The Bachelor Towers: Books 1-3

by Cardello, Ruth

  I’m a prisoner to blunt honesty when it comes to business. Sugarcoating isn’t on my résumé. “I’m not sure what you have here is sustainable. I can look at the numbers and maybe move some things around a bit, but if you’re not going to charge people more than it costs to run the business, then no one can do anything to help you. Math is a finite thing. This either adds up or it doesn’t.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Ziggy says with a big smile as he slaps his hands together. “This business meeting is over, and we can shift gears to a social visit. Now, can I get you something to drink?”

  I need a fucking drink. Something strong and straight, because my head is spinning. I didn’t know people like this even existed anymore.

  Penny’s nervous voice cuts off my thoughts. “But what are you going to do then, Dad? You have a couple days before the bank is going to put a sign on that door and kick you out. If you won’t ask Kylie for money, and you won’t make any changes, there is no hope.”

  “No hope,” Ziggy says, looking disappointed in her. “Penny Pot, that is something I never expected to hear from my girl. You and I, we do what we love and we let the cosmos work out the details. If your heart is in the right place, everything else will be fine.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, no nuts, no coconuts,” Ziggy says with a hardy laugh. “It’ll all work out somehow. I do really appreciate your time, Dalton. It was kind of you to come down here. It warms my heart to know Penny has such wonderful friends.”

  Friends. There’s that damn word again. I can see where she gets it. Ziggy has been wildly misinformed. Life does not just happen to you. You have to make things happen. But if he’s not willing to change anything, there really isn’t anything I can do to help. I usually chuck that in the fuck-it bucket—not my problem. But the ache in Penny’s voice is reverberating around in my head.

  “I hope it works out,” I say, annoyed with myself that it’s true. Just like I don’t do friends. I don’t do hope. I don’t cross my fingers and make a little wish. That’s a pointless strategy.

  “Penny Pot here,” Ziggy says, pointing at his daughter, “used to be quite the assistant, growing up. Do the little song, darling?”

  “Dad, no,” she says, peeking out again from behind her fingers. “I’m not doing the song.”

  “Oh honey, I’m losing my business. My life’s work is going right down the drain. The least you can do is sing the song. Brighten your dear old dad’s sad day.”

  “You’re laying it on pretty thick,” she groans, giving him a knowing look. “Fine. I’d answer the phone and sing a little jingle. Need a job? Need a hand? Ziggy is your employment man. Need a break? Feeling Down? Ziggy can turn it all around.”

  Ziggy’s eyes dampen as his gaze leaves Penny and falls on me. He stares hard, like he’s trying to find my soul through my eyes. “Tell me, is there anything in life more important than someone believing in you that much? If I lose everything this week? If it all goes away, I’ll be able to put my head on my pillow and know I did what I loved, most of my life, and for a while I was my daughter’s hero.”

  “Oh Dad.” Penny sniffled. Shit. This was all getting too heavy for me. They share another long hug and Penny says her goodbyes.

  “You take care now,” Ziggy says, slapping a hand to my shoulder. His voice goes low, out of Penny’s earshot as he leans in. “Take care of her. She needs to smile right now. I’m putting you on the job.”

  I want to explain to him that Penny is a woman living next door to me for only a few more days. She’s not someone I intend to take care of. She’s not someone I plan to know for much longer. But I know my actions, coming here with her, blurs that line, even in my own head. Instead I nod, because forming a coherent thought seems impossible.

  “I’m sorry you wasted your time,” Penny says, clearing away a few stray tears as we hop in the waiting town car.

  “I offered to come,” I say, but I know that doesn’t make her feel any better.

  “I wish he would listen to sound advice.”

  “I give the guy credit. He knows who he is, and he is sticking by what he believes. No one in business does that.”

  “I guess that’s why he won’t be in business much longer.”

  “I’ll try to think of something he could do that wouldn’t feel like he was compromising his ideals but would help him sustain what he’s doing.”

  “You will?”

  “I like a good challenge.” I shrug, not admitting that the old man was fascinating as hell and somehow, against all my better judgement, I’m actually rooting for him. As a man who runs a business, I know exactly how hard it is to find good employees. His business model, minus the payments he receives, actually makes a lot of sense. If his retention rates and referrals are as good as he says, he’s doing something right.

  “I want to find a way to thank you,” Penny says, reaching over and squeezing my hand.

  “I might not come up with anything he’ll agree to at all.”

  “But you’re trying. Come with me. I have an idea.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Penny

  Millie isn’t expecting us, but she loves the unexpected, which is what I love about her. The overnights at the bakery were enough to pay the rent but this, her real passion, was something she loved to share with other people. For some reason it feels important for me to let Dalton see that unknown commodity of joy that comes from feeling like you are right where you’re meant to be. Doing just what you were made to do.

  “Should I be worried?” Dalton asks as he ducks down to get under the low doorframe. We’re working our way through a maze of doors and hallways in a recently rehabbed building on the edge of the city. It’s the only place Millie can afford, and I can still remember the day she found it. We ran through this place like kids let loose in a theme park.

  “It’s eclectic,” I explain to Dalton as I run my hand against the ruddy multi-color walls. Millie and I painted these ourselves when she first signed the lease. “Can you smell it yet?”

  “Smell what?” he asks, looking nervous. I think he’s been breathing through his mouth this whole time, too afraid of what this place might be filled with. “Is it going to be dead bodies? Is this the part where I find out you’re a femme fatale?”

  “If I go all praying mantis on you would you run?”

  “I’d like the first half of it, that’s for sure.”

  “Well it’s not dead bodies you’re going to smell. It’s cakes,” I sing, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward Millie’s sanctuary. Dalton’s face shifts from concerned to shocked as we enter Millie’s kitchen.

  “Penny,” she sings out, clapping the flour off her hands and running toward us both. “And hunky guy who I am assuming is Dalton, but if it’s not this is going to get super awkward.”

  “It’s Dalton.” I laugh, accepting her warm hug as she giggles in my ear.

  “The neighbor,” she coos, stepping back and eyeing him approvingly. “Oh damn, you were right about those hands.”

  Dalton clears his throat and instinctively glances at his hands to try to keep up with us. He doesn’t stand a chance. Millie is the sister I wish I would have in Kylie. Occasionally I’m certain we can read each other’s mind. She’ll have a field day here with Dalton, but I don’t care. Something tells me, even though I didn’t originally peg him for it, he’ll be a good sport.

  “We need cake,” I announce, looping my arm in Millie’s and circling around her creations. “What do you have for us?”

  “What are you celebrating?” Millie asks playfully with an arched brow. “Or are you trying to build your energy up after sexersizing? I mean exercising. Exercising.”

  “Not celebrating anything. We just want one of your amazing creations. My favorite job is being your taste tester. Tell me what you’re working on.”

  “You’re a pastry chef?” Dalton asks as though he’s finally grasped something that makes sense to him here. A job. A profession. Something
he can relate to.

  “Not classically trained,” Millie says, waving the idea off. “I work at a bakery in town, and I’ve learned everything I can. Baking is my passion, but I’ve never really had the opportunity to get training so I’m learning as I go.”

  “She’s amazing,” I say. Because she is. “Training sometimes makes people think there are rules. Millie takes risks. She tries things most people wouldn’t.”

  “Sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t.” Millie blushes. “You remember that time I put olive paste in that frosting. I thought it would be savory.”

  “That was”—I search for the right words—“I haven’t eaten olives since. But there have been plenty of other things you’ve nailed. Give us something to taste test.”

  “Taste test,” Dalton coughs out. “I’m not much of a sweet tooth.”

  “You will be after this.” I grin, pulling him up to the big steel table where her creations are in various stages of being decorated. “What’s this one for?”

  “Word of mouth is really picking up. I did a wedding at the end of last month, and people loved the cake so much I got two more orders. This is for a bat mitzvah tomorrow. But this one here is an experiment. You should try it.”

  “Don’t tell me what’s in it,” I say, waving her off. “I want to guess. Dalton grab a fork.”

  The look on his face is priceless. It’s as if I asked him to cram his hand down the garbage disposal while I keep my finger on the switch.

  In true Millie fashion, she can’t contain her excitement as I take a huge bite. “Peach and bourbon,” she blurts out as she claps her hands together in excitement. “The bourbon is in the frosting and the cake. And I used a fresh peach puree.”

  I load my fork up and force a bite into Dalton’s mouth, treating him like a reluctant toddler who needs to be tricked into eating his peas.

  “Holy shit,” he says, swallowing the cake and snatching the fork so he can grab some more. “You made this?”

  “All by myself,” Millie teases. “Oh, this one next, you’ll love it.” She gestures for us to move down the prep table in front of another sample cake. “Strawberry lime. I know it sounds odd, but it works. There’s fresh strawberry jam mixed into the layers. The zest of the lime in the buttercream frosting has such a zip to it.”

  We’re three more cake samples in before Dalton finds the words he’s looking for. I like how this experience is silencing him. Speechless Dalton is a sight to behold. But when he does finally talk, I’m reminded how his mind works so differently than mine. “You could mass produce these recipes if you set it up right. Take your top-five most unique creations that sell best and build a brand around unexpected flavors that work together.”

  “He’s dead serious, isn’t he?” Millie asks, looking at me as though Dalton isn’t in the room at all.

  “He is,” I answer sadly. “He’s all about the dollars and cents.”

  “And the mansplaining? Is that something he’s known for too?”

  “Big time,” I say, widening my eyes and gesturing at him with my chin. “Always trying to dumb things down like I’m the one who has things backward. If he only knew.”

  “If I only knew?” Dalton says, chuckling. “I’m trying to help you. If you played your cards right you could get an actual storefront instead of this sketchy kitchen.”

  “This sketchy kitchen,” Millie argues, “is full of antiques. You couldn’t mass produce these ingredients and have the results come close to what I get from these appliances. You know bigger isn’t always better.”

  “Sure.” Dalton shrugs. “Unless you’re talking about bank accounts, stock holdings or”—he hesitates on the thought—“uh, shoe sizes.”

  “This guy,” Millie says, jabbing a finger into his chest. “He’s hilarious. I like him. Let’s have some more cake.”

  “Yes,” I say, dragging Dalton on to the next slice. I don’t have to pull too hard. He’s loving this more than I imagined. Must be a sugar high.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dalton

  I keep glancing at Penny from the corner of my eye as we ride home in silence. If you had told me when I woke up this morning my day would have been spent in a run-down employment agency and a makeshift bakery, I would’ve never believed it. The only thing more surprising than where I was is how I felt about it.

  “What do you think success looks like?” she asks me as though she’s been mulling the thought over the whole ride. I can spot a trap or a trick question from a mile away, but I still feel compelled to answer.

  “I don’t think you reach success,” I admit. “It’s a goal, a series of them, not a destination.”

  “So if I understand this right, you see it as something you can never actually get but you have to work for your whole life?”

  “I see it as something that keeps people driven. Moving forward. Getting somewhere.” We’re dancing around the issue. I get it. Her dad, Millie, even Penny, don’t get what it means to push through to the next level. But I know exactly what it takes.

  “Where’s happiness in the equation?”

  “I’m pretty damn happy when the checks come in.”

  “I’ve been in the audience when someone my father helps crosses the stage for a diploma when all odds said they never would. I’ve been in the room when someone comes back to tell my father how the job he got them saved their lives. He’s changed families, the trajectory of generations. There have been days I’ve delivered cake samples with Millie, and it’s brought a bride to tears because with everything there was to plan, finally something felt perfect. I’ve made jewelry for people out of the mementos of their loved ones who have died. Handing that over, witnessing that moment, that’s success to me. Does that make any sense at all to you?”

  Penny isn’t asking me because she’s worried about my eternal soul or anything. She’s asking because she needs to know that somewhere inside of me there is a shred of something redeemable. When I don’t answer, I know I extinguish something inside her, a misplaced hope.

  “Thanks anyway for trying to help my dad. I know he’s a lost cause. But it was a nice distraction.”

  “I wouldn’t say he’s a lost cause,” I counter, trying to give her something, anything, worthy of her hopefulness. “I’m still brainstorming.”

  “Really?” she asks, furrowing her brows as she looks up at me. We’re already close together as we sit in the back of the town car, but she grabs my arm and hugs it. I can feel her tight body pressed against me, and I know something is different. Her touch lingers. Her eyes rake over my face.

  If I were a better man, a more noble man, I would let this evening end the way so many others have, but I want her. More every time I’m with her. I want her so badly, I can’t remember any of the reasons why being with her isn’t a good idea.

  “Upstairs,” I whisper in a husky voice. It’s not a question but a command.

  Her eyes round, and I spend the longest moment of my life waiting for her answer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Penny

  I don’t say yes, but I don’t say no either. I put my hand in his and follow him to the door of his apartment.

  Okay, by almost all definitions that’s a yes.

  I don’t know what I expect. Will he haul me inside? Toss me up against the wall? Am I ready for that?

  He opens the door of his apartment and gives me a strange look, like he’s worried about how I’m feeling. I don’t want to try to justify why I’m here.

  He closes the door behind me. My mouth goes dry and I wring my hands in front of me. I’ve never done anything this wild before.

  “Come in and sit down,” Dalton says, offering me a drink.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I admit in a whoosh.

  Dalton pours himself a drink as well. “Penny, I don’t jump women. Nothing has to happen.”

  “So you’re okay if we don’t have sex?”

  “That’s not what I said. I want to light the firep
lace, strip you down one article of clothing at a time, and spend the night making your eyes roll back in your head from pleasure. Not taking it there is going to make trying to have any kind of conversation with you a real bitch, but I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  Oddly, I believe him. Dalton says it as it is. I accept the drink from him and move to the couch. I’m more turned on saying no to him than I’ve ever been saying yes to anyone else. It’s confusing, wonderful, and awful all at once. “I told you about my one-hand rule right?” I ask, feeling my body pulse with desire.

  “I can make your eyes roll with one hand if that helps,” he jokes, taking a swig of his drink. “This is a bad idea, Penny. Maybe you should go back to your place.”

  I stay where I am, take a gulp of my drink, then put it on the coffee table. “You think I’m a prude.”

  He groans. “I’m a class A asshole. Don’t adjust yourself to fit what I want.”

  A warmth spreads through me at his words. Some people can rattle on and on and say nothing. Others say very little, but everything they feel is in those few words. Dalton wants me, but he also wants to protect me—almost as if he thinks he’s not good enough for me. My heart breaks for the boy in him who probably always wondered if it was his fault everyone left him. Did he feel unlovable?

  “Could I have one kiss and that’s it?” It’s a ridiculous question, but I need to hear his response. I shouldn’t test this, but I want to prove something to him as much as to myself.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to light the fireplace. I want everything you described, but not tonight. Tonight I only want to know what it would be like to kiss you—really kiss you.”

  He loosens his tie as if it’s choking him. “I don’t know.”

  I shrug, embarrassed and disappointed all at once. “I’m sorry. This is dumb. I’m wasting your time. The women you’re used to—”