by Alison Kent
Before Brooklyn could respond, Dolly stepped around the counter and began walking with her to her car. “We’re having a bake sale and carnival on Friday night. Why don’t you come? We’re raising money to get the bell in the steeple fixed.”
Brooklyn hesitated. She wasn’t a church member, though she did attend with Jean. And the idea of spending more time with Callum’s mother . . . “Oh, I don’t know—”
“Yes, Shirley will be there, but she’s working the cakewalk so she’ll be too busy to care what you’re doing. I could use some help at the refreshment station. We’ll be selling Two Owls brownies along with some goodies from Butters Bakery. There’s a dessert competition. I think Callum may have entered his chocolates. Orville and Merrilee Gatlin will be judging.
“Anyhow,” she said, waving a hand as she walked, “Mitch and Kaylie do the baking and packaging for all the church functions, so I let them off the hook for having to sell. Say you’ll come. You can take home any brownies we have left at the end of the night. They’ll be wrapped up and ready to freeze.”
“Oh, I don’t need that kind of temptation looking at me every time I open the freezer door,” Brooklyn said, laughing.
Dolly joined in. “Why do you think I’m sending them home with you instead of taking them home with me?”
“What about me?” Grady asked. “My mom’s got lots of room in her freezer.”
“Are you and Quinn coming to the carnival?” Dolly asked.
“I think so. As long as she gets off work in time.”
“If she doesn’t, you call me.” Dolly wrapped an arm around him and hugged. “Mitch and I can pick you up on the way.”
“Sweet,” he said, then turned to the trunk of Brooklyn’s car. “Let me go get the handcart. I’ll be right back.”
“He’s a good boy,” Dolly said, watching him jog back toward the youth annex building. “Proof right there that a single parent can do just as good a job as two.”
Uh-oh. “How much of my conversation with Shirley did you hear?”
“Enough to tell you to ignore most of what she says. Callum’s a fine man. A wonderful father. And sometimes I think he’s a better son than Shirley Drake deserves.”
“I’m not going to touch that with a pole of any length,” Brooklyn said, though she feared she was beginning to agree.
“Good,” Dolly said. “Because here comes Grady. The carnival opens at seven, so be here at six if you can. That gives us plenty of time to set up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Brooklyn opened the front door to Bliss Thursday evening, the store was empty. Callum stood behind the display case with Lena going over a printout of the month’s sales by individual candy. They did this every other week, and should’ve done it on Monday, but the holiday weekend had thrown off more than his twice-monthly check of what flavors were selling best.
Some combinations were instant hits—Cookies and Cream, Spiced Praline, Caramel Rum—and he kept those in stock. Others, like the ones made with crushed sunflower seeds and honey, or orange and lavender . . . those had a much smaller, though devoted, following. His artisan chocolates had a three-week shelf life, but sold out long before, requiring he plan his schedule in advance. Having the ingredients on hand when he needed them was how he managed his inventory’s rotation.
He bought his honey from the Gardens on Three Wishes Road, his organic butter from a farm in Bastrop, his fruit from local markets. He did what he could to support the Hill Country economy, but most ingredients required he do his shopping elsewhere.
Which was why he and Addy had gone to Austin Monday. Some of the more unconventional items he had shipped direct. Some he bought in specialty stores there. He liked picking out individual vanilla beans. The same with cardamom pods. And he was ridiculously picky when it came to rum.
This week he’d made two of Addy’s favorites, Strawberry Shortcake and Toffee Crunch, and that after making the candy he’d had her take to Brooklyn. He hadn’t made just the one, but he had gone through three batches of filling before he’d gotten the taste right. Then he’d made a full tray, using each row of the mold as a sandbox to get the look he wanted for the shell.
The browns and reds and copper. Spatters of liquid cocoa butter versus airbrushed iridescent powder versus random swipes of color with his fingertip. He’d spent a good four hours working to make the perfect candy to give her, his mind on his task but also on his life, his daughter’s life, and where Brooklyn might fit in—and he had no idea why; she wasn’t sticking around.
He did know where the inspiration had come from: the time they’d spent together on Monday. The bookstore. The ice cream. The park. He’d expected the day with Addy to be like all their others—full of nonstop nonsense and exhausting. Not that he would’ve changed it for the world, but adding Brooklyn to the mix had been damn great.
He’d actually expected to hear from her before now. Addy had confirmed delivery of the candy box on Tuesday, and it had been all he could do not to grill her that afternoon and Wednesday afternoon and even after school today about her teacher’s reaction.
He’d thought Brooklyn would call during lunch, or come by after school. He’d thought she’d send a note home with Addy, a thank-you, or a fuck-off. He wasn’t sure which he deserved.
Giving a woman a box of candy was one thing. Making a batch of candy with her in mind was another. But what he’d done . . . he’d shown a vulnerability he didn’t like admitting to. He’d pushed himself into a part of her life where he didn’t belong.
And why? Because she made his daughter happy? Because she made him happy? Made him wish what the old woman in the park had seen was true?
The door closed behind her, the canned jazz piped over the speakers barely registering over the beat of his heart. He held Brooklyn’s gaze as he said, “Lena—”
“Sure thing, boss,” she replied before he could ask her to check on Addy. She took the tablet and stylus from his hand, tucked the printout beneath, and left the register area, backing her way through the exit door into the rear hallway.
Callum blew out a loud puff of breath, not sure he was ready for this. Not sure what this was. Not sure he shouldn’t just treat Brooklyn Harvey like he would any customer and stop trying to make something out of this attraction that left him bulldozed.
And . . . that wasn’t going to happen. He looked from the hallway door to the floor, then with his hands at his hips, looked at her. He did so just in time to watch her tuck her hair behind her ear and tilt her head, frowning as she bent to look more closely into the case.
“Hey,” he said because he was lame.
“Hi,” she said in return.
“Are you here about Addy? Or . . .”
“I need a gift. For a friend.” She walked along the front of the display case, looking at the chocolates, ignoring him. “It’s her birthday. I thought since you do a good job of matching your patrons with your wares, you might suggest something.”
Were they playing a game? Pretending she was a customer and he was a chocolatier? Was she digging to find out how he’d known to make her the candy he was thinking of calling Java Express? Not that it needed a name. He wasn’t planning on making it again.
“Sure. I’ll give it a shot. What does she like?”
“She’s not much for spicy, or savory, at least when it comes to dessert, but she loves sweets of all kinds. Fruits are good. She makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world, and brings them to work at least once a week.”
“She’s a teacher then?”
Brooklyn nodded. “She was. She’s retired, though she still considers the school her second home. She taught third grade. And as much as she loved the job, that age, those kids . . . they drove her absolutely nuts. Oh, and she doesn’t like nuts.”
“Got it,” he said, thinking of what might work. “Anything else?”
“She definitely enjoys her margaritas. And her White Russians. So something along those lin
es? I know you had some chocolates with alcohol.”
“I do, yeah.”
“What about something that resembles a coffee cherry? Maybe an iridescent sort of mulberry color? Filled with a ganache flavored with, I’m thinking, espresso, crushed beans, and coffee liqueur?”
His throat was tight when he said, “Brooklyn—”
“Why, Callum?” she asked, looking up at him at last, the glass case between them, her eyes behind her glasses as curious as they were torn. “That’s all I want to know. It was beautiful. A work of art. And it tasted like the best part of every morning. It tasted like . . .” She waved her hand. “You need to offer that one along with the rest of these so everyone can buy one.”
“I can’t,” he said, tensing up.
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Because it was for you.”
“The first one, sure—”
“No. I don’t have the mold anymore. I didn’t write down the recipe.”
“You can re-create the recipe. You can buy more molds.”
“No. Not that one. Just . . . no,” he said, not even sure why he was so adamant. Her candy—and it was hers, he would always think of it that way—would be a great addition to the current collection. She was right. But he couldn’t make it again without thinking about her. And he didn’t want to put himself through that on a regular basis. “But I’m happy to put together a selection for your friend. Do you want four? Six? Twenty?”
“Six will be fine,” she said.
He nodded and grabbed a box, slipping his hand inside a disposable prep glove before reaching into the display case. “The tequila and lime I told you about the other day. The raspberry caramel. This one is Bourbon Peach. Lemon Curd. Banana Pudding. Punch Drunk, which has a sort of sangria center. That’s six.”
“And I’ll take one of the Queen Cayenne for me. No. I’ll take six.”
He reached for a second box of the same size and tucked the pyramids inside. Then handed her the bag with both boxes and rang up her purchase.
“You didn’t charge me enough,” she said, holding tight to her credit card as he tried to take it from her hand.
“The Queen Cayennes are on the house,” he told her.
“No,” she said, and removed it from the bag. “I can’t take it. Not if you don’t let me pay.”
“Fine,” he said, not in the mood to argue, and especially not with her. He added the second box to her ticket and ran her card for the purchase. “Is that it? No chocolate bars from Java, Ghana, Madagascar, or Ecuador?”
“This should do me. Until next time,” she said, and reached for her card.
He held on to it as she tugged, holding her gaze as well, his gut tightening as he asked, “Will there be a next time?”
“Are we talking about me running out of chocolate?” she asked, and he finally let go. “Or are you asking if I’ll need another book? Another ice cream cone? A walk in the park? A candy that looks like a coffee cherry made just for me to commemorate the day?”
“You’re overthinking things, Brooklyn,” he said, pulling off his glove and tossing it in the trash. He should’ve known she’d try to make something out of what for him was nothing but a thank-you for the day. Right. That’s all it was.
“Callum,” she said, then stopped to clear her throat. “You took Adrianne to your parents’ to spend the night so you could make me a chocolate you’re not even going to sell in your shop. How exactly am I overthinking things?”
“You just are,” he said, reaching beneath the counter for a clear glass mug, then stepping to the hot chocolate maker, nodding toward the nearest of the bistro tables set along the front wall for her to sit. She gave him a quick roll of her eyes, but she did.
Next time. Hell, how was he supposed to answer her question when he didn’t even know what he’d meant asking her that? Why hadn’t he left her comment alone? She was his daughter’s teacher. She was leaving her job at the end of the year for the Italian Riviera.
Could there be a worse choice to make than starting up with someone who wouldn’t be around to finish things? Even seeing her while she was still here . . . that wasn’t smart, either. Monday at the park with Addy had proved that. His little girl was already nuts about her teacher.
To make Brooklyn a more important part of Addy’s life than she already was, then rip her away?
He set the mug on a saucer, added a spoon, and carried the drink to her table. She smiled as he got close, and he thought it was too late to be worrying about choices. This one seemed as if it had been ripped out of his hands.
“What is this?” she asked, leaning close to the mug he set down and breathing deep of the rising steam. “It smells . . . spicy. But a sweet spice, not hot like the cayenne. And not cinnamon, either.”
He enjoyed the way she worked to figure things out. “It’s a white hot chocolate, with orange and cardamom.”
“White cocoa?” she asked, and he nodded as she brought the cup to her mouth and sipped, closing her eyes as she swallowed.
He watched her throat work, watched her smile widen, and a dimple he’d never noticed before pulled at the right side of her mouth. Watched her lashes flutter, and her bright blue eyes sparkle behind the frames of her glasses that made him think of Clark Kent.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” she said, looking at him over the rim of the mug. “But your making that chocolate was just—”
“Did you have fun?” he asked. He was done talking about the chocolate, thinking about the chocolate. He was this close to being sorry that he’d made the chocolate, except that wasn’t the truth at all. “On Monday?”
“I did, and would love for there to be a next time,” she said, her expression softening as she looked down at her drink. “It was nice to do something different. I’m not in the habit of eating ice cream while walking to the park. In February.”
“It was a little chilly,” he said, relaxing. “Though you couldn’t tell it by Addy.”
“I’m so glad you’re the one who’ll be dealing with that particular sixteen-year-old and not me.”
“Don’t. Just don’t,” he said, slumping down in the too-small bistro chair, and with legs spread, rubbing both hands down his face.
She tossed back her head and laughed. “There’s a reason I teach kindergarten and not high school. That right there is part of it. I prefer a hormone-free educational experience. There’s so much extra room in their brains for things like spelling.”
He huffed, and arched a brow. “Seeing the shorthand teenagers use for texting, not sure you’re doing such a good job.”
“That’s hardly fair. But now that you mention it, kindergarten means I don’t have to deal with smartphones, either. For the most part anyway.” She picked up her spoon, stirred the chocolate, then licked away the foam before resting it on the saucer’s edge. “I’ve had two students bring one to class. For emergencies only, of course. Or so claimed their parents, who didn’t like me asking if there wasn’t a way to lock down access to games.”
“You can do that with apps and profiles, yeah,” he said, lacing his hands behind his head. “I’ve been known to let Addy play on mine when we’re stuck somewhere and she’s bored. You know, modern parenting. Letting the electronics do the work.”
“You realize that not once on Monday did she even ask to see your phone. Even when you used the alarm to give her fifteen more minutes to play. I’d say you’re managing that temptation well.”
He snorted and leaned forward. “You weren’t there for the ride home. She was at her exhausted, grumpy, grimy, should-have-taken-a-nap six-year-old best. I almost gave it to her just to shut her up, but the mood she was in, I wouldn’t have put it past her to toss it out her window.”
She smiled at him over the rim of her mug as she lifted it. “Sounds like a sixteen-year-old in the making.”
“You’re just determined to ruin my day, aren’t you?” he asked, then heard the word
s echo back. “Shit, Brooklyn. I didn’t mean that at all. Not about you. It’s just . . . the idea of being a father of a teenage girl is something I’d like to put off thinking about for the seven years it will take to happen.”
“Don’t forget about the Harley. And the long hair. And the tattoos. She’s going to be the most popular girl in school because you’re going to be the coolest dad.” She sipped at her cocoa, then gestured toward him. “The tattoo on the back of your neck. The text. What does it say?”
He undid the top three buttons of his coat and opened it, pivoting in his seat and tugging down the collar so she could read the words that had been his creed for six years. Words he said to himself when he thought he’d hit a breaking point. When he thought he was all done.
“Hold on a sec,” she said, the feet of her chair scraping on the floor as she moved to get closer, her fingers on his skin pushing aside his hair, and causing parts of him to tighten in response. She smelled like soap and something soft but not quite floral. Something green. Something nice.
“ ‘He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.’ ” Once she’d read the words, she sat again, and he heard the clink of her mug on the saucer.
“It’s Nietzsche,” he said. And then he turned back around, watched her gaze follow the movement of his hands as he buttoned his coat. “And it’s for Addy.”
She lifted her gaze from his chest to meet his. “Is it true? You can bear the how because you have the why?”
If she knew the things he’d done to make sure no one could take his daughter from him . . . “No question.”
“And if you didn’t have her? Would you be here now?”
“Here in Hope Springs?” he asked, though he knew it wasn’t what she wanted to know.
“If you didn’t have Adrianne, would you have left the motorcycle club?”
“Honestly?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d like to think I would’ve gotten out before it was too late. Because it was always going to be too late. The minute I patched in . . . I was looking for something. For myself, maybe. And I wasn’t smart about it. I thought . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought, what I was doing. I do know that I was a fuckup of the first degree until that girl was born.”
