“No, what makes me special is getting featured as one of Chicago’s top twenty most eligible bachelors. It was cute when CityPaper said it. But it’s a huge honor to be awarded that particular accolade by Windy City.”
Gib was one of his closest friends. Sam knew how smart the brains were rattling around under that overpriced and over-gelled haircut, not to mention the work ethic that kept him at the Cavendish for an ungodly number of hours each week. He couldn’t think of anyone who deserved this shout-out more. The bro code demanded, however, that he not admit any of that to Gib.
“You conned a magazine into basically advertising that you’ve got a big Open for Business sign strapped to your crotch? Nice going. Your mom must be so proud.”
The corner of Gib’s mouth took an ugly twist downward. “My mother wouldn’t be proud of me if I nabbed a commendation from the queen for shagging the Princess Royal.”
Ben leaned forward again, the journalist in him prepping to ask the obvious—what deep, dark dirt accounted for Gib’s sardonic tone. But Sam’s recent experiences with Mira had taught him that sharing family angst wasn’t exactly a mood lifter. He refused to let Ben’s unquenchable curiosity ruin poker night for Gib. Using one finger, he drew a line across his neck, hoping Ben got the universal signal to zip it. Then he frantically cast about for a new topic to fill the awkward chasm of silence.
They were now slowed by late rush hour to a near idle past the more upscale restaurant and boutique section of Halsted Street. A late-season biker hugged the curb next to them, crunching through crispy leaf piles. “I thought we were going on a beer run. We’ve already passed four liquor stores. Are you heading all the way down to farmland to harvest your own hops?”
Gib shook his head, and apparently his dark mood with it. “Keep it up, Lyons. The more you yank my chain directly correlates to how little beer I’ll pour for you.”
“Sam’s got a point.” Ben jammed his feet through onto the center console, nudging Sam’s elbow out of the way. “I can’t believe you’re using the car on something as basic as a beer run.”
Gib stroked the steering wheel with both hands in a lazy arc. “Her name is Moll Davis. After one of the very famous mistresses of King Charles II. Samuel Pepys’s wife called her the most impertinent slut in the world. Perfect for an auto with 100 horsepower under the hood.”
“But this is your guaranteed booty-mobile. You do know that neither of us is going to sleep with you later, right? My heart—and my dick—belong to Ivy now. I’m not tossing my chastity into the pot as an ante.”
“If you did, I’d fold that hand without even peeking at my cards. And don’t make such a big deal about my driving. We’re going to Goose Island. Thought I’d pick up a few growlers of Honker’s Ale and Green Line.”
“Nice plan, Moore. Be sure to get some Dublin Stout, too. You know, for those of us manly men who like a beer you can’t see through.” Ben kicked Sam’s knee with the toe of his boot. “Speaking of being all man, I heard a rumor you finally made it to home base with the girl next door.”
For about a second it surprised him that Mira would’ve spilled the details to anyone. Women, unlike men, didn’t usually mark one up on the scoreboard, or take a victory lap. Then he did the math and realized Mira had slept at his place the last three nights running. Daphne must’ve figured out that her roommate, no matter how much of a workaholic, wasn’t pulling a string of all-nighters at the store. But he wasn’t going to sit here and give Gib and Ben a play-by-play recap. “We’ve...uh...gotten closer.”
“How much closer?” asked Gib.
“You want me to draw you a picture?”
“Sorry, that came out wrong. Here’s the thing. We really like Mira.”
“Me, too.” Sam had his suspicions about just how much Gib liked Mira. Running along the lines that if Sam got run over by a bus tonight, Gib would be on her doorstep by dawn to stake his claim.
Ben interlaced his fingers into a fist and rolled his wrists. “She’s got a groove that works with our little group. Gib and I talked about it, and we decided to just come out and tell you that you’d better treat her right. Or else.”
“Or else what?” Were they really threatening him? On poker night?
“Not sure. We’re still fine-tuning the details of the threat. Just be assured the consequences would be dire should you break her heart.”
Because he did care for Mira, he appreciated where they were coming from. It was all that kept him from slapping them both silly. “I’m not Gib. I can keep a woman around longer than it takes to change a pair of socks.”
“So this is serious? Girlfriend material, not grab-and-go?”
“Mira’s great. But, well, it’s complicated.”
Gib unleashed a deep, long chortle. “Sam, you are the least complex man I’ve ever met. Your entire life can be summed up in two bullet points: your mom first, and the bakery second.”
Sam stewed a minute. He didn’t know what to say, or how much to tell them without sounding like a whiny teenage girl.
“Have you been keeping a deep, dark secret from us?” Ben thumped the back of Sam’s seat. “Are there a few more layers in your cake than we realize?”
“Secret agent? Superhero?” Gib suggested.
Ben snorted. “Right. What would his superpower be? Covering villains in icing? Getting people so hyped up on sugar they spin around like a Tasmanian devil?”
Hey. After all, with a little training and a lot of money, anyone could do the Batman gig. “Look, there’s a lot going down right now. Money stuff and career and family—it’s all up in the air. And it could all come crashing down on me in the next week. I don’t want to talk about it. But with everything that could go to shit, Mira is the one bright spot. And even she’s complicated. You guys know about the slam piece the newspaper ran on her, right?”
“We got the highlights.” Gib draped his wrists over the steering wheel, the picture of nonchalance. “It was one stupid article. It won’t keep anyone from coming to the grand opening.”
“Maybe. No guarantees.” And Sam desperately wanted to be able to provide her with a guarantee. Anything that could help erase the shadows of worry from her beautiful blue eyes. “Do either of you have any contacts with local media? Someone who could run something with a positive spin about the store?”
Ben huffed out a breath, spiking his fingers through his hair. “You know all my bridges were burned years ago. If I lit myself on fire, I couldn’t get a journalist to so much as snap a picture. But more importantly, I don’t think that’s the way to go. I know Mira pretty well at this point. Not as well as you, obviously, but enough to know she wouldn’t want anything she hasn’t earned.”
“True. But if the store folds, she’ll leave town. Chicago’s an expensive place to hang out without a paycheck coming in the door. She’ll have to move to wherever she can chase down another job.”
“Chicago’s also a pretty big city,” Gib noted. “What makes you think she couldn’t find another job here?”
Ben slapped his palm against his heart. “You could also have a little faith. Ivy and Mira know what they’re doing. That store is one classy operation. What makes you think it won’t be a huge success, even with a bit of bad publicity?”
Because his mother had beaten into him that life wasn’t always fair. “I can’t risk it. Right now, she’s like a tractor beam of sunshine holding my head above water.”
A long, low whistle from Ben was loud enough to compete with the squawk of a passing flock of pigeons while they idled at a light. “Enough mixed metaphors there to push an English teacher into a nervous breakdown. You need to get a hold of yourself.”
“Guess you really are serious about her.” Gib chuckled, then smoothly shifted as the light turned. “Maybe we should be worried about Mira breaking your heart.”
Like he did
n’t worry about that every damn day already. Mira Parrish was a million times too good for him. “Now who doesn’t have any faith? I’m crazy about her. All indications are that she feels the same way about me. As long as A Fine Romance has a smooth opening and racks up some good word of mouth, she’ll stay put. I’ll get to keep her.”
Ben whapped the back of Sam’s head. “She’s not a hamster, Sam. You can’t sew your name into her underwear and declare ownership.”
“Yeah—you’re going a little too Of Mice and Men on us.”
Trust the Brit to channel his boarding school style and drop a literary reference into a stupid argument about love. “You’re right. I’ll have at least a shot of keeping her—how’s that?”
Gib swung into the parking lot of what, to the uninitiated, would look like a common strip mall. In fact, it held one of the best brew pubs in the country. He yanked up the parking brake and unclipped his seat belt to turn and face Sam. “I understand your motivation. But getting this store off the ground is something Mira needs to do all by herself. It’ll be hard, but you can’t do anything besides stand back and watch.”
Ben waggled his hand back and forth. “Well, a little motivational nightly sex might help.”
For Christ’s sake. Didn’t they think he knew how to treat a woman? “I’ve got that angle covered.” Did he ever. They were both walking bowlegged after the past few days. Mira wore him out, in the best possible way. He needed to bet hard and heavy tonight, to wrap the game up early so he could get back to her.
Still, Ben pushed at him. “Sure you don’t want to tell us what else is wrong? Your mom’s not sick again, is she?”
“No.”
“Business seems steady.” Gib locked that glacial blue stare on him. “I hear you’re booked almost a year in advance for wedding cakes. What’s with the money trouble? Did you hit the tables too hard at that casino out by the airport?”
“No. When would I have time to do that? Wedding season’s still in full swing for another month, at least.”
“Quit dancing around like a ballerina and tell us what the fuck is wrong.” Ben pulled his feet back and hung his elbows on the front seats. His leather jacket made a farting noise as it skated across the leather as he moved into position. “We might be able to help. Especially Viscount Moneybags over there.”
“No. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth. I’m telling you, in a week, this conversation won’t matter. Everything will shake out, one way or the other.”
Sam threw open his door and pushed out of the low-slung car. It reassured him to know Gib and Ben were there, even if he didn’t accept their help. Kind of like the security-blanket twenty he hid behind his driver’s license. Never used it, but liked to know it was there. “Are you two going to Sigmund Freud me all night? Because I’m starting to think you’re stalling. Doesn’t matter how late we start, I’m still going to end up with your cash.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mira stood on the raised platform of A Fine Romance’s window display. A hand-painted kimono dangled from her fingertips. The delicate ivory fabric became see-through in the shaft of weak sunlight piercing a sliver of blue sky between the heavy clouds. Dainty cherry blossoms wrapped around one breast, trailed a tendril at the waist and then twined all the way down to the hem. The artist also did heavy silk kimonos in jewel tones for men covered in thick trees and fire-breathing dragons. All unique, incredible pieces of wearable art. Mira intended to charge two arms and a leg for them, and only take orders, not sell any off the rack. She’d lay money on there being a waiting list by week two.
But for now, she was trying to decide if the sheer fabric was too overt to be part of the display. Hinting at romance was fine. Selling sex crossed the line and sent the wrong message. Maybe draped across the edge of a chair, the transparency wouldn’t be so obvious. Although, she knew the diaphanous quality to the fabric to be its best-selling feature. Mira held it up one more time. Wavering over a decision like this was definitely considered a first-world problem. It brought home the sheer fun of her job, picking out and playing with pretty things. Passing them on to others and sharing the joy just intensified the fun.
But with the soft opening already under way, she needed to stop dithering about the display. How could she tease Helen about rearranging the cheese every five minutes if she did the same thing with the displays? A tallish, too-skinny brunette fiddling in the window certainly wouldn’t help move merchandise. Mira stepped down and made her way back to the cash register. The bell on the door jingled its alert that her fourteenth customer had just arrived. She vowed to stop counting once they officially opened.
“Good morning. Welcome to A Fine Romance. Let me know if you need any help.”
A man of average height strode straight to her, not bothering to browse on his way to the counter. “I’m on a coffee break, so I don’t have a lot of time to waste. Can you point me to the good stuff?”
“Of course. But I need a little more information. Are you shopping for someone in particular? A special occasion?” His appearance didn’t give her much to go on. Laptop case slung across his chest, Bluetooth attached to his ear and a sport coat with just enough of a pattern to either make him the edgiest person in the office, or a full-fledged hipster. Glasses and an unremarkable haircut widened his age window from anywhere between twenty-five and forty. Engagement, birthday, anniversary? Mira just couldn’t tell. But she did so enjoy guessing.
“Any occasion’s special if you do it right.” He spun in a circle, palms up and arms out wide. “Come on, I know the really high-quality goods wouldn’t be out here on display. I want what you hold back for the special customers.”
“We like to think all our customers are special.” Did he think she had a safe with black-market diamonds in the back? Mira bobbled between flattered, intrigued and annoyed. Then, remembering that he was only her fourteenth customer, she immediately struck annoyed from the list.
After a quick glance at his watch, he scrubbed his palm across his forehead. “Don’t put me through a whole song and dance, lady.” With a shake of his head, he marched the length of the store. “Do you hide everything away on the second floor? Or is there a special room behind this closed door?” he asked, rapping his knuckles hard against the wood.
“There is, but we don’t generally sell anything from the bathroom. The paper towels and toilet paper are provided free of charge.” Mira kept a pleasant smile on her lips, but knew it no longer brightened her eyes. Experience told her that something was off about this shopper.
“For God’s sake, I promise I’ll spend a wad of cash. No need to make me jump through hoops.” Irritation both roughened and raised his voice.
The top half of the connecting door to the bakery hung wide open. The last thing she needed was this guy losing his temper in front of a crowd of pint-sized cookie addicts and their moms. Mira hurried down the hallway to close the gap between them. “Sir, I’m perfectly willing to help you spend as much money here as you’d like. I’m just not clear on what it is you want to purchase.”
“You’re a romance store, right?”
“Yes, indeed. First of its kind here in Chicago.” To resist the urge to fist-pump the air in glee, she tugged at the hem of her bright red sweater set.
A snort rumbled up from the back of his throat. “Hardly.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure. And I’m certain we carry items you won’t find anywhere else in the city.”
“Now you’re talking.” He jerked his chin toward the front of the store. “That thing you were holding up in the window.”
Aha. The reason behind his odd behavior came clear. The sheer peignoir leaned more toward lingerie than lounging attire. Lots of men were uncomfortable shopping for unmentionables for the opposite sex. Especially with a female salesperson. “Now I understand. You’d like me to show you the robe?”
; His eyebrows shot up above his glasses frames. “Hell, yeah.”
“I can show it to you in periwinkle and apricot as well. They’re in my office.” Mira made it all of one step before a strong arm reached out and encircled her waist.
“A nice set of handcuffs and a strong paddle were all I was looking for. Didn’t realize you were the kind of place to model stuff and put on a show for me. I don’t care how much extra it costs—I’ll take the full package.” Sliding lower, his hand cupped her ass and squeezed. Hard.
Mira whirled around, out of his grip. Fear didn’t have time to take hold because her self-defense training kicked in. But as she lifted her knee, the man flew backward. Sam had one hand tight on his belt, and the other around his throat. Her own avenging angel. Who smelled quite strongly of cinnamon sugar.
“Keep your fucking hands off of her,” Sam growled, dragging the frightened man to the front of the store.
“Don’t hurt him,” Mira pleaded. Now that the danger had passed, she couldn’t help it. What kind of a store manager let her fourteenth customer be thrown out or, worse, beaten up?
“I heard—and saw—enough to know this guy didn’t walk in here looking to buy a heart-shaped blanket. The man’s pond scum.” None too gently, Sam spun around to slam the customer’s back against the wall. “How dare you take advantage of a woman like that?”
Gasping and shaking his head, the man held up his hands. “I’m sorry. There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Sam actually growled. Like a wolf. “Obviously. Maybe things will be more clear once I put my fist through your jaw. That’ll teach you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you.”
“Wait. I asked, just to be sure.” With a shaking hand, he pushed his glasses back up his nose. Then he pointed at Mira. “She said this was a romance store. I figured that was a classy name for a sex store. All I wanted was some toys. Light bondage, you know. Then I thought she was offering me a peep show, too. I was going to pay, I swear. Even planned to tip the hot chick.”
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