by Holly Kerr
“Do you want to find someone for me, too?” I ask wistfully. Despite her small stature, Imogene is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to getting things done. It’s a toss-up between her and I who is better organized, and between the two of us, Flora’s life has never run so smoothly. “Rhoda missed her shift again. She said something about taking a dog to the emergency room, which I can understand if she had a dog.”
“As long as you’re not getting rid of Adam.” Dimples crease her cheeks as Imogene waves to Adam behind the counter.
“Decaf coming up because you’re looking extremely pregnant today,” he calls.
“Make sure you make Flora’s extra caffeinated.” Imogene glances critically at me. “This is the first time I’ve seen you not looking impeccable.”
I smooth my apron. “I’m not impeccable.”
“You’re the most well-put together twenty-nine-year-old I’ve ever met. You wear dresses and fancy shoes with perfect make-up and hair on a daily basis. If I wasn’t so exhausted thinking about the trouble it’d be matching everything, I’d be very jealous of you.”
“I like to look nice,” I murmur with an inward cringe. Thanks to Rhoda, my dress is still hanging in my office off the kitchen. “This morning though…” I stick out my sneaker-clad foot. “Too busy to even change my shoes.”
“I thought it might be because you and Flora went out last night.”
“We did, but I can’t blame that. And there was no Ruthie.” I slip past Imogene to head back to the counter.
“Ah. No jail time then.”
I mock shudder. “Once was enough.”
Adam claps his hands from beside me. “I love that story! Fighting during a Power of the Tower performance—only Flora!”
“I don’t think I’ll be going back to Las Vegas anytime soon,” I say ruefully.
“No elopements in your future then?” Imogene asks. I roll my eyes at her and don’t bother to answer.
Flora likes to live her life with no regrets, but I have a feeling that deep down, she’s regretting the spontaneous trip to Las Vegas to marry Thomas. Even though I now know her exact thought process that led to her sprint out of the chapel (and into Dean), I still don’t quite understand what brought it about. After an eight-year relationship that, in my mind, wasn’t that healthy, why would Thomas finally propose? Or finally relent to Flora’s suggestion that they take things to the next level. They had only moved in together a few weeks before—hadn’t that been enough?
Whatever the reason, I’m very happy Flora didn’t go through with it.
I’m not very happy that I didn’t even bother to get more information from Clay, however. I push my regret down deep as I send Imogene back to Fleur with a clearly labeled coffee for Flora.
Things get busier as the morning progresses, with tables filling up with yoga-pants-clad women pushing strollers, a noisy book club having their monthly meeting on the bench by the window, and the older couple who comes in every day, sits at the same table with their same coffee order, and never talks to each other.
Adam and I always have endless discussions about the couple after they leave.
“Mmm,” Adam says later, bumping his way out the kitchen door while holding a tray of almond croissants that are one of my best sellers. “Mr. Sexy Pants.”
I glance up in time to meet Paulo’s smiling gaze, as admiring as always. He works at the fitness centre at the end of the strip mall, and is one of my most faithful customers. Even though there’s nothing like the sight of a good-looking man to put you in a better mood, Paulo is the last one I want to see right now. I’m still wearing my kitchen pants—black and baggy and full of stains, and no one needs to see me like that.
“Ah, my baking bonita,” Paulo says as he reaches the counter, his accent making the words sound like a croon rather than a simple greeting. “You look so rumpled and flustered this morning. I love it.”
I don’t like being rumpled and flustered, even when it sounds so sexy coming from Paulo. I think longingly of my neat and clean dress still hanging in the office; a summery pale yellow with sprigs of lavender sprinkled along the hem. At least I finally managed to grab a clean apron.
“It’s been a busy morning,” I say with a tight-lipped smile.
“I’m sure you had a busy night, too.”
I’m fairly certain Monday night with drinks doesn’t constitute busy for Paulo but I don’t need him to know my love life amounts to a big fat zero. “What can I get you this morning, Paulo?” My finger hovers over the button for his usual mocha caramel latte with the extra shot of espresso that he orders every day.
“Ah, today I feel like a little variety,” he says with a wink of his chocolate-brown eyes with the lashes to die for. “Surprise me.”
I don’t do surprises, with lattes or anything else. “I’ll get Adam to make you something yummy,” I promise, cringing at my use of yummy. Even though it’s been ages since I’ve had a second date with anyone, I do know how to talk to men.
“I like yummy,” he says with another wink.
“Adam,” I call. “Can you make Paulo something special this morning?”
“I’d like nothing better.” Adam gives Paulo his own seductive wink, and I’m startled to see how Paulo’s face lights up.
The man likes to flirt. It must not matter with whom.
Paulo moves aside to chat with Adam, and Mrs. Gretchen takes his place. She’s an older lady who is as feisty as my chocolate chili chai tea. To prove it, she gives Paulo a long and lingering glance before ordering a flat white and a cranberry scone.
“How are you this morning, Mrs. Gretchen?”
“I’m better with the eye candy you have in here.” Mrs. Gretchen’s wink is nothing like Paulo’s or even Adam’s, but seeing it makes me feel better than either of them could.
“He’s...”
“Yes, I know exactly what he is.” Mrs. Gretchen gives a vehement nod of her snowy, white head. “He’ll break your heart as quick as he’ll order a second coffee, so you stay clear.”
“I have no intention of getting any closer,” I say ruefully. “Even if he was interested.”
“What garbage is that? You’re a looker, with a nice little place of your own here. Any decent man would be lining up at the chance.”
My smile widens. “Yes, they would. Thanks, Mrs. Gretchen. That’s exactly what I needed to hear today.”
“You should meet my neighbour,” she says decisively. “Big, strapping boy. Sweet as a muffin.”
“I think I’m fine flying solo right now,” I assure her, handing her the warmed-up scone on a plate.
“You always find your match when you’re least expecting it,” Mrs. Gretchen says, dropping a quarter in the tip cup. “Like when I was in France during the war. The last thing I wanted was to have the handsome Frenchman catch my eye, but that’s exactly what he did.”
“Have a great day, Mrs. Gretchen.” I smile widely at her. She drops comments like some people drop names, always enough to intrigue me about her past.
“Bye, Mrs. Gretchen.” Adam waves from behind the foamer. “She’s the coolest lady,” he says to Paulo.
“As is your boss,” Paulo says sotto voce. “Tell her if she wants a busy night to call me.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Of course you are.” Paulo grins, and my stomach gives a little flip.
No. Just no. It doesn’t matter if my last relationship was two years ago, or twenty years ago. Paulo is not a good idea.
Unfortunately, Adam doesn’t agree. “He’s so pretty,” he says, leaning his chin on his fist as we watch Paulo walk out, the tightness of his pants making it a welcome sight. “I really wish you’d give him a try. He just teases me, but I think you’d have a good shot.”
“He’s not my type.” I adjust the porcelain cups on top of the coffeemaker.
“Tall, dark, and Brazilian? Boss Lady, he’s everyone’s type.”
I make a face. “You sound like my mother.
”
“How is Mama Donnelly?” Adam turns his interest to my family. As soon as he found out my family owns a winery in Niagara-on-the-Lake, he was hooked, asking me questions about wine, grapes, and living with three sisters.
“She’d hate to be called that,” I chide him. “She only kept the name because of the winery.”
After my father left, my mother, rather than accept the terms of the divorce, fought with everything she had—not for the marriage, but for the control of the winery. Even though Four Leaf Clover Wines had been in my father’s family for two generations, my mother is now president and CEO, retaining a 51 percent share.
“You can leave this family,” my mother had shouted at my father. “But that winery is your daughters’ legacy and I’m not having you screw it up like you screwed up our marriage. I’m taking over. You can do what you want.”
My father, being a weak sort of man, did just that. I haven’t spoken to him in three years.
My mother, on the other hand, rules the winery, our family, as well as most of the village of Niagara-on-the-Lake with an iron fist clad in a silk glove. She’s made a success out of Four Leaf Clover but hasn’t forgiven me for choosing to follow Flora to Toronto and open Pain, rather than take my place at her side, like my sisters have done.
I haven’t forgiven her for a lot of things either, so that makes us even. And it hasn’t stopped her from doing her best to make a match for me. Mrs. Bennett of Pride and Prejudice has nothing on Margaret Donnelly.
“Is she still trying to set you up?” Adam asks, leaning against the counter. I point to the nearly empty banana-nut muffin basket; Adam is a good worker but sometimes forgets to actually work, preferring to gossip and chat. Being more of a quiet sort, I don’t mind his talkative nature, and the customers love him.
“When I went home last month, she’d invited one of my brother-in-law’s work colleagues for dinner,” I say when Adam returns from the kitchen with a full basket.
“Was he cute? Did he ask you out?”
“Yes, but there’s no way I’d say yes.”
“Because it was a Mama Donnelly setup?” Adam asks sympathetically.
“That, and the fact that he refused to eat any vegetable unless it was proven to be hydroponically grown. He said at least four times that widespread farming ‘raped’ the land.” I use my fingers as quotations. “He couldn’t be a party to that.”
“That’s one I haven’t heard before. He did know that your family grows grapes for a living. Which is technically farming.”
“Yep. Not even my mother had a response to that.”
Adam clicks his tongue. “Poor M.K. Sounds like another winner.”
“She’s set me up with worse.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t know your type.”
“Are you seriously taking her side?”
“Of course not. But you know, Boss Lady, your type is indeed a mystery. If Paulo isn’t it for you, then who is?”
Adam has no idea that an image of Clay’s smile floods my thoughts.
Clay
“I don’t like the blue.”
Rashida frowns, waving the mock-up of the new packaging for FoodMart’s brand of frozen dinners with obvious irritation. “It’s the same blue as all the others.”
“I don’t like it.” I know I sound rude, but Rashida’s been part of my team for long enough to know not to take offense.
“Should you have maybe mentioned that when the packaging for the line was being designed?” she asks as politely as an annoyed graphic designer can be.
“I did, and no one listened.” Huffing out a sigh, I take another close look at the offensive blue. The blue needs to be fine unless I want to deal with the extra costs of redoing all the packaging. “Pearl, make a note in my calendar for November to look at redesigning the Keto frozen dinners. Please.” My voice softens when I speak to my assistant, and she smiles with gratitude as she does what I ask. “Keep the blue for now. That’s it, everyone. Thanks for your input and get back to work.”
The team files out of my office. I see the resentful glance Pearl gives Rashida as the younger woman pauses to stand by my desk. “Pearl, would you mind terribly running out to find me a gigantic coffee? And get one for yourself.” I hand her my Starbucks card with a winning smile.
“I don’t think I need a gigantic one, but thanks, Clay. I’ll run out now.”
“You’re the best, Pearl!”
I keep the smile fixed on my face until Pearl leaves then let it fall as I turn to Rashida. “Yes?”
“You’ve been a real jerk to work with, you know?”
“How so?” She’s right; I know she’s right, but I haven’t been able to pull myself out of the funk that’s trying to swallow me down.
Rashida shrugs. “You’ve been a jerk. What more do you want me to say?”
I might be stung by the pronouncement if it was anyone but Rashida telling me this. But it was one of the reasons I took a chance on giving my friend Imad’s wife a job—her no-nonsense refusal to pay lip service to me or anyone. I’m tired of the sycophants in the office playing nice to the owner’s nephew. Half of them think Uncle Joe is the one who gave me the job, which means I have to work twice as hard to prove myself.
Sometimes I wonder why I bother. I need a thicker skin so their snide comments and eye rolls don’t get to me. I’m good at my job, damn good, regardless of who my uncle is.
I also know I’m only as good as the people who I work with, which is why I’ve always made a point to collect the very best to be part of my team. Rashida’s only been here for six months, but already she’s one of the best I’ve got.
“How have I been a jerk? Pearl was more than happy to run to Starbucks for me. She wouldn’t do that if she didn’t like me.”
Rashida snorts rudely. “The woman is in love with you, just like half of the women in the office.”
“Only half?” My grin takes the conceit out of my words. Ever since Karai Marsden announced her love for me in kindergarten, I’ve always had luck with women. I’ve had some tell me it’s my resemblance to Tom Cruise; others say it’s my smile that lights up a room. Most will mention my personality, how it’s refreshing to meet such a nice guy.
I am a nice guy, one that happens to look a little like a movie star. It’s not a bad thing.
“Pearl’s old enough to be my mother,” I add. “She’s happily married.”
“Fifty-year-old women are allowed crushes,” Rashida says, leaning against my desk. “So what’s got your knickers in a twist?”
“How do you know I’m wearing knickers?”
“See, you shouldn’t be able to say that in this day and age, but you do, and you still come across as a nice, harmless guy. Stop it,” she complains.
“Stopping.” My smile fades a bit at the corners. Rashida’s right, but it’s impossible to talk to her about my feelings. One—I don’t talk to anyone about my feelings, unless my sister-in-law manages to worm something out of me, and two—I’m her boss, regardless that her husband is a good friend of mine.
“You’ve been in a bad mood since you and Dean got back from that weekend in Las Vegas,” she says. “I can see Dean being the one in the bad mood because of the whole being left at the altar, but you? What happened to you there?”
“Nothing happened,” I say automatically. “We went for a wedding that didn’t happen—thank God if you ask me, but don’t because I will deny saying it—and then we came home. End of story.”
Rashida cocks her head, her black hair swinging along her jaw. “I think there’s more you’re not saying.”
Once again my mind flits to M.K., the girl from Vegas that wasn’t meant to be. We met, we talked for maybe an hour, and then I never saw her again. She had the same haircut as Rashida, albeit dark brown rather than glossy black, and chin length and swinging rather than Rashida’s shoulder length.
For some reason, I can’t get M.K. out of my mind.
I straighten the papers on my desk and set
my cell on top. The movement causes it to wake up, showing me a series of texts on my screen. “Your girlfriends have been texting you,” Rashida points out, hugging the mock-ups of the new packaging to her chest. As we watch, another text appears.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Ever think that’s your problem? For someone who goes through women faster than the kids outgrow their shoes, you’ve been without a lady for a while. According to Imad.”
“I’m so flattered that you spend your off-work hours talking about me,” I say sarcastically.
“You should be. I learn a lot.”
“You know nothing—”
“Jon Snow. Yeah, yeah, you sound like Dean. I suggest you text back one of those lovely, available ladies who keep lighting up your phone and make a date. You need the company.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting you go out and have a good time because you, Boss Man, are grumpy. And you need to do something about that to make sure this is a happy place to work.” She gives me a knowing look and backs towards the door.
“Yeah.” I glance at my phone again. “Thanks, Rashida.”
“Anytime.”
I don’t check the texts until she’s safely out of my office. I’ve got two messages from a Natalie that I took out last week. She was a nice girl, fun and sexy as hell. They come across as casual, but is Wondering what u r up to? masking a needy demand?
There are four texts from Heather, sent in the span of five minutes and without even bothering to hide her neediness.
There are two from Dean, probably about the Jays game next weekend.
I frown at the text from an Abby Benjamin.
The name rings a bell, but I have to go back almost a year to remember her clearly. Abby—I had liked her. We went out a few times, both of us keeping things casual and fun. She was a dancer, I remember, with one of those long and lithe bodies that always seem to catch my eye.
For a few months, dancers were my thing.
