by Cara Colter
Actually, a cleaning staff kept it clean in here, but it seemed so pretentious to say it, that he didn’t.
“Well, this—” she tugged, and the whole shelf slid out and began to rise “—is a stand mixer. Sometimes called a batch mixer.”
He was so startled at it moving by itself that he took a step back. He actually took her shoulders and moved her back, too.
The monstrous apparatus rose silently and then stopped at counter level.
“If it moves toward you, run,” he whispered.
He loved her giggle. She sounded like Goldie Hawn.
“It’s not dangerous,” she assured him. She reached out as if she was going to pet it.
He grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch. I think it may be HAL.”
“HAL?”
She had to ask. He wouldn’t break it to her just yet that she didn’t have a hope with Kevin. He didn’t care about her and Kevin. Shoot. He cared about her and Kevin. And her and some guy who had stiffed her for coffee. And her and the sleazy oversexed guy with the scarf. He was still holding her hand. He dropped it like it was hot.
“2001: A Space Odyssey.”
She was all over that ugly red space alien piece of machinery. “I’m not familiar with it.”
Kiss Kevin goodbye.
“It’s a movie. Old. Sci-fi.”
“Hmmm, you don’t look like a sci-fi kind of guy.”
Or an Elvis kind of guy. He was going to ask her how she knew a sci-fi guy from one who wasn’t, but she’d probably dated one.
Instead he said, “I’m not really a sci-fi guy, but when you work with the geek squad, you pick up on what they consider to be the essentials of life. Consider it like being immersed in a continuous episode of The Big Bang Theory.”
She was very focused on the apparatus in front of her but laughed at his joke. She was obviously very familiar with the ugly red space alien. Was she caressing the damn thing?
Don’t ask. “What kind of guy would you say I am?” he asked.
“The best kind,” she said with a smile. “The kind with a commercial kitchen and a stand mixer.”
“I have other sterling qualities.”
“Where’s your bedroom?”
His jaw dropped. He, who considered himself virtually unshakable, felt like he was turning the same color as the darned mixer.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. His voice sounded like a squeak.
She actually turned her attention away from the attractions of the mixer and stared at him. And then her eyes widened. And then she giggled, that funny little Goldie Hawn giggle. And then the giggle deepened into something even better. She laughed. She laughed until she doubled over from it. She laughed until the tears were squirting out her eyes.
“Oh, my God, Brand.”
“What’s so damn funny?”
“I wasn’t suggesting you had sterling qualities in the bedroom. Not that you don’t. I mean maybe you do.”
Her laughter dried up, just like that. Now they were both standing there with faces as red as the mixer.
“I’m going to be trying to catch up on my orders.” She was speaking very fast, her words tumbling over one another. “I need to call Chelsea. We’ll probably work all night. I wanted to know where your bedroom was so we wouldn’t disturb you. So I know how quiet I need to be. We usually work with music. And equipment like this—” she patted that mixer with disturbing affection again “—is quite loud.”
“Oh.” He said. “That’s a relief.” Well, kind of a disappointment, but mostly a relief.
She actually looked faintly hurt. “Yes, isn’t it?”
“My bedroom’s a long way away. Play anything you want. As loud as you want.”
“Do you have a favorite Elvis song?”
The soundtrack of his childhood. He could tell from which one was playing when he walked through the door after school how his Mom was going to be that evening. Or maybe more accurately, who she was going to be.
He could have never told Wendy about that. Had never wanted to.
And yet, at this precise moment, there was an ache to tell Bree. It felt as if he would die of loneliness if he didn’t tell her.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he forced his tone to be smooth and light, and answered, “Must I pick only one? Impossible. Yours?”
She didn’t hesitate. “‘I Can’t Help—’”
She stopped. She stared at him. She stammered, “Uh, I can’t think of one. ‘Jailhouse Rock’ maybe.”
He should tell her never to take up poker. She was a terrible liar.
They were definitely in the danger zone right now, right this instant. He could feel the chemistry between them. The needle was edging up into red. He’d made a mistake inviting her into his space. He could clearly see that.
“Don’t worry about disturbing me at all,” he said. “I was just going to pack a bag, anyway.”
“You were?”
“Yes, I have a business trip. We’re opening a new physical location. Bali.” He hadn’t been planning on going to the opening until thirty seconds ago. Suddenly it felt imperative to put a world of oceans between them.
“Bali,” she said.
He thought of her in Bali. Carefree. He wondered if she’d ever snorkeled. Or surfed. That was where he had learned to do both. He felt an unfortunate curiosity about what she would look like in a bikini.
“Okay,” he said, hastily “if you’ve got everything you need, I’ll go pack.”
“Yes,” she said formally. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”
He moved away from her, edging toward the door. Edging back toward the world where he controlled everything. Where there were surprises, of course there were, but in a way, even though they were surprises, they were predictable kind of surprises. Like deciding to go to Bali on a moment’s notice.
Nothing that made his heart do what it was doing right now.
Thank goodness!
“Yes, you do that,” she said, as insultingly eager to get rid of him as he was to go. “Go to pack. Do I need a key? To get in and out? I’ll need to go for supplies.”
He started to say he didn’t lock it. But suddenly he didn’t want his house unlocked with him away and her coming in and out. What if she was coming in with her arms full of groceries and there was an intruder, already inside? Or what if she was inside making a bunch of noise, so much noise she might not hear an intruder? Beau would be left at the office while he was away. Should he leave him here with her instead? To protect her?
No. The dog would probably compromise the health standards of the kitchen. There was a keypad on the front door that Brand had never used. He was going to have to figure it out. He’d call one of his technical geniuses.
It occurred to him he’d never thought he had anything of value in here. It was valuable stuff, but he recognized, right this minute, he had no attachment to any of it.
It felt as if Bree Evans was the only valuable thing in his world.
Her and Beau.
Beau could look after himself.
“I have to get going,” he said again. He could hear the desperation in his own voice. He was pretty sure there was a line of sweat breaking out over his top lip.
She waltzed over to him. She looked as if she was going to kiss him again. He backed away from her rapidly.
“Make yourself at home while I’m away,” Brand said. “If you need a break there’s a media room through that door. The freezer has microwavable stuff in it, if you get sick of eating cookies. There are guest bedrooms upstairs if you need a snooze. There’s four, no, five powder rooms, so take your pick.”
There was that look again, as if she might kiss him. He backed away from her even more rapidly. As unmanly as it was, he was practically running from her.
“Thank you
,” she called after him, as he went through the door to the hallway.
Her voice sounded as if it had laughter in it. Minx. She liked making him uncomfortable.
And he liked making her laugh. In fact, Brand was very aware that a man could live to make her laugh, to wipe the worry lines from her forehead, to erase the sorrow from her eyes...
A better man than him, he reminded himself. One without baggage, a ragtag excuse for a family, a number of failed forays into the relationship department, his only serious one, Wendy, having failed quite colossally.
Bali, he told himself. That should take his mind off her. Sand and surf and work. Lots and lots of work.
Work. It had always been the place he escaped. It was a world where a person could apply their mind to problems and make them dissolve. It was a world where the challenges were not personal, where they had no emotion attached to them. It was a world he could lose himself in, shut out any little thing that bothered him or caused him distress or discomfort.
The only thing was, he’d never been aware before that he used it to escape the nebulous unsolvable kind of problems that popped up when you became attached to another person.
He waited until he was out of the house to slide his phone from his pocket. He punched in the familiar number. He got her answering message.
“Hi, Mom, I’m going to be away for a couple of days. I’ll video-call you tonight on your phone.”
His mother loved that feature on her phone. “It’s just like being on The Jetsons,” she’d say with wonder every single time he called.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BREE CAME AWAKE with a start and a little shriek.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
His voice wrapped around her in the darkness and made her feel safe.
“Brand?” she asked sleepily. In what context would she be waking up to Brand? It was a dream, obviously, a delightful dream that she never wanted to end.
“I had no idea you were in here,” he said, softly, his voice like the touch of a silk scarf across the back of her neck.
She remembered, slowly, she was in one of the deep recliner chairs in his media room. She had helped herself to one of the Icelandic wool blankets artfully placed in a huge basket in one of the corners.
“What time is it?” You could never tell in the media room, because, unlike the kitchen, which was saturated in light from the banks of windows, light had been deliberately blocked out of this room.
“Eight.”
“In the morning?” she asked, shocked.
“Yeah.”
“Are you just getting home?”
“Yeah. I was going to unwind from the trip in here for a bit, but I’ll—”
“No—no, of course you can unwind in your own home. Chelsea and I finished late. It was about two in the morning. I should have gone home,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “I was just going to sit here for a moment, but I made the mistake of reclining the chair. So comfy! I hope I didn’t leave the ovens on.” She sniffed the air. “I wouldn’t want to burn down two kitchens.”
“There’s nothing burning. The house smells incredible, though. You could bottle that smell. Make a fortune.”
Her eyes were adjusting to the dark. He was still dressed for the tropics in light pants and a sports shirt. He looked so yummy, ever so slightly travel-rumpled, his hair not quite as crisply groomed as normal, his cheeks and chin dark with whisker stubble.
She remembered she had on the white-net baking cap, and she tried to remove it as surreptitiously as possible and stuff it in the pocket of her chef’s jacket. Why did he always have to catch her at her worst?
“How was Bali?”
He didn’t answer.
“Not what you hoped?” she asked. “Did something go wrong?”
“No, not really. I’m just a bit off. Time difference.” He moved by her, took the deep chair next to hers and pushed it back into full recline. “Anything new in the fire investigation?”
Bree cast Brand a glance out of the corner of her eye. His hands were folded over his stomach and he was looking at the ceiling. It had been a week since she’d seen him. Was he deliberately avoiding talking about himself?
“Chelsea’s a mess. She’s been interviewed twice, and they’ve intimidated her horribly.”
“Does she have a lawyer?”
“On what I pay her?”
“Would you let me look after it?”
A terrible tenderness unfolded in her at the weariness etched into the lines of his handsome face.
Of course she felt tender toward him! He had saved her business. He had given her a place to work that was beyond her wildest dreams. Now he was offering to help Chelsea.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling any defenses she had left against him crumbling as she accepted his gift with the graciousness it deserved. “You should go to bed.”
“You should, too.”
Together. She knew the renegade thought proved she was not just feeling tender toward him because of her business or his offer to help Chelsea.
“I think I’m awake for the day,” she said hastily, to move the talk and her still dream-weakened thoughts away from the topic of beds.
“Yes, me, too. The worst thing I could do this morning is indulge my desire to sleep. I need to force myself back on to this time.”
It reminded her, no matter how tender she felt toward him, that her feelings had to remain her closely guarded secret. They were from different worlds. He was a man accustomed to dealing with jet lag, business trips to Bali and beyond. She made cookies for a living.
“How did the cookies go?” he asked, as if he could read her mind. He asked it as though he really cared, damn him, and as if there was not a huge gap in their socioeconomic circumstances.
“We’re completely caught up. All my regular orders are done. Perks got their first order. Chelsea took the Crystal Silvers order to the airport last night when we finished.”
“You’ve been busy,” he said.
“Yes, my poor cat has been feeling neglected.” Now why had she said that? Add crazy cat lady to cookie maker! Besides, it wasn’t true. Her neighbor, an elderly lady, loved Oliver and had liked nothing more than taking the cat while Bree put in these long hours.
“I guess you probably feel the same about Beau? Will you pick him up and bring him home today?”
“I’ll probably banish him while the baking is going on. I think your health standard would be compromised by his presence.”
“Aw, poor guy.”
“Not really. He’s used to me being away. He’s got a pretty nice setup at the office, too. There’s people working there all the time.”
“Your office runs all the time?”
“It’s that creative-brain thing. Lots of my people say they work best at night. I just go with it. The office is open twenty-four hours. I let them keep track of their own time.”
“You need more cookies if you’re running twenty-four hours,” she said. “Your office is next on the list. I’ve been filling orders in between the Crystal Silvers special order, and I’m caught up. Your office will be going into the rotation starting on Monday.”
“You haven’t sent me a contract yet,” he said. His voice was husky with sleepiness.
She wouldn’t tell him this just yet, because he was sure to reject it, but she wasn’t sending him a contract. She was baking his office cookies for free, for the rest of her life. And cookies for Beau, too, as soon as she figured out a dog-friendly recipe.
His chest was starting to rise and fall.
“You can bring Beau home,” she said. “I’ll be taking the next two days off.”
She realized she wanted to stay here forever, feeling warm and safe and oddly happy. She forced herself to throw back the blanket and get up. “Can I bring you anything before
I leave?”
“Sure. A Love Bite and a Decadent.”
He remembered things. That was the nature of being a businessman, remembering details about people and their businesses. Still, she felt inordinately pleased that he remembered the names of her cookies.
Then he added, “And with anyone else, a decadent love bite would mean something quite different than it does with you. Just saying.”
She laughed, a bit uneasily. There it was again, between them, teasing, which was wonderful, but it was teasing with some finely held tension, like a shiver when you went outside on a cold day. “I’ll be right back.”
But he got up and followed her into the kitchen.
“I don’t want to go to sleep,” Brand insisted. “I know from past experience what giving in to that temptation does. It can take weeks to get back to normal if you don’t force yourself back into a regular daily schedule right away.”
Morning light was streaming in the kitchen windows. In the brightness, he still looked tired, and also sexily roguish with that hint of whisker shadow on his face. She could see his skin had picked up a faint golden glow from the sun.
She felt something tingle along her spine. There was something about the way he was looking at her that could give that expression, about giving in to temptation, many meanings. They had been apart for a week. It had not cooled the way she felt about him. It had intensified it.
Did he feel the same way? Or was it all just banter to him? He would be good at flirting, probably with no awareness of how good he was at it. In one sentence of that City article they had called him Vancouver’s most eligible bachelor.
“Wow,” he said, looking around. “If there’s a heaven this is what it looks and smells like.”
She looked around and saw what he saw. His kitchen was, indeed, a beautiful sight. It was bright and clean, with clearly defined workstations. But the best sight of all—well, besides him—was those big clearly labeled rectangular bakery boxes, stacked up on racks in the center island. Cookies all boxed up and ready to go to their various destinations and drop-off points.
“I’m interested in what brought you to filling up your life with cookies,” he said as she handed him the two flavors he had requested. Their fingertips brushed. Something electrical, like static, leaped between them.
