A Fine Romance

by Christi Barth

  Chapter Nine

  “Today’s field trip is two-pronged.” Sam slammed the door on his delivery van. With a jerk of his head, he indicated Mira should start walking. Easier said than done, when helping carry a seventy-five-pound cake. The current version rose four tiers high, with a basket weave design on the sides, and marzipan fruits in deep rust, burgundy and gold spilling along the bottom of each layer.

  Sam didn’t normally like to roll out the fall colors as decoration in September, but the client insisted. With her mind set on wanting to use cornucopias as table centerpieces, she went with a whole autumn theme. That was a battle for her wedding planner to fight. All he had to do was hand-paint a hundred or so pieces of sugared fruit. His fingers might’ve cramped and he had a wicked crick in his neck, but he far preferred that to the massive pain in the ass of dealing with a bride on a daily basis. He didn’t know how Ivy managed not to stuff a balled-up sock in their mouths half the time.

  Brides didn’t have an off switch when it came to their weddings. Ever. Sam got a kick out of being a tiny cog in the happiest day of their lives. He just didn’t need to hear them ramble on about it. His favorite parts of the day were when he holed up in the back kitchen. Hours would go by with only the flour and sugar for company. He loved the peace and quiet. And yet he didn’t mind a bit that Mira hadn’t stopped talking since she got in the van. Funny.

  “Really?” Mira panted, but kept on a straight line through the loading dock and into the dim back hallways of the InterContinental Hotel. “Looks like you’ve got exactly one purpose for bringing me along. Free labor.”

  What was she complaining about? He was the one walking backward. “That part doesn’t hurt. Of course, if you weren’t here, I’d draft one of the assistant pastry chefs to help me lug this inside.”

  “What?” She stopped walking all of a sudden, mouth hanging open.

  Sam executed an emergency two-step forward to keep from dropping his half. “Careful. What did I tell you before we started?”

  She rolled her eyes. Then she lifted a knee to support the base while readjusting her grip. “We’ve got to work as a single pair of legs.”

  “That’s right. Or else this five-thousand-dollar cake ends up a very expensive pile of crumbs on the floor. You know how they say the landing is the most dangerous part of an airplane flight? Transporting a cake from the van to an event site is the most dangerous part. Lots of people think driving is the scary part. Not true. More cakes are dropped than ever slide into the sidewall of a van.”

  Her second eye roll made him wonder if she’d ever sat through detention as a kid. Mira sure had the spunk to land herself there on a regular basis. “With all due respect, oh master baker—”

  Sam cut her off. “Gotta say, I like that title. Maybe you can use it again soon. You know, when I show you what else I do masterfully.” Ah, there it was. The telltale rush of pink to her pale cheeks. He knew by now, after a week of stolen daytime kisses and late nights spent hanging out on her couch, that it didn’t signal embarrassment, but desire. Good. Because beneath the brown Lyons Bakery half apron he wore for all setups, he’d been half hard since she walked into his store today. She’d followed his instructions and worn brown pants. But the pants cradled her ass the way his hands longed to, showcasing the peach-shaped glory of it. And her cream Henley clung to all the curves on her front as close as the icing on this cake.

  Thankfully, the full bakery apron he’d tossed at her hung shapelessly almost to the floor. Hiding her breasts merely enabled him to walk without a hitch. It didn’t stop the visual from popping into his head every damn time he looked at her. God, he needed to get her under him again, as soon as possible. Judging by her rosy cheeks, she felt the same way.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Maybe you’ll be the one screaming my name in praise.”

  She could flip so quickly from all business to all sass. Sam loved it. “I’m a liberated, twenty-first-century guy. I’ve got no problem with that. Now start walking.”

  Mira resumed their measured pace. “As I was saying, this cake, while a work of art, is not a thin metal shell defying all laws of gravity around hundreds of people. You can’t compare it to the potentially fatal danger of crashing a plane.”

  “You’ve never dealt with weddings before, have you?” As she shook her head no, he guided them around the corner and onto the elevator. “For a year, give or take, the wedding day is a bride’s entire world. When something goes wrong during the planning, and something always does, holy hell breaks loose. From the caterwauling, you’d swear an entire family had been wiped out. When something goes wrong on the actual wedding day—”

  Mira sniggered as she interrupted. “Like the cake in a heap on the floor?”

  The elevator doors swooshed open, and he eased out toward the ballroom. “You laugh, but it can ruin the whole damn day. I’ve heard of brides holing up in their dressing room and not coming out because of a drop of red wine on their dress. Or leaving the reception before the food’s even served because the best man said something mean in his toast. Brides are as volatile as a grenade with the pin already pulled. So keep walking, nice and smooth.”

  “Great pep talk.”

  “You said you wanted to know more about what I do. I don’t just make cakes. My cakes make a memory for people. This cake is part of the ritual of their special day. Guests will talk about it for years to come.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sure this cake is exactly what the client wants. I’m sure everyone here will think it is delicious. And I’m sure the bride and groom will never forget their symbolic first meal together when they share a bite of this cake.”

  “That is downright eloquent. Helen has this crazy idea you don’t talk very much.”

  “I can talk for days about chocolate, pastry cream, experimenting with fruit to come up with fondant dye. Most people just don’t want to hear it. When I’m passionate about something, I talk. Want to hear what I think about your breasts?”

  “Not while I’m lugging around someone’s precious memories. I’m quite sure you’d make my knees go weak, and then we’d be faced with the cake on the floor scenario.”

  “You’re right. We’ll stick to our plan. No flirting during the workday. But, for the record, would you rather hear an ode to your breasts, or a really raunchy limerick about them?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “I intend to.” They rounded another corner, and Mira angled toward the baby grand piano in an alcove. “Need a break?”

  “Just a quick one. My arms are about to fall off. Now I know why your biceps are so massive.” They eased the cake onto the lid of the piano. Sam still held most of its weight while Mira shook out her fingers.

  “Have you been to the Casino de Monte-Carlo in Monaco?”

  “Yes. For my eighteenth birthday. I lost all my money in half an hour and spent the night flirting with the bartender. It was a terrific night.”

  Sam noticed she dispensed the memory from her globetrotting, wealthy past with the ease of a well-oiled vending machine. It wasn’t a hot-button issue between them anymore. Mira had let down her guard one hundred percent. He called that progress. “In that case, you’ve got the experience to be able to appreciate where I’m taking you. Let’s go.”

  “Sam, we’re in a downtown Chicago hotel. Do you really think you should be comparing it to a place where royalty hangs out on a nightly basis?” Mira hefted the cake and, on Sam’s nod, resumed walking.

  “You tell me.”

  “Oh my.” Mira stopped in the doorway and goggled at the enormous oval room. Dozens of tables covered in burgundy taffeta were encircled with gold, laddered chairs. The centerpieces overflowed with autumn leaves and fruit that matched his cake perfectly. “Are those green marble columns real?”

  “Yep. And t
hat gold-leaf dome has a six-ton Baccarat crystal chandelier hanging from it. The largest one in North America. See the balcony all around the second floor?”

  “It’s big enough to be another entire room.”

  “It gives it that feeling. But that’s where the cocktail hour will be.” They started walking again, to the table in the center of the room. “I’ve pestered the staff here over the years to fill me in on all the details. This is my favorite ballroom in the city—and I’ve seen all of them.”

  “What makes it your favorite?”

  That interested glint in her eyes coupled with the half smile worked on him like truth serum. She made him feel like the most fascinating man in the world. It made him uncomfortable, but in a nice way. “Well, it’s almost as gorgeous as you are, for one.”

  “Compliment duly appreciated.”

  “My dad brought me here on a delivery for the first time when I was nine. My sister was watching Cinderella about ten times a day at that point. I was little enough I thought this was the ballroom from the movie.” Sam remembered every second of that first, grown-up “work trip” with his father. It made him smile every time. “Even hoped I’d marry my princess here someday. Which is stupid, now, I know. I’m not this fancy. “

  “Oh my gosh.”

  “What?” he asked, only half listening. This was the crucial moment. Gingerly, they slid the cake onto the table draped with gold taffeta. Sam stepped back to eyeball his creation. He’d brought some extra marzipan fruits, just in case anything needed touching up.

  “You are the most adorable thing ever. I can just picture you as a little kid, taking this all in. Your dad must’ve been so proud to bring you along and show you off to everyone.” Mira rushed forward, leapt up and into his arms.

  Sam didn’t need any urging. He held her close, crushing those pert breasts against his chest and cursing the thick apron that kept him from feeling her nipples. She wrapped her legs around his waist and clung while kissing him deeply. He could hardly believe his luck. One finished, kick-ass cake, his favorite event site, and a hot girl all over him—this was the kind of stupid fantasy they’d make up after a ten-hour day at the CIA. He felt like a celebrity chef, and the luckiest guy in the world, rolled into one. Mira Parrish was turning out to be the handful he’d predicted, but in a good way.

  “And unless you offer me a significant bribe, I’m telling Ivy that you’ve been dreaming about your wedding day as long as she has.” She slid back down his body with an evil twinkle in her eye. “I hear you guys all gave her grief about the wedding scrapbook she started back in high school. She’d love to know you pictured yourself as Prince Charming.”

  Damn. She loosened the gates on his memories as easily as he’d opened hers. He never, ever told that story. To anyone. It was hard enough to maintain a manly image making desserts for a living. If Gib and Ben found out he’d had this stupid, recurring dream of his wedding day, they’d start keeping handfuls of rice in their pockets to toss at him. Tie tin cans to the back of his delivery van. Other horrible, embarrassing pranks that wouldn’t end for months. Mira had to be stopped.

  “How about I get you in to the most exclusive, swankiest party in town? Open bar, great food and hot guys.” With a final look at the cake, Sam grabbed her hand and led her out of the room. If he stayed, he’d be tempted to tweak it, add one more row of piping or a few extra decorations. He knew in his gut when a cake was finished, but the hardest thing was walking away and leaving it to be eaten.

  “Really?”

  “Well, only one hot guy that matters. You’d be my date.” He took her a different away, out the front door right into the hustle and bustle of Michigan Avenue. “To be clear, the bribe isn’t the party.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The bribe is that it’s the chance to see me in a tuxedo. I’m pretty damn hot. Might even melt your panties right off at the sight of me.”

  Mira started to giggle, then caught her breath. She caught her bottom lip with her two front teeth, obviously considering the merits of his offer. “There is every chance you’re right. I look forward to testing your theory.”

  God. Not half as much as he did. “Great. Party’s in two days.” A little fun, some booze, some laughs would melt away that crease between her eyebrows which started out renting space, but looked to be moving in permanently. And it would give him a night off from worrying about his own future.

  “What are we doing out here? Aren’t we going to have to walk all the way around the block to get back to the van?”

  “I told you this trip was two-pronged. You’ve seen me wear my baker’s hat. Now, I’m slipping back into my tour guide hat.”

  “Crap. Did Ivy order you to show me the city again? You don’t have to jump every time she snaps her fingers.”

  Look at how adorable she was as she leapt to his defense. Her nose crinkled, and color bloomed in her cheeks. “Mira, Chicago’s your home now. I want you to like it here.” He waited for a lull in the traffic, then grabbed her hand and crossed the street at an easy lope along with dozens of suited-up office workers. “Ivy has nothing to do with this. I know how hard you’ve been working. Helen told me you’ve been skipping meals.”

  “My employee’s been snitching to you?”

  Whoa. He’d let that slip, and now needed to back away with the caution of a soldier’s untended swerve into a minefield. “She’s worried. Helen’s got that whole maternal vibe she just can’t turn off. She wanted me to take you out to dinner, that’s all. Make sure you got one square meal under your belt.” Sam slid a finger in the noticeable gap between her pants and her waist. “After all, I thought you said your eating problems were a thing of the past?”

  She slapped his hand away, but then intertwined her fingers with his. “They are. I’m just stressed. There aren’t enough hours in the day.”

  “Well, I’ll have you back within the hour. I just want to show you the Tribune Tower while we’re here.”

  “Didn’t we just take an architecture cruise down the river a few weeks ago? It was fun, but a girl can only take so many hours of staring at buildings.”

  “This one’s different. It’s got rocks and bricks from a whole bunch of historic sites. The Parthenon, Lincoln’s tomb, the Taj Mahal, Notre-Dame. Very cool. A trip around the world without leaving the city limits.”

  “Tribune Tower. You mean like the newspaper?”

  He pointed at the tall stone turrets in front of them. “Yep.”

  “This is great. The store’s supposed to be featured in the paper today. Well, not featured. More like a mention. A teaser about the opening.” Mira darted ahead to the line of newspaper vending machines. “Spot me a dollar.”

  Sam fed in his quarters and yanked open the door. “Is this going in a scrapbook, or right into a frame?” he teased.

  “Depends on how much they like the idea of our store. This article, if it’s good, could generate a lot of foot traffic. That leads to word of mouth, and suddenly,” she clapped her hands, “we’re a success.” Mira snatched the paper out of his hands. “Where would it be? Which section?”

  “Try the second section. Although, if they really want to start a buzz for you...” Sam broke off. Her face had gone whiter than a sheet of parchment paper. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  “I made the headline.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “No, not the store. I made the headline.”

  Sam followed her finger to the bold writing next to a picture of a younger Mira, with shorter hair. Store Manager Could Add Chicago Boutique to Her String of Failures. “I don’t understand.”

  “God, I knew this would happen. I warned Ivy. She said everyone deserves a fresh start. That she couldn’t do it without me. She told me not to worry. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? Me, not worry? Might as well ask a waterfall to reverse d
irection. Or maybe have a couple of planets swap places in their rotation around the sun!” Mira’s breath came in short, jerky gasps. The newspaper fell from her hands and spilled onto the pavement. Sam could tell a full meltdown was imminent.

  “Come with me.” He scooped up the pile of paper and pulled her with him to the park on the side of the building. She flopped onto an iron bench. Sam pushed her head between her legs. “Breathe,” he ordered. “Don’t freak out. Just breathe while I skim this and see how bad it is.”

  “Read it to me.” She shot one hand up in the air, stopping him. “No, just tell me the high points. Or the low points.”

  There weren’t any high points. As he scanned the article, one thing became clear. It was a hatchet job. “They’ve got the store name, and yours and Ivy’s. Everything’s spelled right.”

  “The high point is the spelling?”

  Yeah. “It’s a short article. Like you said, a teaser. Just a long paragraph, really. Most of it is the address and the date of the opening.”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “Okay. It mentions—briefly—how the last two stores you managed failed. Spectacularly.”

  “Is that it?”

  He wanted to say yes. But if he lied, she’d just find out eventually. “It finishes with a prediction that you’ll run the store into the ground and ‘tarnish Ivy’s crown as Chicago’s premiere wedding planner.’ That’s all.”

  “That’s all? My phone interview lasted twenty minutes, and that was the reporter’s take away? No mention of our wonderful products, our delicious and convenient picnic selections?”

  “Nope.” Sam eased down beside her. In long, slow circles he ran his hand over her back.

  “I am a failure. He’s right. If this is indicative of the press coverage we’ll get, the store is doomed.”

  “You’re not a failure.”

  “Oh, but I am. You don’t know.” She sat up and lifted her red, swollen eyes to meet his. “I’m mad because the writer didn’t give the store a fair shake. You’ll notice I’m not saying he’s wrong.”