by Sara Whitney
That list, which stacked up like a mountain of evidence to him, did nothing to smooth the worried crease between her eyes. His funny, confident girl was braced for the worst, and he had the chance to be the guy who did right by her.
“Okay. Hang on.” He slipped out of bed to locate his jeans where he’d flung them the night before. He pulled the wallet out of his pocket and tossed it on her lap. “Here.”
She picked it up and smoothed her fingers over the worn brown leather. “And this means what?”
“Look inside.”
She frowned but did as he asked, rifling through the cash, the old receipts, the coffee shop loyalty cards that he’d never get around to filling up. And then she found it.
“Is this…?” She extracted the thin, crumpled material carefully, as if it were something ancient and precious. “You kept it?” She pressed the napkin flat against her bare legs and examined her crude sketch that had turned into the face of his business.
“I did. I tried so hard to hate it, but I couldn’t. In the end, I fell a little in love with it.”
To his dismay, the hope in her eyes dwindled. Shit. He was doing this wrong.
He sat next to her on the bed and reached for her hand. “It wasn’t just the drawing. It was the person who drew it. Her energy. Her talent. Her get-shit-done spirit.”
This time when she looked up, he saw the glint of tears in her eyes, and it killed him that all it took to undo her was to hear someone sing her praises.
“You believed in me,” he said. “But I don’t think you understand how much I believe in you, sweetheart. How much I believe in you and how much I love you.”
Her breathing hitched as a tear spilled from her lashes, and he leaned forward to kiss away the damp path it left behind. “I’m in love with you, Josie.” He cradled her face in his palms and smoothed his thumbs over her soft skin. “I’d love you even if you’d ended up with freckles. Now, is that enough proof, or do you still want my class ring?”
That drew a laughing sob from her, and she reached up to wrap her fingers around his. “I love you too,” she whispered. “I love you too.”
Lightness filled him, followed by a bone-deep sense of belonging. Too overcome to keep using his words, he wrapped her in his arms and crushed her to his chest. She tucked her head under his chin and squeezed back, and they simply held one another until his leg tingled where it was bent funny underneath her. Not that pins and needles were enough to get him to let her go.
She shifted first, twisting her neck to look up at him. “You know, boyfriends are allowed to say no to brunch provided they’re willing to bring their girlfriends pancakes in bed.”
Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Such simple words to fill him with such joy.
He brushed her hair back to kiss her temple. “Didn’t you yell at your friends yesterday for taking advantage of my generosity in the kitchen?”
“But your pancakes smelled so good! And unlike those freeloaders, I’ll totally repay you.” She batted her lashes at him and he laughed. As precious as her moments of vulnerability were, he really did live for her sass.
“Okay then. One stack of ‘Josie deserves good things’ pancakes coming up.”
She sat up and caught his hand as he walked past the bed. “You’re my best thing.” Sincerity vibrated through her as she brushed her lips over his knuckles, and his heart swelled.
“Ditto,” he said hoarsely, then set out to show her just how much he loved her, using a griddle, batter, and some syrup.
Twenty-Eight
Josie walked into work on Monday like a whole new woman.
“I am spectacular,” she whispered to herself, remembering the ferocity in Erik’s voice as he cradled her face and spoke those words to her. Not only did Erik say so—Erik, her boyfriend, who loved her—but more importantly, he showed her. He listened to her suggestions. He trusted her to make decisions. He absorbed her temper and dried her tears and kissed her senseless. That kind, funny, unexpected man looked at her and didn’t see the underachieving, unpredictable mess that everyone else in her life did. He looked at her with affection and respect. That kind of treatment would change any woman’s outlook on life.
The thought sent a shot of Fizzy Lifting Drink through her veins that propelled her through the lobby and up the elevator to her floor. But no Monday-morning good mood ever lasts, and within minutes of her arrival, terrible Val buzzed by her desk with a stack of papers that Josie recognized immediately.
“No way, Val.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
The woman’s lips thinned. “Somebody needs to itemize these vendor expense reports. Gil needs them by the end of the day.”
“And the person to do that would be Jennifer. Remember her? You and Gil hired her after I got promoted to managing my own projects. I believe she sits at the desk next to yours and shares a printer with you.” Josie kept all traces of sarcasm out of her aggressively pleasant voice, even giving Jennifer a little wave from across the room. The sturdy blonde cheerfully waved right back before returning to her computer.
Valerie flicked an annoyed finger on top of the stack of paperwork. “Jennifer’s busy drawing up a launch plan for the new restaurant from Chef Andre. She doesn’t have time for this kind of work.”
Chef Andre opening a new restaurant was news to Josie, and it really, really shouldn’t be.
“When I was promoted, we agreed that I’d be consulted on the assignment of all launch plans, and the new department assistant would be responsible for presenting itemized invoices to clients. Jennifer’s the new department assistant.” Josie’s voice was flat because she knew with a certainty what Val’s next argument would be.
Sure enough, Val tilted her head and spoke in a maddeningly patronizing tone. “But Jennifer’s so well suited to that kind of work. After all, she has a hospitality management degree from—”
Josie’s pleasant face fell away. No more. Thanks to an Erik-related self-esteem boost, she was done taking shit from people who disrespected her, starting with her mother. And if she was prepared to slay the ice queen the next time they met, then she could certainly handle Val, a mere snow cone pretender.
“I swear to God, if the next words out of your mouth are about Jennifer’s academic credentials…” For a moment her worst Josie instincts buzzed to life and whispered to her to grab those invoices and shove them into the shredder. But in the next moment, she drew a deep breath and remembered Erik’s steady blue eyes on her, the press of his fingers against her skin, his low voice in her ear reciting all the ways he found her valuable. Found her worthy.
Just like that, the buzzing stopped, and her impulse to create a fireable scene faded.
“Valerie,” she began, and look at her being all adult and not calling her “terrible Val” like she wanted to, “I have been with this company for six years now, and I’d like you to stop referring to my lack of a college degree as a liability.”
Valerie’s nostrils pinched. “You don’t need to be so sensitive. Nobody here cares about that.” She sniffed.
Josie offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but showed plenty of teeth. “I don’t care, and Gil doesn’t care. Our many satisfied clients don’t care. The only person who seems to care around here is you. But you know what, Valerie?”
She lowered her voice, and Valerie, looking a little wide-eyed at Josie’s unexpected forcefulness, leaned in to catch her next words. “I don’t care what you think,” she said. “I only care that you respect my position in this company and that you give this paperwork to Jennifer while I take over planning Andre’s launch.”
Val’s mouth dropped open. Snapped shut. Dropped open again. “Well. Well, I’ll…” She gripped the papers to her chest and looked around the open-plan workspace, as if to see if anyone had witnessed their interaction. “I’ll just see if I can find Jennifer then.”
Valerie started to back away, and Josie offered another smile, a real one this time.
“I think you’ll find her
four feet away from your office chair.” Josie gestured grandly at Jennifer. “Oh, and Valerie? If you ever cut me out of a meeting with my own clients in the future, I’ll tell Gil who really forgot to set the brake on his golf cart just before it ended up in the water hazard at last year’s company outing.” Josie laughed lightly when Val’s face drained of color. “But I’m sure that won’t be necessary. We’re all on the same team here, right?”
Three hours later, Josie was elbow deep in possibilities for the Andre restaurant launch, which Jennifer had gratefully handed over, when the chirp of her desk phone pulled her away from her media-outreach calendar. A glance at the caller ID had her leaning back in her chair with a chuckle, stretching her legs underneath her desk and getting ready for a lengthy schmooze.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite newsman. How ya been?”
“Peachy. And how’s my favorite redhead?” Yousef Bahar had the booming voice of a 1960s anchorman, but he’d made a career for himself behind the camera as a news producer. What a waste of a set of pipes.
“Oh, I’m feisty as ever. How can I help residents of Chicago be better informed today?”
She and Yousef had worked together on and off over the years after they met as baby employees, her in her first months at Dynamic and him completing a newsroom internship at the local NBC affiliate. Since then, he’d landed a sweet producing gig at the city’s most-watched morning show, and he occasionally called her for help booking guests on specific topics.
“You can remind me of the name of that venue you used for that gala a few years ago.”
“As always, your attention to detail is impressive,” she deadpanned, casting her eyes toward the ceiling as she racked her brain for which event she’d planned that would’ve stuck with Yousef. “Are you thinking about the converted firehouse from the Susan G. Komen event last winter?”
“Yes! Do you have a contact there? I want to include it as a featured spot in our Chicago wedding special next week.”
She was already scrolling through her database. “Sure thing.” She found the name he wanted and rattled it off, but before they ended the call, she was struck with a thought. “Hey, this wedding special. Are you highlighting different vendors?”
“Yep. We’re doing a best-of-the-season roundup.”
“Including bakeries?”
“I mean, the cake’s only the best part of the wedding,” Yousef said.
She tapped a nail on her desk, briefly debating the ethics of using personal connections for her boyfriend. Then again, if she didn’t use her contacts to make Erik a success, what was she even doing here? “You got room for one more?”
Josie bit her tongue as she walked past the decal-less van parked behind the restaurant. One disagreement at a time. Before she pushed through the back door, she fluffed her hair at the roots, trying to restore a little bounce at the end of the workday, and reviewed the arguments she’d organized in her head on the way over. She could do this.
Inside, she found her man holding a huge metal bowl, his massive forearms flexing and bunching as he worked a whisk. Her cheerful greeting died on her lips with a “Guh.”
He looked up, and his frown of concentration dissolved into a smile. The rest of the world might get a glower, but she got the teeth and the eye crinkles and the breathtaking beauty of his face when it lit up to greet her.
The thought sent a bolt of shyness racing through her. For some reason she was the one he allowed into his innermost world, and now that she was there, she was terrified of screwing up. Screwing up like she was potentially about to do.
He set the bowl down and beckoned her toward him.
“Isn’t this a health code violation?” she asked as he wrapped his huge hand around her neck.
“I don’t see the health inspector here.” He pulled her in for a kiss, his tongue sweeping across her lips until she opened her mouth to give him access, twining herself around him like a vine and only worrying for a split second that he might have flour on his apron that would get all over her silk blouse. He was worth a dry-cleaning bill.
When she pulled away, her eyes fell on the mixing bowl he’d set down. “Oooh, don’t move.” She grabbed the DSLR camera she kept stashed in the bakery kitchen and snapped a few shots of the batter-covered whisk resting against the side of the shiny bowl. “Perfect.”
“What’s with all the pictures? I thought the website was finished.” He picked up the bowl and resumed his task but kept his gaze on her as she worked. A few strands of hair had slipped from his elastic, and he looked every inch the rock-star baker she could market him as. She held up the camera and snapped a handful of shots, then tucked it away before he could object.
“It is. This is for a special project. You’ll see. And speaking of.” No time like the present. “I’ve got a lead on an amazing opportunity to get the word out about your new business.”
He grunted and maintained the pace of his whisking, which she took as a signal to continue.
“So I’ve got a friend who books segments for Wake Up, Windy City!, and they’re planning a week’s worth of wedding content with a different topic every morning. One of those days is what’s on trend with wedding cakes this year. How do you feel about showcasing one of yours?”
He frowned and stopped to add a little sugar to the bowl before resuming his motions. Damn, no wonder he never got tired when he planted his forearms on either side of her head and stroked into her until they were both panting and out of their minds. Her cheeks colored at the memory of their particularly energetic session that morning, which had carried over into the shower until the hot water gave out. But that’s not why she was there. She shook off her sex trance, and when she did, she saw the smile had dropped off his face.
Of course. She was talking about television to Erik, for God’s sake. She held up her hands soothingly. “You won’t be on-air or anything. The plan is for the host to talk to Darlene from Chez Bakes since that’s the most in-demand shop in town. They’ll just put up graphics with the bakery names for the rest of the cakes as they pan across. They actually had a full roster already, but I talked him into squeezing your cake onto the stage too.”
His whisking had slowed. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, so she rushed onward. “It’s win-win! You get to show off your cake and your bakery name, but you won’t have to come bail me out of jail for murdering every woman who sees you on TV and tries to steal you away.” More stoniness. “Because you won’t be on TV.” Not even a flicker of facial-muscle movement. “Just your cake. On TV.”
So much for projecting breezy confidence to get him to agree. She’d trailed off like the dying whistle of a teapot taken off the heat.
He set the big metal bowl down with a clunk. “TV exposure is good.”
It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t bother answering as he worked through the proposition on his own.
“And I don’t have to talk on camera,” he said slowly, still frowning.
“Correct. This will be great for you.” Then she said in a singsong voice, “People will visit the website and learn about next week’s grand opening…”
He looked around the shop, at the shelves waiting to be filled with product, at the room beyond waiting to be filled with customers. She didn’t doubt that he knew what the correct answer was, just like he knew he needed to put the damn magnet on the van, but she couldn’t predict where his stubborn self would fall on this.
“Erik.” She set her hand on his flour-covered wrist. “Do you trust me?”
She held her breath until he grunted and snatched the bowl up again and resumed his motion.
“You know I do.” And then, so quietly she could barely hear it over the scrape of this whisk against the bowl: “Thanks for setting it up.”
Twenty-Nine
Erik felt like he was heading to an execution. His execution. And he was doing it willingly, although he wasn’t sure what percent was for his business and what percent was for his girlfriend. Agreei
ng was smart on both counts, even if the very act of stepping inside a TV studio made his palms sweat.
There were cameras and cords and lights and people everywhere, all pointed at flimsy sets that looked substantial when you watched from home but would probably topple if a guy like him brushed past too aggressively. He felt like a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, as Pops used to say.
He followed in Josie’s wake as she grinned and waved and Josie-ed her way through the building, apparently on a first-name basis with every last person working under the roof at 7:00 a.m. on a Tuesday. How in the world had he landed himself the grown-up equivalent of the prom queen? He trudged behind her with the temperature-controlled cake transportation box he’d made out of corrugated cardboard and sheets of insulation with ice packs stashed inside. A little cash at Lowe’s would allow you to build a container that would keep a cake from sweating even at the most humid of outdoor weddings. Or in this case, under fearsome studio lights.
If only he’d made a box for himself. By the time they arrived at the kitchen set where the segment would be shot, moisture had collected between his shoulder blades under the white chef’s jacket. The sweat wasn’t from the lights though; his own nerves were launching his body temperature into overdrive. Christ, would this marketing shit ever get easier? Could they just fast-forward to the part where word of mouth was enough to keep customers coming through the door?
“I regret everything,” he muttered, eyeballing the counter where he’d be setting up his cake next to three more that were already in place.
“This is going to take you to the next level.” She squeezed his bicep, then squealed when she caught sight of someone over his shoulder. “Be right back!” She ran to hug a guy in, yep, an expensive suit. Her appreciation for men in ties was going to give him an ulcer.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
The snide tone hit Erik like a ball-peen hammer to the eardrums, and he turned away from Josie’s animated conversation to face his old boss.
