Page 59 of Until August

August stood on the threshold and gripped the top of the doorframe. I didn’t know where to look first—at his flexed muscles that showed off his veiny forearms, the broad shoulders in a gray t-shirt that hugged his six-pack abs, or at his face. I loved his face. Squared jaw, full lips, and those sea-green eyes that were studying my face so intently that, once again, I was so tongue-tied that I didn’t utter a single word.

I shouldn’t be comparing this man to my husband, but I couldn’t help but notice the differences.

When Cruz used to look at me, it felt like a warm hug. Safety and comfort.

When August looked at me, heat blazed through my body, and I felt like I might catch on fire and combust.

His eyes lowered to the book I was hugging to my chest. “That’s where I got my name.”

His name?

My brow furrowed, and it took me a few seconds to figure out what he meant. Then, finally, I looked down at the book. The chef who wrote it was Auguste Escoffier. Which meant that August was named after one of the first celebrity chefs in the world. A man who had revolutionized French cooking in the early twentieth century.

With a name like that, August was almost destined to become a great chef. “Are your parents French?” Harper didn’t sound like a French name. “Are they chefs?”

“Yes, my mother was French. And yes, my parents were chefs. They met at culinary school. Got married, moved to LA, and eventually opened their own place.”

It would have been a romantic story if not for the past tense. “They’ve passed away?”

He nodded and released his grip on the doorframe, his hands falling to his sides. His expression remained neutral. Stoic. August was a master at hiding his emotions. Unlike me, you couldn’t read his face.

“I’m so sorry.”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug as if it was no big deal that his parents were dead. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Who raised you?”

“Nobody, really. I grew up in foster care.”

His parents died, and he was put in foster care. I couldn’t think of anything sadder.

He’d just shared a big piece of himself with me, but my curiosity was piqued, and I wanted more. I wanted to know everything about August Harper. “How old were you?”

“My mother died right after I was born. Complications from the birth.” He held up his left arm. I saw the quote tattooed on his inner forearm before, but now it took on a new meaning:But the fighter still remains.

August was the fighter. He’d survived, but his mother hadn’t.

“What’s it from? That quote?”

“It’s a line from ‘The Boxer.’ I heard a busker singing it, and it felt right.” He lowered his arm and tucked his hand in the pocket of his black cargo pants. “It was the day I met you, actually. He was busking at the farmer’s market.”

“Was it before or after the kiss?”

“After. I tossed some pistachios into his guitar case.”

“You didn’t.”

He laughed. “I did. And I told him they’re worth their weight in gold. He didn’t look convinced.”

I laughed. That was priceless. But then I sobered, remembering that he’d been orphaned. “And your dad?”

“My father died when I was seven. Drunk driving accident.”

He’d been dealt one tragedy after another, all by the age of seven. Maybe that was why he seemed so stoic at times. He understood loss and had learned it at an early age. My heart ached for him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. My father was the drunk who got behind the wheel.”

“But still. I can’t even imagine….”Not having parents. My parents drove me nuts sometimes, but I was raised with so much love. Growing up, they were always there for Luca and me. I couldn’t imagine my life without them.