"Soup kitchen?"
"I give them my day-old pastries."
Of course she did. "Let me give you a hand."
"No, the boxes are stacked by the door. I just need to let him in. If you get any customers, dazzle them for a few minutes with brilliant conversation."
The swing of her hips as she hurried away sent a spasm of lust surging to his midsection. Greg gripped the counter, cursing his curious weakness where she was concerned. Thankfully, the bell on the front door rang, announcing a customer. Feeling a little foolish, Greg prepared to stall the person, until he realized it was Rich Enderling returning.
"Lana's in the back," Greg said with a jerk of his head.
"Would you let her know that I'll cook dinner this evening when I get home?"
Greg blinked. "Home?"
The man nodded.
His stomach knotted. "You two live together?"
He nodded again. "I moved in last night. She's a real catch, isn't she? See you around, Craig."
The man gave him a triumphant little salute, then exited with a spring in his step. Greg scowled after him and muttered, "That's Greg."
16
LANA WAVED GOODBYE to Andy, then paused a moment to calm the beating of her heart. Good grief, after his humiliating near accusation last night that she had men all over the place, she had hoped to be appropriately irritated with him this morning, or at least indifferent. Instead she had a weird tingling, breathless sensation that she didn't want him to leave the room.
Holy hormones, what was wrong with her?
She inhaled and exhaled deeply, then reminded herself that this little "shadow" exercise today was to make Greg feel invested in the area. Too many people were counting on her for her to let herself be distracted by last night's misguided encounter. So she pasted on a professional smile and returned to the front of the shop, steeling herself against him.
Greg was standing with his back to her, leaning one hand on the bar, looking out the window as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Dark slacks hugged slim, muscular hips she recognized as part of a runner's physique. A sparkling white collarless dress shirt spanned his broad shoulders—shoulders that bowed slightly as though under the pressure of something. Was it this rezoning project? Personal demons? She couldn't guess because the man was so unreachable. Last night she'd thought he'd relaxed a tiny bit on the ride over from the restaurant. She might even have ventured to say they had fun. But today…well, after last night…
Perfectly creased and starched—indeed, Greg looked as if he belonged anywhere but here. The differences in their lifestyles and their futures couldn't have been more apparent.
"I have an apron with your name on it," she said with forced cheer.
He turned, and she blinked at the dark look on his face. "I'll pass on the apron if it's all the same to you."
She shrugged, wondering why the man didn't have whiplash from his sudden mood swings. "Then I guess the Santa hat is out of the question."
He frowned more deeply.
She tried to laugh. "That sour face of yours will scare off my customers."
"I'm not much of a people person."
"Really? I wouldn't have guessed."
"Your roommate came back."
She couldn't hide her surprise or her alarm. Rich suspected she was developing feelings for Greg. Had he said something? "Wh-what did Rich want?"
"He said he'd fix dinner this evening."
"Is that all?"
He nodded, then gestured to the bar and laughed awkwardly. "Look, this was a bad idea."
"Then why did you agree to do it?"
His mouth tightened and his gaze pierced her. "I wasn't thinking straight last night."
She swallowed. "That makes two of us."
He ran his hand down over his face. "The sooner we hash through this rezoning plan, the sooner we can get back to our own lives."
"You mean the sooner we can forget we ever met?"
He shrugged, and his nonchalance squeezed her heart painfully. She hadn't realized how much she had hoped…That rich and powerful Greg Healey would fall so hopelessly in love with her that he would change his whole outlook on life? For a woman with an above-average IQ, she could be so dim.
"You're right," she managed to say. "Why don't I see if someone can cover for me today, so you and I can take a walk around the Parkland area and meet some of the other shop owners?"
"Whatever speeds things along," he said in an uninterested voice.
Fighting an ache of frustration, Lana called Wesley first, then Annette. Annette's ankle was better, and she agreed to come in as soon as possible. In the meantime, Lana showed Greg how to work the coffee dispensers. Supremely out of his element, he moved stiffly with a frown pulling at his face. Last night's encounter hung in the air around him, like a song she couldn't put out of her head, compromising her focus.
He seemed as cagey as she, reluctant to draw closer than an arm's length lest whatever had come over them last night strike again. But the space behind the bar was tight, and, truthfully, he was in the way more than he helped. She was constantly brushing past him, reaching behind him, or stepping around him, every movement bolstering her throbbing awareness of his body in close proximity to hers.
In her rush to wait on an impatient customer, Lana tripped over Greg's feet and fell into him. He steadied her, but not before hot coffee sloshed over the cup she was holding and down the front of his pristine white shirt. He gasped and held the fabric away from him, leaving her with the bad feeling he'd have a third-degree burn in the shape of his undershirt.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured, dabbing at the runaway stain halfheartedly. The shirt was ruined—and she doubted that he'd bought it on a clearance table.
"You burned your hand," he said, then pulled her to the sink and ran cold water over the pink tingling flesh.
"It's nothing," she protested, but admitted the water felt good on her scorched palm. Or was it his fingers on her hand, brown skin against white, that felt good? He stood just behind her, his head bent close to hers. Perhaps the hot coffee had stirred up his cologne, because the musky scent enveloped her, teasing her senses, dredging up a flood of forgotten sensations from last night. She was grateful he couldn't see that her face was as pink as her injured hand. Had the oxygen in the air suddenly decreased?
"Thanks, it's better," she said, then pulled her shaky hand from his and dried it on her apron.
He unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on his stained shirt to expose his throat and collarbone to the air, and her cheeks burned with the realization that she knew the planes of the rest of his torso in intimate detail.
"The first rule of working in a coffee shop," she said with a rueful laugh, "is not to wear white."
"I guess I should've taken the apron," he said, then one side of his mouth pulled back. "But at least now my shirt matches my torn jacket."
Lana winced. "I haven't had a chance to get your jacket repaired yet."
"Can I get some service here?" a man asked loudly from the other side of the bar.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but Greg spoke first. "Take it easy, man. Can't you see the lady burned her hand?"
"All I see is you making moon eyes at her," the customer said dryly. "Can I have my coffee, or what?"
Greg's face was a thundercloud, so Lana cut in and handled the man's order, her mind humming like a teenager's at the offhand comment. Had Greg been making moon eyes at her? Nah. More likely, his eyes had been dilated in pain from his scalding hot coffee bath. She busied herself filling orders, until, as was the way of retail, the customers were gone and a lull ensued. Lana glanced at her watch. Where the devil was Annette?
Greg wore a closed expression, and he, too, checked the time. He had better things to do, of course. But at least business had been good for the short time he'd been there. Maybe he would realize that she provided a service that people wanted. That he couldn't just go around uprooting people's lives, like he'd uprooted hers.
At a loss for conversation, she gestured to a nearby table with a game board. "Do you play chess?"
He shrugged. "It's been a while."
"Come on, I'll go easy on you."
But he snorted softly as he sat down. "I'm a pretty good player."
So he'd belonged to the science club and the chess club. "Well, I'm not so bad myself."
He cracked his knuckles in a sweeping motion. "Give it your best shot."
She looked into his dark eyes, and for a split second she wondered if he were talking about the game, or about trying to breach his stony exterior. He looked away and gravely set up the game pieces. The tiniest of smug smiles played on his lips, and Lana shook her head. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
Six moves later she announced, "Checkmate."
"Huh?" Greg jammed his hand into his hair as he stared down at the chessboard. "That's impossible. We've barely moved any pieces."
Instead of scoffing at his disbelief, she swallowed hard at the sudden realization that his large, handsome features were becoming too familiar, and too appealing. She pushed back her chair—she needed some distance. "While you're second-guessing me, I'm going to sort the recyclables." She grabbed a couple of paper cups from a table as she walked by, then slipped behind the bar, trying to keep her gaze from straying to him. She needed to get a grip.
"How did you do that?" he asked, gesturing to the game board.
"Diversion," she said. "While you were pursuing my queen, you left your king at risk."
His head was still bent, and his index finger moved, recreating plays in his head.
"Can you handle refills for about five minutes?" she asked.
He waved and frowned, which she interpreted as yes.
Fighting a smile, Lana wheeled the garbage down the hall to where the recycle bins were stacked behind a folding door. She separated paper, glass, plastic.
Undoubtedly, no one had ever beat Greg Healey at chess, and certainly not a complicated female-type. Paper, glass, plastic. Most likely, the women he met through the singles ads had more lively pursuits. Paper, glass, plastic. She closed the folding door with a sigh and headed back to the front.
Lana froze at the sight of her smiling pastry chef Annette coming through the front door. Good grief, she'd forgotten. The last thing she needed was for Annette to reveal that she was Coffee Girl and fall head over heels in love with Greg Healey. He'd trample the woman's heart for sure. And Lana should know.
Lana blinked with the revelation, then shouted "Annette!" before the girl's hand left the doorknob. Lana glided past Greg, who had moved behind the bar. "Thanks for coming in."
Annette cast a quizzical glance toward Greg, who was, amazingly, wiping up the counter. "Who's that?"
Lana lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Um, he's the owner of the building, the one who's trying to rezone the area and close me down."
Annette pursed her lips. "Close you down? Looks to me like he's cleaning up."
Lana rolled her eyes for effect. "He's only here to prove to the city council that he's concerned about the merchants."
"He's gorgeous. What's his name?"
She took in Annette's perky face and voluptuous figure, and suddenly realized that keeping Annette and Greg apart had little to do with her concern for Annette's fragile heart. Was it possible that she wanted to keep him all to herself? Preposterous, considering the man probably answered singles ads every week. Still…
Her heart skipped a beat in relief when she remembered that Annette didn't know the last name of the man who had answered her ad. "It's, um, Mr. Healey. Listen, Annette, while you're here, I wondered if you could do me a little favor." Lana led a craning Annette past the bar out of sight to a coat closet in the back. She withdrew Greg's torn jacket. "Is it possible to repair this tear so that it doesn't show?"
Annette studied the rip. "Nice fabric. Whose jacket?"
"Um, the guy out front."
She grinned. "What did you do? Tear his clothes off in a fight?"
"Can you fix it or not?"
Annette nodded. "To the point that it won't be noticeable."
Lana sighed with relief. At least she wouldn't have to replace an expensive suit on her already strained budget. "Great. Write me up a bill when you're finished."
"No charge. It's the least I can do for accidentally setting you up with that creepy Greg What's-his-name last week."
"Shh!"
"What?"
"I thought I heard something."
"I didn't hear anything."
Lana waved off the imaginary noise. "Thanks for watching the shop for me."
"With that hunky guy? No problem."
Lana frowned. "Actually, I was planning to take Hunky Guy around to meet some of the other shop owners that he wants to put out of business."
Annette's face fell. "Oh."
Lana untied her apron and handed it to Annette. "I'll be back soon."
"Take your time," Annette said, winking. "Maybe you can sweet-talk Mr. Healey into not going through with his plan." She laughed. "And if he doesn't cooperate, you can always spray his eyes full of hair spray like you did that other guy."
LANA DROVE HER HANDS deeper into her coat pockets and glanced sideways at Greg. "Now that you've met some of the shop owners, what do you think?" Her shop was in sight, up ahead and on the opposite side of the street. The weather had taken a sudden turn toward raw, spitting ice crystals and blowing up sudden blasts of Arctic wind. She could no longer feel her toes or her nose, but, curiously, she hated for the tour to end.
"Not the friendliest bunch," he said wryly.
"You're trying to shut down their businesses."
"How many times do I have to tell you that this isn't personal—it's business?"
She stopped and turned to face him. "It's personal to me."
He stopped, too, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He'd turned up the collar of his sleek black leather coat to ward off the biting wind. "You shouldn't allow personal entanglements to cloud your business judgment."
"I can't make decisions without considering the people who will be affected," she said softly. "I'm not wired that way."
He looked away, jammed his hands into this pockets, then looked back. "I'm not responsible for those people. If their livelihoods are tied up in their businesses, why haven't any of them offered to buy their buildings?"
"Because they can't afford them?" She knew she couldn't afford a mortgage on the building her shop was in.
"That's right," he said. "They can't afford to carry a mortgage and pay the property taxes and maintain the rotten plumbing. They want to have a say-so in how the property is developed, but none of them are rushing to assume the risk."
He was right, of course. At least in her case. "Last night you said you would help."
"Last night I was…distracted." Regret laced his words.
Her heart shivered with disappointment. "Meaning, you would have said anything to get in my pants?"
He shook his head and rubbed his jaw. "Don't put words in my mouth. I said I would try to help, and I will, but there's more at stake here than a few miscellaneous shops. Look, I have to go. I've wasted—" He stopped and scratched his temple to cover his gaffe, but she'd heard him loud and clear. He'd wasted enough time on her.
"I have to go," he said simply.
She struggled to keep the hurt from her voice, angry at herself because she had no right to feel hurt. Greg Healey meant nothing to her. She reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew a folder of photocopied notes—all her scribbled thoughts for regenerating the Hyde Parkland area. "For what it's worth, these are my ideas," she said, thrusting the folder into his hand. "I'll see you around."
Lana crossed the street and walked toward the shop. It was a good thing she knew the route by heart, or else she'd never have found the place through the blur of tears—caused by the stinging wind, of course.
17
"GREGORY?"
Greg snapped out of another
Lana-induced reverie. "What?"
"Do you think that Eddie Age Seven would like the red bike helmet or the blue?"
"The blue."
Will grinned. "I think so, too." He added the box to a toy-laden buggy. "That's the last one on the list. This is fun."
"Thanks for coming to help me, pal." The past week had been a blur of disjointed events. He'd left things badly with Lana, and his regret had escalated each day. Her folder of notes had become his bedtime reading, which dovetailed perfectly into dreaming about the woman. Greg dragged his hand down his face. He was feeling a little stressed.
"How do we get the gifts to the boys and girls?"
"We'll take them back to the coffee shop, and Lana will make sure they go to the right person." Of course, his dilemma was how to get the gifts to Lana's coffee shop without running into her. He'd considered posting them, but with only five more mailing days until Christmas, he was afraid the packages would be waylaid.
"I'm sorry that you and Lana had an argument."
He frowned. "How did you know we had an argument?"
"I heard you telling Yvonne."
"Oh. Well, it wasn't an argument—it was a disagreement."
"But Yvonne said you were the disagreeable one."
"It's not nice to eavesdrop on other people's conversations."
"But I thought you were trying to be nice to Lana to win her over to your side."
He sighed. "It's complicated."
"I know you said that women are complicated, Gregory, but I still want one."
Oh, no, not that again. "You're not looking in the singles ads again, are you?"
"Nope. Coffee Girl was the only one I liked, but she turned out to be complicated, too, didn't she."
Greg's head was spinning, but he managed a nod.
"I guess I'll just have to wait until the right girl comes along." Will lifted a fire truck from the buggy and moved the ladder up and down. "Lana's a good person, isn't she, Gregory?"
"Do we have to talk about Lana?"
"Well, she is a nice person, isn't she?"
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