Tempted By Her Husband Twin

Lana “Pick up that toy, Rory. It’s time to go. Come on, let’s go.” I yelled from where I stood in the kitchen, picking up the clothes that were flung around the house. “Come on, Riley, you too.” I said to the other one before shaking my head with a sigh. These boys were going to be the death of me, seriously. I wasn’t sure how they could be this young and rascals at the same time, but I loved them for me. Rory and Riley are my twin boys, and they were my everything. Rory darted past me, toy still in hand, and Riley followed behind him like his shadow. I pinched the bridge of my nose, counting to three before following. “Shoes, boys. Don’t make me chase you,” I warned, though I was already bending down to shove little sneakers onto each of their squirming feet. By some miracle, we made it out the door without another battle. The cool morning air hit my face as I herded them toward the car, their laughter bouncing across the driveway. I buckled Rory in first as he wriggled like a fish, grinning up at me, then Riley, who leaned into my chest for just a second before settling in. That tiny pause nearly undid me. Sometimes, in moments like this, I could almost picture him here, crouched on the other side of the car, tightening the straps, making funny faces to distract them, but that had been a long time ago now, when Rory and Riley were still a baby. My chest ached with the memory, but I shook it off and shut the door firmly. No use going there now. “Alright, troublemakers,” I said, forcing a smile as I climbed into the driver’s seat, “let’s hit the road.” Today was going to be hectic, really, because it was the start of rush season at the restaurant. I was the head chef at the Elysium restaurant, one of the most sought-after places in town, which meant I was going to be working long hours with the constant hum of pressure right over my shoulder. But right now, all I had to do was survive the school run. “Mommy,” Riley called from the back seat as I pulled out of the driveway, “are we going to school now?” He asked. “Yes, buddy. School first, then Mommy goes to work.” “Can I bring Mr. Dino?” Rory asked, lifting the stuffed dinosaur almost as big as his head. “As long as Mr. Dino doesn’t cause trouble,” I teased, glancing at him in the mirror. Rory giggled, already making the dinosaur roar at his brother. By the time I pulled into the preschool drop-off line, their excitement had shifted from Mr. Dino to wanting to get out of the car as fast as possible. I got down and around the car to let them out gently, their teacher already standing waiting for them. “Hey, Ms. Lana.” She greeted and I smiled at her before kissing my boys on the forehead and waving at them. As soon as I got back into my car, I pulled out of the drop-off line, and headed to work, turning the radio up a little bit. “It’s the season of love and hope…” the radio presenter said, but I tuned him out already. There was no reason to hear about that anyway. Five minutes later, parked and changed into my chef outfit, I headed towards the kitchen from the changing room. The familiar clang of pots and the sharp hiss of steam greeted me the second I stepped through the kitchen doors. My team was already buzzing around; line cooks already chopping up vegetables and fruits, prep staff hauling in crates of produce, the dishwasher clattering away in the back. Organized chaos, the way I liked it. “Morning, Chef,” Marco, my sous-chef, called over the din, sliding a clipboard toward me with the day’s delivery notes. “Good morning, Marco,” I replied, scanning the list as I tied my apron tighter around my waist. “Make sure we double-check the seafood order. Last year the supplier tried to short us during rush season, and I’m not playing that game again.” He smirked, already moving to take care of it. Good man. My team were the best if I said so myself. I slipped into the flow easily, checking sauces simmering on the back burners, tasting, adjusting, barking out small corrections here and there. For a while, I lost myself in the rhythm; the chop of knives, the heat of the stoves, the way the bodies moved around me. It was loud, frantic, but it was nice. And, uninvited, my thoughts brushed against him again; and how he would never see these mornings, never know the chaos or the small victories of raising them. The ache threatened to creep in, but I shoved it down and reached for the next pan. There was no room for that here. Not today. My phone buzz in my pocket and I check the screen to see it was a text from the manager, the text I had been waiting for. Aside the fact that it was the start of rush hour season, where people were only able to hold their booked table for thirty minutes, the owner of the hotel’s best friend was coming by today, he would be coming in ten minutes. Good, that was enough time to get things together. “Alright, people,” I said, clapping my hands once, snapping myself back into the present, “let’s get ready to move.” Cooking was my pride and joy, aside my kids, that is, because it always made me happy, and time seem to flow differently when I was cooking. Soon, the meal was done, and instead of letting the waiter take the food, I decided to take it down to the front myself. With the food all balanced on the wheeling tray, I started out to the front. Table 5, the best table in the house, closer to the piano, and had the best view, i wheeled it there. I could see from here that Mr. Roman was already there, with his guest, but he was backing me, so I couldn’t see his face. “Good evening, Mr. Roman.” I greeted as I got there, and then I started to nod at his guest, and just like that, I froze. The tray rattled against the table as my grip faltered. “Logan?” I called and he raised his head to look at me. No. No, it couldn’t be. My heart slammed against my ribcage wildly. It was him, the same strong jaw, the dark eyes that used to watch me like I was the only person in the room, the faint curve of a smile I knew better than my own reflection. But that couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be possible, could it? This man sitting right here was my husband. My dead husband. I blinked, hard, waiting for the face to blur, for reality to snap back into place. But it didn’t. He was still there, watching me with quiet curiosity. “Thank you chef,” he said, looking down at the food on the tray, and his voice… oh God, his voice hit me like a blow. The same timbre and warmth that was so achingly familiar that the edges of my vision began to swim. No. Impossible. Logan was gone. I had buried him. I had mourned him. Yet here he was, alive, sitting at Table 5 as if the last few years hadn’t shattered me into pieces. My hand slipped from the tray. The plates clattered onto the linen-covered table, and a sharp gasp tore from my lips. Then everything went black.