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claustrophobia with his younger brother. Or the disaster that had caused it.
    The only living person who’d even had a clue what Niall had been through was a bartender who hadn’t bothered to give him her correct phone number after a single night of mind-blowing sex.
    He wasn’t going to think about her. Hadn’t he told himselfthat twice daily since he’d returned to Tidewater in May and discovered he had the wrong number?
    A lesser man might have broken down and called Heaven’s Gate trying to find her after he returned stateside. Not that he had. Not that he’d heard she’d left her job shortly after graduation. And certainly not that he’d been told in aggravatingly clear terms that no personal information would be given out on Hannah, since Niall hadn’t bothered to learn her last name.
    Fuck it.
    â€œBro?” Ross laid a hand on Niall’s shoulder, concern in his light green eyes.
    The haven in the doorway evaporated. The walls of the tiny room shrank two sizes again.
Too many people . . . too small a space.
    â€œExcuse me.” Niall sidled out of the room.
    Unlike the little dark gray office, the kitchen was large and gleaming white. Granted, there were things both rooms shared, like wire racks lining every available wall space.
    But his office shelves were loaded with books, extra bags of flour and sugar, reams of paper, and files. The racks in the oversized kitchen were loaded with dishes, canned goods, pots, pans, plates, and utensils. Two sets of everything. The previous owners had kept to the kashrut, the body of Jewish law dealing with food, when serving kosher meals. While the Boxing Cat didn’t need two sets of everything, it came in handy since Niall had added certified gluten-free options to the menu.
    On the wall to his right hung a bulletin board littered with schedules, notices, various pictures, notes, and business cards. Next to that was the sink. Over it hung a magnetic knife rack covered in the best cutlery their business could afford.
    In the center of the room, between three pillars, were two steel worktables. Two cooks ran the kitchen. The men were dressed in crisp white chef coats and chef pants covered in ugly dancing chili peppers. With the fluidity of dancers, they moved around the kitchen and each other as they prepared meals. The air was rife with the welcoming scents of oregano, caramelized onions, and freshly baked pizza. Niall’s stomach rumbled.
    â€œHey, Paulie,” Ross called out to the short, young chef. He spoke around a mouthful of apple. “Wanna hit the clubs tonight?”
    That single question had Niall grinding his teeth to stem the flood of words burning his lips. Their business was barely hanging on and his brother wanted to go out drinking. Again. No doubt to get drunk enough to screw some random woman in another pointless attempt to prove to the world that he wasn’t gay.
    Wish the damn kid would grow up and come out of the closet already.
    Ross jabbed a friendly elbow in Niall’s side. “You should come too, big brother. You need a night out. Virgil can handle closing after the dinner rush. Right, Virg?”
    Niall glanced at the taller chef who’d been on staff for more than thirty years. At sixty, Virgil looked eighty. Skin leathery and bronzed. Hands twisted by arthritis. But his mind was sharper than some recruits fresh out of boot camp. And he was still the best chef in Tidewater.
    Virgil lazily shrugged his shoulders and said in a thick southern Tidewater drawl, “Sure can. Y’all go out and have some fun. You boys work too hard, especially you, Niall. Go on out and live a little while you’re still young enough to do it. Why, if I was forty years younger, I’d be right there with you.”
    â€œNot tonight.” Niall shook his head, then noticed a yellow sticky tacked to the bulletin board. He’d put it there yesterday, before he’d left to help his