looking in at his life. Wondering what it’d be like to be a normal, carefree twenty-three-year-old guy. Where the only thing I had to worry about was where I was going drinking that weekend and who I was going to fuck. Instead I’m worried about keeping my scholarships and paying bills, all the while attending school full-time and holding down a part-time job.