by Cecy Robson
“It’s my favorite bakery,” I tell her. “And I wanted to treat my staff to celebrate our success from last week’s sales.”
Mom doesn’t sound excited about my good news. “A little early in the day for sweets, don’t you think?” she says, instead.
“What—”
“This isn’t a good time for you to gain weight,” she snaps, the frustration in her voice as tangible as the cool March breeze flowing through my partially cracked window. “You have a bridesmaid’s dress to fit into and Valentina has enough to worry about.”
“For goodness sake, Mom. How many ways can you slap me in the face?”
“Alegria!” My mother screams. “I called to arrange a lunch with my daughters. Not to be insulted.”
I should hold my ground. But it’s not my nature to cause problems. “I have a lot to do today,” I respond, attempting to calm.
“No, you have a lot to do for everyone except your family, who should matter most,” she adds, coolly. “Explain to me how people who spend the day filing and answering the phone are more worthy of your time than your adoring sister?”
“You want me to have lunch with Valentina,” I say. “For what? So you can pretend Valentina and I are fine and this absurd wedding has no effect on me?”
By now, my mother is screaming. “What has gotten into you?”
Years of my family’s constant badgering has taken its toll. I want to yell and curse, like I think I deserve to. But once more, I revert to being the good daughter. The one who fills out her family’s tax returns, never raises her voice, and maintains her composure. It sounds stupid and weak, and it is, but it’s the role I adopted long ago to survive.
I don’t want to be cast aside and forgotten. I want a fighting chance at belonging and meaning something to someone. And no matter how pitiful and fragile my connection to my family is, and how imperfect and dysfunctional they are, aside from my career, they’re all I have.
“I’m going to Termini’s,” I repeat. “Goodbye.”
It’s as much as I manage before disconnecting.
I’ll receive an earful from her later and more from my aunts after she’s done crying to them. There’s crazy and then there’s my family. Is there any wonder I feel so alone?
I rub my temple. Today was supposed to be a good day. My business is booming. I can’t let my mother and Valentina take that away from me.
The breeze intensifies as I near the bakery, giving me enough of a chill to shut the window. By some miracle, I find a spot right in front of the store. I hop out, my small heels clicking onto the sidewalk and my thick braid slapping against my back.
My Infiniti SUV sits high, and I bounce every time I slip out. It normally gives my clients a giggle. I don’t mind. They find it endearing.
I walk into the bakery and wave to Cara Maria, the young woman at the counter. She doesn’t notice me. She’s preoccupied with the man leaning over the counter. His stance appears relaxed, but there is a coiled energy and alertness lurking beneath, ready for anyone and anything.
As I venture further in, the display of cannoli and fresh baked goods catches my attention, albeit briefly. Something about the man flirting with Cara Maria is familiar.
My attention travels away from the display and fixes like glue on him, lingering longer than it politely should. Dark jeans cling around rather long and impressive legs, skimming the top of what appear to be expensive running shoes. He must be one of those men who run all the time through snow and rain, to maintain his strong, bordering on immense stature.
His musculature isn’t that of a weight-lifter or someone I’m certain at one point religiously played football, but it is one that proclaims his athleticism and take-no-nonsense attitude. Broad muscles fill out the tight, dark blue T-shirt, warning those who would dare to start a fight that this is a man who won’t go down without taking someone with him.
I know him, I think to myself, and it’s not from the cover of some sports magazine. Familiarity and curiosity keep my interest. I can’t see his face, but it must be some spectacle of beauty for Cara Maria to be so engrossed by it, and not everything else this man has to offer.
I wander closer, pretending to take in the pastries all while stealing a better look and hoping to catch sight of his profile. Somewhere in the back room, the other workers hustle, preparing what must be a large wedding order. I catch a hint of a four-tiered cake being carefully lifted and carried in the direction of the rear exit. A young man follows, hoisting several boxes in his long arms.
“Thank you,” the woman at the counter tells the owner. She pays for an exorbitant number of cupcakes, her joy evident as she turns and hurries out.
“Tell her I said happy birthday,” the owner calls after her.
He nods to me as the woman passes. I start to help her with the door, but the big guy flirting with Cara Maria beats me to the exit. “I got you,” he tells her, opening the door wide.
I pause, waiting for him to turn around so I can finally see him, only to turn when the owner speaks. “What’s it going to be for you today, Allie?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer. In the time I turn, tall-dark-and-rock-hard ass cheeks is already back to Cara Maria’s side. The owner rolls his eyes, likely annoyed by how much time Cara Maria is spending with him. I can’t blame her. I’m practically gawking myself.
“My apologies,” I tell the owner. “I think I’m going to need a minute.”
“All right,” he says, “let me know when you’re ready.”
He lumbers to the back, evidently to fill another large order. “Try this one,” Cara Maria says to Mr. Sexy, her voice now more of a purr. “They’re stuffed with whipped cream and messy, but they’re tasty.”
“Yeah?” the man says, his voice deep and gruff, like many of the blue-collar workers in the city.
“Oh, yeah,” Cara Maria replies, a blush gathering on her face as she watches him chew. “They’re real popular for bridal luncheons.”
“Hmm,” he says. “This is good. Can I have another?”
Cara Maria laughs. “Sure. But you better not leave here without buying something.”
“I won’t. Trust me.” He seems to think things through. “Could you make a donut cake?”
“A donut cake?” Cara Maria questions.
I turn quickly to eye the eclairs when he finally seems to notice me. Who is this man?
“You know. Like a cake, except instead of layers of cake, there are layers of donuts,” the man explains. “Guests can pull off one at a time and eat it.”
“That sounds . . .” Cara Maria begins.
Genius, I think smiling. This curvy Latina body was shaped from plenty of tortillas and a few donuts.
“It’s for my brother,” he adds.
“Which one?” Cara Maria asks with a laugh.
“Good question,” he says, laughing with her. It’s a hearty laugh. One you expect from a man who laughs often and means it. It’s another trait that’s familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t place how I know him.
“It’s for Finnie. His fiancée wants him to have his own groom’s cake.” He holds out a hand, emphasizing each word. “The best part is, he gets to decide what kind. And my baby brother deserves a donut cake if any man ever did. Oh, and if you can sprinkle some of the donuts with bacon, that would be perfection on plate, if you know what I mean.”
The name Finnie catches my attention.
“Bacon for your baby brother?” Cara Maria gushes. “That is so sweet.”
“It’s the kind of guy I am,” he tells her. “Hey Cara, you sure you’re married? I could really use someone who thinks I’m sweet right about now.”
“I’m sure. But if I wasn’t . . .” She gives him the eyes. “I’d sure take you up on your offer, Seamus.”
“Seamus,” I repeat a little louder than I intend.
“Huh?” He turns around and looks at me. Now, I know exactly who he is.
CHAPTER 5
Allie
The first time I met Seamus O’Brien, I was very young and certain he was wearing contact lenses. His eyes were more like sea glass, reflecting his humor and maybe a little hardship, too. As I did when I first met him, and every time after, I allow his gaze to draw me in, the color and clarity too perfect to be real, very much like the rest of him.
Like most of the O’Briens, Seamus has a reputation for dating many women. He doesn’t have to do much, not with that face and body. He simply has to be himself. Perfect dark waves of hair frame features that belong on chiseled marble, as dark specks of facial hair pepper a jawline capable of sanding through redwood.
I smile and . . . not even a glimmer of recognition lights his alluring blue eyes.
Before I can offer him my hand, he turns his attention back to Cara Maria and her tiny and perky body.
“I think Dominick can do a groom’s cake.” She glances my way, annoyed that the attention he was showering her with was briefly stolen. “In the meantime, try some of our glacés and secs.”
“Some what?”
She giggles in that cute way men like that I never quite mastered. “Tiny iced cakes and dry biscuits. Puff pastries,” she clarifies when he makes a face at the “dry biscuits” reference.
“All right. For a minute there I thought you were trying to give me some nasty crap my family won’t want.”
“Would I steer you wrong?” she asks, her voice resuming that tinge of seduction.
Cara Maria has been married for about a year, I believe. Married or not, many women would enjoy attention from Seamus. Goodness. Most women would enjoy sharing the few feet of space that exists between us. Did I mention the man is beautiful?
Cara Maria’s focus locks on Seamus as if only they exist and this is a romantic getaway, not a bakery with an atmosphere sweet and thick enough to lick. Like a seasoned figure skater, she lifts her hands elegantly displaying the tray of small glazed cakes delicately placed across a silver tray.
“Take your time and try as many as you’d like,” she tells Seamus, her tone and stance impressively sultry for a woman wearing an apron dusted with flour. “You can’t go wrong with anything you pick. I guarantee your sister will be happy. Very happy,” she adds with a rather impressive bat of her lashes.
To me, she casts a glare and walks into the back room. I suppose it’s her way of assuring she’s marked Seamus as hers. Seamus doesn’t seem to notice, latching onto the tray with as much enthusiasm as he had Cara’s tiny figure.
“Thanks, Cara,” Seamus says.
He starts to munch, the first pretty little dessert exploding in his mouth. White cream drips down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand. It’s only then he realizes I’m still standing in front of him.
“Oh, hey. Sorry. You want one?” he asks. He tilts the tray so I can see the selection.
“No, thank you.”
“You sure?” he asks. “They’re pretty good. Messy, but the best desserts are.”
I tilt my head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
He pauses. A small rectangular piece of cake covered in chocolate fondant and topped with a white bow hovers an inch below his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it, taking me in. “Um. Sure. One of the best nights of my life. Sorry I haven’t called, my grandmother died and it’s been real hard on me and my family.”
“What?” I ask.
“My Grammie, she was real special—God rest her soul—and out of respect for her and all the memories we shared, I’ve been, you know, grieving and shit.”
If memory serves, Seamus’s grandmother died when we were in high school. “I don’t think you understand,” I begin.
“Yeah, I do, and it meant a lot. Sorry I didn’t invite you to the funeral. It was a private thing. A family thing. But like I said, you are the best I ever had.”
I blink back him, wondering exactly how many times he’s used his dead grandmother as an excuse to blow off a one-night stand. I take another gander at him. My guess is probably a lot. “Seamus, it’s me. Allie Mendes.”
“Allie Mendes,” I repeat when he doesn’t reply.
His gaze shifts between me and the tray of desserts still waiting to be devoured by his evidently ravished stomach. “I know. How could I forget? You were really flexible and . . . stuff.”
“Flexible?” I say.
He wipes his chin again, giving me the once over. “Did I say flexible? I meant hot. Real hot. Scorching hot. My sheets and everything else are still burning.” He winces when he realizes he said more than he intended. “You know what I mean.” He gives me the puppy eyes, since I’m obviously not attracted to him enough. “Like I said, with Grammie dying, it’s been real hard on all of us. I wanted to call. But it’s like every time I pick up my phone, I want to call Grammie.” His turns up the puppy stare. “And you can’t make calls to heaven.”
I throw back my head, laughing. The sound is so genuine, I barely recognize it in myself. “Seamus, I assure you we’ve never slept together.”
Confusion appears to rattle his brain. I can practically hear it bouncing along his skull like a ping-pong ball. “We didn’t?”
“No,” I assure him.
“Did we at least feel each other up?”
I cover my mouth, laughing and loving how it feels. “No.”
He leans against the counter and looks at me again. “But we wanted to, right?”
My cheeks burn. Wow. He’s a Neanderthal. More looks than charm and clearly more brawn than brains. I grin, certain I’ve gone insane, because I take his inappropriate and asinine response as a compliment. “I sold you your apartment building,” I explain, attempting to let him and likely myself off the hook. “The one you and your brothers renovated.”
He frowns, but otherwise says nothing.
“I also relisted it and sold it for three times its value.”
It’s as if I’m speaking to the row of pastries behind him instead of an actual human being. “I matriculated at your sister school,” I offer, trying a different approach. “We attend the same church.” Again, nothing. “I taught your younger brothers and sister Sunday school.”
Finally, a light seems to go off in the very, very dim recesses of his mind. The heat index may be high, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot of kindling in that fire.
“Oh,” he says. “I know you.”
“Good, I—”
“You’re Valentina Mendes’s little sister. She was smokin’ and damn, what a body! Hey, she still single?”
So much for the compliment.
I try to smile through the fire burning a hole into my face. “It’s funny you should ask. She’s actually engaged.”
“Good for her. Bad for the rest of us single bastards. But damn good for her.”
I think I might actually vomit.
“Hey, you okay? You don’t look good.” He holds out his hand. “I mean that in the most respectful way possible.” He shoves the tray of sweets in front of me. “Here, take one. A little sugar goes a long way. When someone gets hypoglycemic, it’s not pretty. In fact, it’s fucking ugly. Happens to my brother Angus all the time, which is why he’s so damn fat. But that’s a different story. I once saw a guy crash face first into a tray of spaghetti at a church social, because he waited too long to eat.”
I reach for a small white cake with little pink flowers, thinking there may be something to his hypoglycemia theory. Goodness, I feel sick. “You mean Kevin Velasquez?” I ask.
“What?” he asks, doing a double-take.
“The ‘guy’ you’re referring to is Kevin Velasquez,” I clarify. “It was at the Christmas social. You were eighteen at the time. I think I was fourteen.” I grimace. “And I was the one serving the spaghetti.”
I was also the one cleaning Kevin up afterward, but I don’t believe that’s worth mentioning. To this day, I still feel bad for him.
“Oh, yeah. It was Kevin,” Seamus says. “Po
or sap.”
At least we can agree there. “He seemed really embarrassed afterward,” I say, remembering how he kept apologizing for ruining my dress.
Seamus doesn’t seem to be listening anymore, focusing hard on his tray of sweets. It shouldn’t disappoint me. But in a way, it does. It was nice speaking with a man close to my age whose home I’m not attempting to put under contract. It’s an opportunity that doesn’t come often and I’ve forgotten how wonderful it feels, even if he remembered Valentina long before he remembered me.
I start to tell him goodbye, but then he says something I don’t expect. “That was nice of you to help Kevin like you did.”
“Pardon?” I ask.
Seamus grins. He knows I heard him. But I wonder if he knows how stunned I am that he’s still talking to me. “Even Father Flanagan was kind of like, ‘oh, shit,’” he says. “I mean, Father didn’t actually say the words. I don’t think real priests are supposed to curse. But if they could, I bet Father would’ve cursed that day. That was one hot mess Kevin made. He puked, too, didn’t he?”
I make a face remembering. “Yes, all over the spaghetti and all over me when I tried to help him stand.”
“I’m not surprised,” Seamus says.
“I know,” I agree. “Like you mentioned, he waited too long to eat.”
“Not Kevin,” he says, knocking me playfully in the shoulder. “I meant you trying to clean him and his mess. You were always doing something nice.”
I smile a little, watching him pop another cake in his mouth. For as much as Seamus eats, he must work out like a fiend to stay in the shape he does.
“What about you?” he asks.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Pardon? Did you seriously say ‘pardon,’ again,” He laughs out loud, not caring who might hear. “Sweetheart, this is Philly. Not England or wherever the hell ‘pardon’ is used. I suppose you eat your cheesesteaks with your pinky pointing up.”
“Only if the Eagles are down by seven for good luck.”
“Yeah?” He smirks at my nod. “Spoken like a true fan. Mostly, I just swear at the TV and threaten to punch the ref in the face, but we all support our team in our own ways.”
