The Bride Wore Chocolate (Sweet and Savory Romances)

by Shirley Jump

  And then she realized she was alone. With Michael. Separated by nothing but some baskets and a few newborn-sized extra-absorbent baby bottom protectors.

  Stick to work. No extracurricular activities.

  Michael waggled a piece of pale pink tissue paper. “How do we do this?”

  “Hand me one of each thing and I'll do all the hard stuff.” She picked up some tissue paper and laid a soft bed of it in the base of the first basket, a pink bassinet. “Formula first, since it's the heaviest.”

  “Smart thinking.” He picked up a can and laid it in her hands. She nestled it into the center of the basket, then reached for a package of diapers.

  His fingers pressed against the back of her hand, like fire on ice. “That's my job, remember?”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  Sticking to work wasn't going to be as easy as she'd hoped. Heck, she'd be lucky if she could stick to the subject with him around, keeping her mind on everything but what she was supposed to be doing.

  He placed the package in her hand. “Am I distracting you?”

  “Not at all.” A lie a day keeps the temptation away.

  I hope.

  Michael chuckled and gave her a couple of baby bottle-shaped chocolates. “Have you read that poem yet?”

  “I've been busy.”

  “Too busy for a poem?”

  She didn’t tell him she’d avoided the poem because she worried it might send the very message she’d done her best to avoid. The one about wrong choices, wrong men, and big regrets. “I used to love poetry in college,” Candace said, adding tissue paper moorings around each item to secure it in place. “I took a couple of classes in it, and even thought of minoring in poetry, or English lit.”

  “Why didn't you?”

  She cocked her head at him. “It's not very practical, is it?”

  “Does everything have to be practical?”

  “Come on, you own a business. You tell me. How much of your time do you waste on things that aren't practical?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “See?”

  “But spending some time is better than none, don't you agree?”

  She shook her head. “Too many tastes of the dessert and before you know it, you've eaten the whole damned pie.”

  “Oh, come on, you don’t believe that.” He turned and caught her gaze with his own. “I think all work and no play makes Candy a very unhappy girl.”

  The way he said the words made it sound tempting to go play—any game he suggested. A vision of a very sexy game of Twister popped into her mind. Oh, that would be so wrong right now. Wrong at any time. “I'm a girl with a goal.”

  “And what is your goal?”

  “To make this shop successful.”

  Michael looked around the kitchen. “I'd say you've done that already.”

  “Well, I'd like to keep it that way.”

  “So is that what you want out of life?” He arched a brow, handed her another formula can. “Status quo?”

  “More or less, yes.” She seated the can in the basket and avoided his gaze.

  “Where's the fun in that?”

  “What do you mean, fun?”

  “Change is what makes the world go round. A little would do you good.” He tossed a package of diapers at her, forcing her to jerk up and catch them in midair. She didn't respond to his teasing grin.

  “Change is dangerous. It leads to mistakes.” She didn't bother waiting for him to help. Instead, she reached past him for the rest of the ingredients and started shoving them into the next wicker bassinet.

  “Sometimes. But mistakes are learning opportunities, don't you think?”

  She paused, her whole body going silent. “Not all mistakes,” she said, her voice soft and quiet.

  “And what mistakes have you made?”

  She pushed the finished basket to the side and reached for another. “If you keep talking to me, I'll never get your order done in time.”

  When she put out a palm for the next can of formula, he held it back. “'I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall beneath the music from a farther room.'”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “T. S. Eliot. And a life spent wondering would it have been worthwhile to take a chance and dare a little.”

  “That poem was written almost a hundred years ago. It has nothing to do with my life in the twenty-first century.”

  But she'd lied. In the last few weeks, how many times had she wondered the same thing? She remembered the Eliot poem now. The message about watching the biggest excitements in life pass by and never having the courage to grab them. Of settling for less than all she wanted because it was easier.

  Was that what she was doing? Settling for Barry because it was easier than being brave and taking a chance on the unknown?

  Michael laid the formula on the counter, out of her reach, and took her hands in his. She tried to withdraw, but he held firm. His grip was warm, tough and soothing all at once. She wanted to run away from it and yet at the same time, lay her troubles in his palms. “I'm a workaholic. We're a lot alike that way, you and me. Go to work often enough and you can avoid the black hole in your heart pretty damned well.”

  “I'm not doing that.”

  “You are. And you know it underneath.” He ran his thumbs over the back of her hands. “So was I, until you came along. In that restaurant the night we met, what you said hit a nerve with me. And it made me remember what I'd learned when I read that poem years ago. That not living your life to the utmost is a waste.”

  “I am living my life.” Her chin raised a notch. “And who the hell are you to decide I'm not?”

  “The night I met you, you were miserable.”

  “I was drunk.” She yanked her hands away.

  “You told me you were sick of being in a rut. You said you wanted a little bit of adventure again. What did you mean by that—again?”

  She pivoted toward the sink, grabbing a cup off the shelf and filling it with water. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Candace wheeled toward him. “You have no right to question my love life, my choices or my past. I'm not yours.”

  His cobalt eyes met hers, deep and vibrant and swimming with everything that had yet to be said. The thread between them tightened. Like a noose. “I wish like hell you were.”

  “No, you don't. Because that would mean a commitment, and as far along as you say you've come, you're not ready for that yet, are you?”

  He shifted his gaze away. “I'm not good at settling down.”

  “Well, you know what?” She leaned in closer to him, confronting him with the same truths he'd thrown at her. “You're letting that part of life pass by then, too. It takes courage to make a commitment. And to stick with it, too.”

  Neither of them said anything for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds. “I need to get these baskets finished,” Candace said after a while.

  “Always work first, huh?”

  She inhaled and laid the cup in the sink. “I like things orderly. Neat and planned down to the last detail. That's exactly how Barry is, too. That's why I'm marrying him— because he's like me.”

  “And I'm the opposite, aren't I?”

  She let out a laugh. “You? You are chaos to me. And that's the one thing I can't deal with.”

  “They say opposites attract.”

  Candace sighed, and for the first time that morning, allowed herself a good look at him. “Attraction is not the problem.” Then she pushed off from the counter and went back to work. “Life is not based on sex, though.”

  He grinned and joined her at the worktable, again handing her things and forming their assembly line. The woodsy, dark scent of his cologne teased at her senses. His arms, long, lean, brushed hers a dozen times. With a fraction of movement, she could touch him, be touched by him again. Her awareness of him arced up, ten times stronger now. Why on earth had she sai
d anything about being attracted to him? “If the world revolved around sex, we'd have a lot less wars and a whole lot more smiles.”

  “Men are all the same,” she said. “Don't you want to be with a woman who does more than have hot, sweaty monkey sex with you?”

  He chuckled as he placed a box of cookies in her hand. “Sure I do. I want someone I can talk to. Preferably a woman who knows her poets.”

  Candace shot him a look of disdain.

  “And one who has superior organizational skills. So she can help keep me on track. Because lately, I can't seem to get to work on time. Or concentrate on a damn thing.” He placed a chocolate in her hands and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I keep getting distracted by thoughts of monkey sex.”

  Her breath lodged in her windpipe. “You are incorrigible.”

  He grinned. “My mother's pride and joy.”

  “I-I-I need more baskets from the other counter.”

  Michael moved to the left; Candace moved to the right. The two of them collided like a pair of lead-foot preschoolers on the bumper-car track.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For nearly running you over.” She hadn't stepped back.

  Neither had he. “It might be the biggest thrill I get today, so I should be thanking you.”

  “I'm sure some beautiful woman is waiting by the phone for you to call.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. You're a good-looking guy. Unmarried. Rich. At that prime age when the clock starts ticking for a lot of women.” She shook her head. “There are women waiting by the phone for you.”

  “I only want—” And then he was cut off. By the ring of his cell phone.

  She gave him a smug grin.

  He flipped it out and answered it. “I'm... in a meeting right now. No, tonight won't work.” He paused, listening. “I'll have to get back to you on that. I want my evenings free”— his gaze connected with Candace's—“for an indefinite period of time.” Then he clicked off the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “See. I told you so.”

  “That was a woman, all right.” His smile had a bit of devil in it. “My secretary. Calling to see if I wanted to schedule a dinner meeting.”

  “Oh.”

  “But, you were right on one count. It was a dinner meeting with a woman, someone who has expressed more than a business interest in me. I turned it down. I told you, I don't want any other woman.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you intrigue me more than anyone I've ever met.” He closed the gap, his eyes locking with hers, seeking whatever secrets she might be hiding behind her own retinas. “What makes you tick, Candace Woodrow?”

  “A ... a heart.” She swallowed. “I think.”

  What was that gibberish she'd said earlier about commitment? And courage? Maybe the Cowardly Lion had absconded with all of hers, because she sure as heck wasn't feeling brave right now.

  “Tsk, tsk.” He reached up with his free hand and trailed a finger along her left breast, tracing a very sexy cardiac outline. “Your biology teacher would be very disappointed that you've forgotten your anatomy.”

  “I'm... I'm having a bit of trouble”—she watched his finger circle her breast—“concentrating right now.”

  “Me, too.”

  Her eyes went to his anatomy. His breaths went in. Out. Pectoral muscles went up. Down. The rhythm of her breaths synchronized to his, because she couldn't tear her gaze away from his torso. The memory of him from that first morning, wearing nothing more than boxers, flooded her senses.

  “We, ah, should be making baskets.”

  “Baskets are not what I want to make right now.” Michael leaned forward and brushed his lower lip against hers, a tease of a kiss. Not enough. Not nearly enough to satisfy the aching need in her gut.

  Despite everything she'd said, she wanted him. She wanted to open her mouth and devour him, taking him with the same relish she had the chocolates, letting him assimilate her palate until she forgot her own name.

  “I shouldn't—”

  “No, you shouldn't.” He teased at her mouth again, grinning. “If you did kiss me—oh, that would make you a very, very bad girl.”

  Maybe it was the double adverb. Or the sight of his smile, so sure and sexy. Or the scent of him—so masculine and strong, right there, right now. Available for the taking.

  Candace didn't quibble with why; she just surged forward, opening her lips against his, darting her tongue in and tasting the man she had been denying herself for a week.

  Oh. God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  Kissing Michael was better than an all-you-can-eat buffet at the Godiva plant. More satisfying than a clearance sale at Bloomingdale's. More intense than the ancient wooden roller-coaster that used to be at Nantasket Beach. And so damn good, she forgot for a minute she was any other man's but his.

  Michael's fingers played at the nape of her neck, edging upward with the precision of Arthur Fiedler. His thumbs traced slow erotic circles along the outer edge of her ears, swooping past the gold hoops she wore and then down to the tender flesh that met her jaw.

  She pressed her pelvis to his, feeling his erection and wanting only to grind into the steel of him until the throbbing longing inside her went away. Her hands roamed his back, up and down that damn white shirt, feeling the ridges beneath it and resisting the urge to tear the whole thing off so she could see his bare, muscled chest again.

  Her hands went to the waistband of his pants and she had the Van Huesen half out of his Dockers before she realized what was happening.

  I've become a hussy. Oh my Lord, I'm worse than Kim Cattrall on Sex in the City.

  “I can't do this,” she said, stepping back, breaking the contact, as if putting a few inches of distance between them could turn her body off.

  It didn't. The longing for him still pounded in her veins.

  You crazy woman, get back over there and finish this. One quickie on the counter and I could be screaming—

  “I think you should go,” she blurted. “Now.”

  He backed up several steps, tucking in his shirt as he did. “And I think you should decide what you want. You can't keep tasting the food and never finish the meal.”

  “You caught me at a weak moment, that's all.”

  “And if I come back tomorrow?”

  She lowered her head, then raised it again. She knew the answer. It filled her with a deep, achy emptiness. “Don't come back tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Candy.” He cupped her chin. “Don't let your life come and go like a sunset you never got to watch,” he said softly. “You deserve more.”

  And then he was gone.

  2 ripe bananas

  4 popsicle sticks

  1/4 cup peanuts, chopped

  l/3 cup hot fudge sauce, at room temperature

  These work as terrific bribes for people who are covering up a little rendezvous in the kitchen, and for those of us who haven't had a date in a while and need something satisfying. Start by putting waxed paper on a baking sheet. Then peel the bananas, cut them in half and put a stick in the end of each half piece. Place on the baking sheet and freeze those babies until they're firm as a cover model.

  Then take the frozen bananas and dip them into the fudge sauce, spreading it all over with a spatula. Here comes the fun part—roll them in the peanuts. When you're done, freeze them again until the fudge sauce is as firm as your fruit. Now you're ready for a little temptation—or fudgesicles that'll get the neighbors talking.

  CHAPTER 15

  Maria was the first to notice something was up. “Lipstick's smeared. Face is flushed. Counter's a mess.” She eyed Candace. “Either you had a visitor or you were attacked by a pack of rabid raccoons when you opened the shop.”

  “Michael came by.” Candace shoved a can of formula into a basket.

  “And? Don't leave us hanging, girl. I don't have a love life to speak of right now so I have to live through yours.
It's either that or watch reruns of really bad reality TV and frankly, it's too depressing to see women with better boobs than mine get dumped by men with toothy grins.”

  “And I'm married,” Rebecca said. “The words 'love life' left my vocabulary as soon as I said, 'We're having a baby.' ”

  Candace wrapped a basket in shiny pale blue cellophane, tied a robin's egg-colored bow and an “It's a Boy” sign on the top and slid it to the side. “There's not much to talk about.”

  “Liar.” Maria laid a hand on the next basket. “I'll hold the chocolate hostage.”

  “Won't work. I already have my own stash.”

  “I'll...” Maria thought a minute. “I'll get Bernadine to go shopping for your trousseau.”

  Candace shuddered. “You wouldn't.”

  “Nah, I wouldn't.” Maria grinned. “But it is an evil thought.”

  “Maybe one of your best.” Rebecca finished up her own basket, then reached for another.

  Candace stepped back from the counter and looked at her two best friends. She could use someone to talk to, even if Maria and Rebecca didn’t comprise an impartial jury. They'd take her side no matter what she said. Still, that could go a long way toward making the guilt weighing on her chest ebb a little.

  She sighed, pushed the basket she was working on away from her and took a seat on one of the barstools. “Michael stopped by early this morning and offered to help with the baskets. I didn't say no.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about him. And when I went to sleep last night, it wasn't Barry I was dreaming about.”

  Maria laid a hand on hers. “Oh, honey, it's okay. He's a hunk of sizzling hot man. I don't blame you.”

  “But then I...” She paused, bit her lip, then let the rest out: “Kissed him again.”

  “You owe me ten bucks,” Maria whispered to Rebecca.

  “You guys are betting I'll cheat on Barry?”