by Cara Colter
“Show him your hand,” she insisted in an undertone.
To refuse now would just prolong the discomfort of the incident, so Bree held out her hand. “See? It’s nothing.”
He took it carefully, and she felt the jolt of his touch for the second time in as many minutes. He examined the pinch mark between her thumb and pointer, and for a stunning moment it felt as if he might lift her tiny wound to his lips.
She held her breath. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Chelsea’s sigh of pure delight.
Of course, one of the most powerful men in Vancouver did not lift her hand to his lips. He let it go.
“Quite a welt,” he said. “But I think you’re going to live.”
Feeling a sense of abject emptiness after he’d withdrawn his hand, Bree turned her attention to the boxes of cookies scattered all over the floor, and began to pick them up. He crouched beside her, picking them up, too.
“Please don’t,” she said.
“Thank you for your help,” Chelsea said firmly, clearly coaching her boss how to behave around an extraordinary man.
“I can get them,” Bree said.
But Brand stayed on the floor beside her, reading the labels out loud with deep amusement. His shoulder was nearly brushing hers. An intoxicating scent, like the forest after rain, tingled her nostrils.
“‘Little Surprises,’” he said, reading the boxes. “‘Love Bites. Devilishly Decadent. Spells Gone Wrong.’ These are priceless,” he said.
His appreciation seemed genuine, but she now felt the same about her cookie names as she had just felt about the apron and the beret. She felt cute rather than clever. She wished she had come up with an organic makeup line, like the woman at the booth set up across the foyer from her.
“Bree, are these your creations?”
“Yes, Kookies is my company.”
“I like it all. The packaging. The names. I’m glad you ended up doing something unusual. I always wondered if it would come true.”
The fact that he had wondered about her, at all, knocked down her defenses a bit.
She stared at him. “If what would come true?”
“That night, at your prom. Don’t you remember?”
She remembered all kinds of things about that night. She remembered how his hand felt on her elbow, and how his same forest-fresh scent had enveloped her, and how every time he threw back his head and laughed her heart skipped a beat. She remembered dancing a slow dance with him. And she remembered that she, school bookworm and official geek, had been the envy of every other girl in the room. She remembered, when the evening had ended, leaning toward him, her lips puckered, her eyes closed, and him putting her away.
“Do I remember what?” she asked, her voice far more choked than she would have liked it to be!
“They gave out all those titles in a little mock ceremony partway through the dance. Most likely to succeed. Mostly likely to become prime minister. You don’t remember that?”
“No.”
“Most likely to become a rodeo clown, most likely to win the Golden Armpit for bad acting.”
“Those weren’t categories!”
“Just checking to make sure you were paying attention.”
As if anyone would not pay attention to him. His grin widened, making him seem less billionaire and more charming boy from her past.
She remembered this about him, too—an ability to put people at ease. That night of the prom, gauche and starstruck, she had wondered if it was possible to die from pure nerves. He had teased her lightly, engaged her, made himself an easy person to be with.
Which was probably why she had screwed up the nerve to humiliate herself by offering him her lips at the end of the evening.
“Now that I’ve jarred your memory, do you remember what your title was?”
“I hardly remember anything about that night.” This was not a lie. She remembered everything about him, but the other details of the night? Her dress and the snacks and the band and anyone else she had danced with had never really registered.
“Most likely to live happily ever after. That was the title they bestowed on you.”
The worst possible thing happened. Not only was she here on the floor, picking up her mess with the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever met, in a silly apron, with her hair scraped back in a dumb bun and granny glasses perched on her nose, but now she was also going to disgrace herself by bursting into tears.
CHAPTER TWO
NO!
Bree Evans was not going to cry in front of Brand Wallace. She had a broken dream or two, but so what? Who didn’t?
She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. She made herself smile.
“Of course they did,” she said. “Happily-Ever-After. Look. Here’s the proof.” She bought a moment away from the intense gaze of his eyes on her face. She picked through the boxes of cookies.
There they were, the favorite kooky cookie for when she supplied weddings. She opened a box and pulled a cookie from its wrapping.
Shortbread infused with strawberries and champagne.
She passed it to him, and he took a quizzical bite.
“There you go,” Bree said, and hoped he could not hear the tight, close-to-tears note in her voice. “Happily-Ever-After.”
She watched as his eyes closed with pleasure. He was distracted, as she had hoped.
When he opened his eyes again, he smiled at her. “That is one of the oddest—and tastiest—combinations of flavors I’ve ever experienced. Ambrosia.”
“Thank you. I’ll tuck that away for a new cookie name.”
But then she saw she might not have distracted him quite as completely as she hoped, because he was watching her way too closely. She felt as if his eyes locked on the faint quiver of her lip.
“My company has an event coming up, a charity ball in support of this same goal, to raise funds for the new wing of Children’s. Do you think I could get you to supply some of these?”
Bree’s mouth fell open.
“Of course,” Chelsea said smoothly.
“I’m sure they will be planning some kind of midnight snack or party favor,” Brand said. “Have you a card? I’ll give it to my event planner, and she’ll be in touch.”
Being around him was a roller-coaster ride, Bree thought, as she turned, flustered, to get him her business card. For a stunning moment she had thought he was showing interest in her. He’d quickly doused that by saying his event planner would be in touch.
This kind of opportunity was exactly why she was at this event, Bree reminded herself firmly, turning with a bright, hopefully professional, smile to give him the card.
He slipped the card into his inside jacket pocket, and popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. It drew her attention, unfortunately, to the rather sensuous curve of his lips as he chewed.
“Do you want to go for a quick coffee?” he asked her.
A roller-coaster ride!
The invitation seemed to take him by surprise as much as it did her.
“R-right now?” she stammered. “Things are just about to begin. See? People are going through to the auditorium. The program said Crystal Silvers is going to sing first.”
“I don’t care about that.”
One of the most sought-after performers in the Western world, and he didn’t care about that? He cared more about having coffee with her?
This was dangerous territory indeed.
Bree gestured helplessly at her display. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You’re going for coffee,” insisted Chelsea, who had never had a stubborn moment in her life—she was certainly changing things up tonight. Her tone was firm, brooking no argument.
“No.” Bree aimed her best who-is-the-boss-here? look at her assistant.
Chelsea ignored it. “Go, I can hand
le this.”
“No, I—”
“Go!” Chelsea said, and then, under her breath, she added, “Live dangerously, for Pete’s sake.”
“Unless your husband would object,” Brand said smoothly.
Chelsea snorted in a most unflattering way.
Brand’s gaze slid to Bree’s ring finger. She wanted to hide it behind her back as if its nakedness heralded some kind of failure.
“Boyfriend, then.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
She was as oblivious to the daggered look Bree gave her as she had been to the who-is-the-boss-here? look.
“The last guy she met on e-Us was a loser.”
Since Chelsea was so adept at ignoring Bree’s looks, dancing happily with insubordination, Bree managed to step hard on her foot before she could elaborate on the e-Us thing. Chelsea gave her a sulky look, but clamped her mouth shut.
Even so, damage had been done. Bree could see him registering what e-Us was.
One thing that was obvious about someone like Brand Wallace? He’d never been on a site like e-Us in his life.
“We’ll just go around the corner,” he said persuasively. “Two old friends catching up.”
“Old friends,” Chelsea breathed. “Do you have, uh, a significant other, Mr. Wallace?”
“Does my dog count?”
Chelsea gave Bree a not-so-subtle nudge on her shoulder.
“I don’t think—” Bree began.
“I’m interested in your business. You’ll be back in half an hour,” he assured Bree. “The first set will have hardly started. These things never go off quite on time.”
Meaning he was very familiar with these things. Big surprise.
“I’ll have you back before intermission.”
“I bet he won’t stick you with the bill, either,” Chelsea said helpfully, sidling out of the way before Bree could get her foot again.
The firm line of his mouth registered disapproval as he registered that morsel of information about the sad state of Bree’s dating life.
“Your young assistant looks more than capable of finishing the setup here.” His voice was suave.
Chelsea preened. “More than capable,” she said, and flipped her hair.
It would seem churlish to refuse. It would seem like she was afraid of him, and life and surprises and the very thing she tried to bake into all her cookies.
Magic.
It was that magical thinking that always got her in trouble, Bree reminded herself. He had mentioned business. She was not in a position to turn down this kind of connection to the business world.
“All right,” she said, resigned. “A quick coffee.”
Bree came face-to-face with her truth. She was terrified of believing in good things.
And terrified especially to believe in the happily-ever-after that men like him had made women like her yearn for since the beginning of time.
“For goodness sake,” Chelsea said in an undertone, “lose the apron. And do something with your hair.”
She ran a hand through it, and followed Brand, tilting her chin at him when he held the door open for her.
It was a beautiful spring evening in Vancouver, and Bree was aware her senses felt oddly heightened. The air smelled good from a recent rain, and plump crystal droplets fell from the blossom-laden branches of the ornamental cherry trees that lined the sidewalk.
There were two coffee places around the corner from the concert hall, and Bree liked it that Brand chose the independent shop, Perks, rather than the one that was part of a big chain.
It was cozy inside, with mismatched sofas and scarred old tables with brightly painted chairs clustered around them. It smelled heavenly, of coffee and exotic spices.
“Have you been here before?” he asked her.
“Just to introduce them to Kookies. They passed.”
“Fools.”
Brand said it with such genuine indignation. It was going to be hard to keep her defenses about her. But she had known that when she was trying to refuse his invitation.
“Thank you for saying so. But it wasn’t personal. They already had a contract with someone.”
“Humph.”
She had managed to get rid of her apron, but remembered Chelsea’s instruction to do something with her hair. “If you’ll excuse me for just a sec, I’ll go freshen up.”
“What can I get you?”
She was going to say hot chocolate; coffee was out at this time of evening. But in the spirit of living dangerously and allowing life to astonish her, she didn’t. “Surprise me,” she said.
“Oh. That sounds fun.”
Somehow, she was not at all sure he was talking about beverage selection! She excused herself hastily before he could see the blush moving up her neck.
She found the washroom, slipped inside and looked at herself in the mirror. What she saw was so ordinary as to be discouraging. Her light brown hair, average at the best of times, was pulled into a tight bun—even worse. She had gone very light on the makeup, so faint freckles stood out on her nose. She had on no lipstick, and she had worn glasses tonight instead of her contacts. A wholesome, old-fashioned look was exactly what she wanted when she was behind the table giving out cookie samples.
To have coffee with an old crush—who could coax a blush out of her with a turn of phrase—not so much!
She pulled her hair out of the bun. It fell, stick-straight, to her shoulders. She rummaged in her purse for a brush and added a touch of lip gloss.
It was an improvement, but she was aware she still felt very ordinary, the kind of workaday girl who was virtually invisible.
“Not in his league,” she told herself. But then she saw the plus side of that: she could just relax. It was just old friends catching up, after all. Nothing would ever come of it, except maybe a beneficial business connection.
She went back out into the main room. He had chosen two love seats facing each other with a round coffee table in between. She walked over and sat opposite him.
“You’ve let your hair down,” Brand said.
Physically, not figuratively, despite her intention to relax. She hoped he didn’t think she had done it to impress him.
“More comfortable,” she said.
“I always liked the color of your hair. It reminds me of sand on a sun-warmed beach.”
He had remembered the color of her hair? She gawked at him. Sand on a sun-warmed beach?
Do not gawk at the celebrities, she ordered herself. And do not take it personally, she also ordered herself. It was obvious he knew his way around women. He had found her one redeeming feature and flattered her about it. And it had worked some terrible magic on her. She could feel her nerves humming so hard it felt as though her skin was vibrating.
“I always considered it mousy brown,” she said.
“That is ridiculous.”
If she wasn’t careful, she was going to gawk again. Probably with her mouth hanging open.
Thankfully, the beverages were delivered. Two steaming cups were set in front of them. She took hers, blew on it gently so as not to blow a blob of foam right onto his forehead and took a sip.
“What is this?” she asked, delighted.
“So I did manage to surprise! You’ve never had it before?”
“No.”
“It’s a chai latte. Spiced sweet tea with steamed milk. You like?”
“Wonderful. I can taste the tea, which is so ordinary, but then the spices and the mound of sugar-crusted foam raise it to a new level.”
Suddenly she wondered why he had picked it for her. And she found herself looking at ordinary in a different light.
“And what are you having?” she asked him.
“Coffee, black.”
“Given
the variety on the menu, that seems unadventurous.”
“I save my adventuring for other arenas.”
She was going to blush again! No, she was not. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“You have had some great adventures in business,” she said, pleased that she did not miss a beat. “I’ve been reading about you, Brand,” she said. “You’ve done so well.”
“Ah, the City article. I had no idea that magazine was so widely read.”
Bree doubted it had been before they featured him on the cover!
“I must say I didn’t treasure anonymity nearly enough when I had it. Everyone suddenly knows who I am. It’s a little disconcerting. But thank you. The success part seems to be luck and timing. I jumped on an opportunity.”
“My dad loved the quote—‘opportunity meets preparation.’ He always thought very highly of you. He admired your work ethic. He was fond of saying, ‘That young man is going places.’”
“He used to say the same thing to me. When not another person in the world was. I feel as if he was the first person who truly believed in me. That goes a long way in a young man’s life, especially one with no father figure. I don’t think I ever had a chance to tell him that. What his faith in me meant. I regret it, but I’m glad I’ve been given this opportunity to tell you.”
It became evident to her this was why he’d invited her for coffee. It was an opportunity to tell her what her father had meant to him.
It was lovely.
So, why did she feel faintly resentful—as if she was a chai latte that had just been demoted to a very ordinary cup of Earl Gray?
He watched her now over the rim of his coffee cup. “I called several times after your dad died. I spoke to your mother. Did she tell you?”
“Yes, she said you had called and asked after me.”
“One day I called and the number was out of service. I dropped by the house and it was empty. For sale, if I recall.”
Bree took a sip of her drink, and let the spicy aroma fill her nostrils and warm the back of her throat before she replied. “I left for college. My mother felt lonely in the house, so she sold it quite quickly. Then she remarried and moved to San Francisco.”
“Is she happy?”
