by Nancy Warren
“Yes,” she said, bubbles of excitement rising behind her sternum. “Yes, it could.”
Karen opened a drawer and withdrew a notepad, then she hit a few buttons on her computer. She scribbled a few lines and passed Chelsea the paper. “That’s the address and the name of the Realtor who’s handling the property. Why don’t you check it out? I have good instincts about people. I think you and I are going to get on fine.”
“Me, too.”
“Great. You’ll get to meet Laurel on Saturday. She’s the cake-maker. See if you two like each other. Who knows? Maybe we’ll all end up working together.”
Chelsea left the meeting filled with excitement. As she walked by the front desk, her empty tray awaited her, not as much as a stray crumb left.
The receptionist was on the phone, but when Chelsea walked by she gave a thumbs-up sign and mouthed, “Fantastic.”
She knew she was a good cook, but it was nice to have strangers taking such obvious pleasure in her food.
She had to admit, David had been right. If she hadn’t come ready with her list of menus and what looked like an operating business, Karen might never have taken her seriously. The thought of catering all the weddings for If You Can Dream It was amazing. The weddings would cover a huge proportion of her business.
She was certain of one thing: if she could pull off the catering event on Saturday, she was on her way.
And that much closer to being free of David.
David. She didn’t even want to think about him. And she wasn’t rushing home to make him dinner.
There were a lot of old friends she hadn’t had a chance to see since she returned home. Having spent a few minutes this morning on Facebook and the phone, she’d arranged to see a few of her old girlfriends tonight for dinner.
Staying away from David had nothing to do with her sudden urge to organize a girls’ night out.
Nothing at all.
19
DAVID HAD NO IDEA HOW to handle the situation he now found himself in because nothing like it had ever happened to him before. He had a gorgeous, sexy woman staying in his house, one with whom he’d had the best sex of his life, and he was trying to figure out how to ease out of the sex part.
Without hurting her feelings.
At least she had no idea he’d freaked out last night.
Why hadn’t he kept it zipped? He’d have saved himself a world of trouble. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her naked and how she’d felt in his arms last night, the little noises she made, the French phrases she’d whispered in his ear. He didn’t even speak French and they’d practically made him explode. Except that last one. Je t’aime.
The one thing he knew for damn sure was that he couldn’t go home for another one of those cozy dinners tonight or all his determination to keep his distance would dissolve like her amazing food on his tongue. He’d phone her, tell her he wouldn’t be home for dinner. That would be a good start to his mission to ease out of sleeping with Chelsea.
But when he called, no one was home. The thought that she was probably at the market buying ingredients for another intimate dinner for two filled him with a combination of remorse and panic. He called her cell and when she picked up he could tell from the background noise she wasn’t in any market shopping for food.
“Hey,” he said easily, “what’s up?”
“I’m out with some friends.” From the noise there seemed to be a lot of them. There was a silence. She didn’t invite him to meet up with them, he noted. Fine. Good.
“I was checking you weren’t cooking tonight. I’m probably going to play squash and grab a bite.”
“No. I’m not cooking tonight.”
“Okay, then. Have a good one,” he said, feeling suddenly foolish.
“You, too.”
So, she wasn’t home cooking for him. This was excellent. He should be elated. Why did he have a bad feeling in his gut all of a sudden?
Trying to put all thoughts of Chelsea and women in general out of his mind, he met up with his buddy to play some hard, sweaty squash where the rules were simple, and when you left the court you left everything about the game behind you.
WHEN CHELSEA SNAPPED her phone shut, she glanced up to find Sarah’s gaze on her, too sharp and too smart. “Uh-oh,” she said.
“What?” she snapped. “What do you mean, ‘uh-oh?’”
“I’ve known you for half our lives, kiddo. You slept with him, didn’t you?”
There were a dozen women crowded around the table, friends from high school and college. The drinks were flowing and so was the laughter and chatter. She leaned across the table to where Sarah sat and said, “I can’t tell you. It’s about your brother.”
The other woman made a sign—her thumb dragging across her chin and pointing to the back—that took her back years. They were in high school again, and Sarah had big news to share, or wanted some private girl talk. Her best friend got up and headed to the restroom. She gave Sarah a minute then got up and followed her to the bathroom.
But they weren’t in high school anymore. So, when she entered the ladies’ room and found Sarah standing beside the sinks waiting, she said, “I am not discussing this with you. He’s your brother. It’s too weird.”
“But you’re my best friend. We tell each other everything.”
“I know. I hate not talking about stuff with you. I really need to vent.”
“I need to talk to you, too.” Sarah thought for a moment. “I know. We’ll pretend it’s not my brother. Let’s call this guy Frederick and you can tell me all about him.”
“Frederick?”
“First name I thought of.”
“I am sleeping with Frederick.” She breathed out slowly. Sister or no sister, she had to squeal. “And last night it was amazing. Honestly the best sex of my life. I think he felt something, too…well, he must have. So we’re curled up in the afterglow, you know?”
“I’ll try and remember that far back in history to when I last had sex, but I get the point.”
“I’m just feeling absolutely amazing, still a little tingly, like maybe we could take a little break and go for round two, and I whisper, Je t’aime. Not even thinking. It just slipped out. And suddenly Frederick goes batshit on me. He gets this terrified look on his face. Makes up some excuse about having to go back to work.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’ve been staying with the man for weeks and he never had to go back to work once he got home. Not one time. And suddenly he’s gone. Doesn’t get home until after midnight.”
“Are you kidding me? You love my brother?”
“I didn’t say I love you. I said Je t’aime.”
“Right. Stupid me. It only counts in English.”
She put her hands over her eyes. “Oh, what have I done? I told him I love him and he ran a mile.”
“Cretin.”
“We need a stronger word for guys like your brother. I mean Frederick.” She banged her fist against the counter. “I could kill him. We’ve been fighting this attraction since I first moved in. And then suddenly, yesterday, for no good reason he went out of his way to seduce me. And then this?”
“Even for Frederick, who, let’s face it, has the maturity of a toddler, this is pathetic.”
“I know. We’ve been living together like friends. Besides, he heard me on the phone to Philippe and figured he was my boyfriend. I didn’t let on that Philippe and I are only friends.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. I think I might have messed things up.” Sarah said, “I had no idea. Dav—Frederick called me yesterday and started talking about Philippe. I was in a bad mood, I’ve got man problems of my own, frankly, and I was busy at work and he asked me something about Philippe and I said, ‘Who? You mean Chelsea’s gay friend Philippe?’” She made a face. “And usually I’m so smart. I really screwed up. Sorry.”
“So that’s why he came home looking so cheerful.” She scowled as another part of David’s infamy came back to h
er. “Oh, yeah. And he brought me flowers.”
“Pig. He was so planning to get into your pants.”
“And then once I blurted out a few words in the heat of passion, did he talk about it? Give me a chance to explain? No. He runs a mile.”
“What did you do after he ran like the scared little baby he is? Did you empty all the trash in the middle of his bed?” she asked with glee.
“No.”
“Something better? Smear peanut butter inside all his fancy Italian loafers?”
“I made his bed and cleaned up the kitchen. Then I went into my own room and put myself to bed.”
“You are so much better a person than I am.”
“True.”
Sarah fake-slugged her but there was real sympathy in her eyes. “What are you going to do now?”
“Stay out of his way, do a great job at the wedding this weekend and move out as soon as possible.”
“Move out? Where are you going to go?”
“I looked at that café the wedding planner put me on to, turns out it has a small apartment above the premises. The last renter used it for storage, but I could live there until I get my business off the ground. It’s small and not exactly glamorous, but the location’s perfect. Soon I’ll have my own business up and running in a good commercial premises and a new place to live.” She smiled cheerfully. “I only have to get through the next couple of days.”
But Sarah could see through her act. “Perfect would be if somebody took out my brother’s heart and replaced it with a working model.” She scowled, then brightened. “I know, we could sneak home and pour itching powder in all his tighty whities.”
“Not until after I move out.” They exchanged glances in the mirror. “Then you can do anything you want.”
A young woman came in to use the facilities so Chelsea took a lip gloss out of her bag and looked into the mirror to apply it.
“Speaking of the wedding, Becca Sloane thanked me for recommending you. She loves your menu. Giving her and her mother those tasting samples was genius.”
“Good. I have a lot riding on this wedding. I really want them to be happy.”
“Don’t worry. What can go wrong?”
She didn’t even want to think of all the things her imagination could come up with. So she changed the subject. “How about you? How’s it going with Biker Boy?”
Sarah fiddled with her hair in the mirror, rearranging the black curls around her face. “I want you to come with me this weekend. I’m going to his yoga class Saturday morning. Will you? I feel like I need the moral support.”
“I can’t. The wedding’s Saturday and I’ll be working all day. Besides, you’ve been to his yoga class a few times.”
“Yeah, but the guy’s right. I see him in his yoga clothes bending his gorgeous body and I just want to crawl over to him and lick every inch of him. I’m as bad as all those women he moved from California to get away from.”
“No, you’re not. You’re in a budding relationship and you have feelings for the guy. Plus, the fact that he’s not trying to get into your pants is making you want him. Which is a good thing, right?”
“I guess.”
She hid her smile. It was nice to see Sarah so interested in a man. It had been a while. And Chelsea liked the sound of this one. “Are you bringing him to the wedding?”
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“Absolutely. So I can check him out.”
“He’ll probably show up in biking shorts. That’s the kind of guy he is.”
“I’m sure he won’t.”
“Maybe I’ll ask him. It’s not like we’ve had any real dates. Coffee after yoga a couple of times. Then he bikes off and leaves me so frustrated I want to eat the coffee cup.” She sighed. “Why can’t men be easy to understand? More like women?”
“I wish.”
Sarah put an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s go back to the table and I’ll buy you a drink.” As they left the washroom and went back to their friends, she continued. “We’ll give up men and move in together. You’ll cook, we’ll become more and more successful and we’ll live happily ever after.”
“What about sex?”
She sighed. “I didn’t say it was a perfect plan.”
20
WHY COULDN’T WOMEN be more like men? David fumed. Men were simple, direct, easy to understand.
If he’d done something to piss off a male roommate he’d get a direct response. Say he’d left the place a mess, he’d expect something like, “Do your dishes, asshole.” That he could understand. Easy. Out in the open, clear communication.
But did Chelsea bother with anything clear and direct? No.
Did she come out and say, “Don’t have sex and walk out on me, asshole?” So he could apologize and they could move on? No. She did not.
She acted like the entire incident had never happened. She was cheerful as always, and treated him exactly like a platonic friend and roommate. The only change in their routine, the only way she let him know that she was pissed off with him, was that the cozy dinners had stopped. She said she was too busy getting ready for the big gig on Saturday to cook, but he knew better. She was punishing him, denying him food the way, he supposed, he was denying her sex.
Not that he could be sure of this, because she hadn’t said anything.
He should be jumping for joy. She’d got the message. He was up for casual sex, but none of that je t’aime stuff.
Except that now that she’d accepted there was nothing between them at all, getting her naked again was pretty much all he thought about. He was becoming embarrassingly obsessed with his roommate. He watched her move when they were home at the same time, which was rarely if either of them could help it, and he recalled the way her limbs had wrapped themselves around him in bed.
She’d taste a morsel of food, smile approvingly and all he could think about was her lips on his body.
Being in his own home was such torture he was certain that he was being punished. If only he’d never made up the stupid fiancée in the first place. Hell, if his company didn’t want him to be a VP without having a suitable partner, then maybe he didn’t want to be VP at this firm.
What business was it of his company’s whom he married or if he married?
Nothing more had been said about him being made a VP in any case, and he didn’t think he could stand this arrangement much longer. He was going to have to find his own place. He’d made an agreement that Chelsea could stay in his town house, and he was going to stick to his promise, but he couldn’t stay here night after night and torture himself thinking of her lush body in the next room. A man could only take so much.
Saturday, while she was catering the wedding, he’d start looking for a short-term rental.
Even as the idea took hold he was conscious of a sinking feeling in his gut. He didn’t want to move out of his own place. He didn’t want to come home to an empty house, one that smelled of stale air instead of fantastic food.
They were nothing to each other, so why did the sight of her engagement ring in his key dish annoy him every time he saw it there?
Friday night, when after a tough day at work when it seemed like Macabee had spent a lot of time with clients and none whatsoever getting ready to retire, he came home to a town house that smelled like heaven where there was nothing for him to eat.
The sight of the diamond sparkling all alone in his key dish added the final insult to his mood.
“Why don’t you wear that ring I got you?” he snapped when he stomped into the kitchen.
Chelsea looked up from piping some kind of filling into tiny little tomatoes. A smudge of flour decorated her cheek and he wanted to sweep her off her feet and drag her into the bedroom so badly it physically hurt him to stand still.
“I only wear that ring when we’re going to see people from your firm.”
“What if you bumped into one of the wives at the grocery store? Or saw Piers in the street or something?”<
br />
“I’d say hello. And if they asked why I wasn’t wearing my engagement ring I’d explain that I’m working and I didn’t want to get it dirty.” She was so cheerful it set his teeth on edge. She also looked like she was getting plenty of sleep, which made one of them.
He watched her in glowering silence for a full minute. Then he said, “Guess I’ll go out and grab a burger for dinner.” He sounded like a grouchy three-year-old and knew it. What was wrong with him?
Chelsea didn’t bat an eye. “I can make you a sandwich if you wait a few minutes.”
He was being a pig and she didn’t call him on it. And she had her big day tomorrow. “Have you had dinner?”
“No time. I’ve got so much to do for the wedding. I want everything to be perfect.”
“It will be, but you have to eat. Why don’t I get takeout for two?”
She filled a few more tomatoes. “That would be great, thanks.”
“Thai okay?”
“Anything.” He got the feeling she was barely listening.
He called for Thai food and went and showered and changed. But when the food arrived, she was in the middle of something and too busy to eat. “Put mine in the fridge, will you? I’ll have it later.”
So he took his lonely plate of takeout upstairs and into his bedroom so as not to bother her, and flipped on the TV. He hated eating in his bedroom. He didn’t like crumbs and spills getting on the bed and the smell of food that seemed to linger. He should have eaten dinner out, but he’d wanted to make sure she had a meal. Fool.
When he took himself to bed at midnight, she was still at it.
“Hope it goes well tomorrow,” he said, realizing he meant it. She’d worked so hard, he wanted her to achieve her dream.
A distracted smile greeted him. “Thanks. I’ve hired a bartender who conveniently owns a van and hired two waitresses and a kitchen helper. I’ve done everything ahead that I possibly can. Everything else I have to do tomorrow.” She put a hand to her heart. “I so badly need for this to go well.”
