A Fine Romance

by Christi Barth

  A high, shrill scream rent the air. Sam spun around and palmed a knife off the counter in one movement. Unfortunately it was a paring knife, with a blade no longer than his thumb, but it was better than nothing. And being completely naked, he had a whole lot of nothing.

  The lights came on. Daphne stood against the wall in clingy white pajamas covered with big red roses. She had one hand on the switch, the other covering her mouth, and a horrified expression on her face. Sam dropped the knife. As fast as humanly possible, he lunged for an oven mitt and held it in front of him. For all the infinitesimal coverage it provided. Still better than flashing his bits and pieces to one of his closest friends.

  “Hey, Daph. Didn’t hear you come in.”

  The eyebrows that had parked high on her forehead with shock drew together into annoyance. “With all the noise you two were making, you wouldn’t have heard if a spaceship crashed into the living room and five-legged aliens hopped out to invade the world.”

  Sam tried to play it cool, have a normal conversation with her, as if the situation wasn’t as uncomfortable as his first prostate exam. “Really? All the movies you watch, the best you can come up with is a five-legged alien? No tentacles or razor-tipped claws?”

  “We are not going to stand here and discuss alien anatomy.”

  Better than discussing all of his own exposed anatomy. “I’m just saying, if they want to invade Earth, they should be ferocious in some way. Maybe fangs on their elbows?”

  Daphne stomped her foot, shod in a fuzzy slipper shaped like the head of the lobster from The Little Mermaid. “Why are you naked in my kitchen?”

  “Well, if you truly were listening to our ‘noises,’” Sam made air quotes with one hand, “then you can probably figure out why I’m naked. And I’m in the kitchen because Mira’s hungry. Thought I’d throw together a croque monsieur for her.”

  “Stop showing off, chef boy. Call it a grilled cheese sandwich like the rest of the world.”

  “That’s like comparing a plain roast beef sandwich to the glories of a cheesesteak. Tell you what. Stop being so pissy and I’ll make you one, too.”

  “Sam Lyons, you are bare-ass naked. I don’t want you so much as breathing on a single one of my pans.” She tossed him the purple afghan from the back of the couch. “For the love of all that is good and holy, cover yourself up.”

  Mira padded into the room, tightening the sash of her long, red robe. “I heard a scream.”

  Daph whipped around so fast her long ponytail smacked her in the face. “Yes, you did. I scream when I’m surprised by unexpected, naked men in my house.”

  “Sorry, Daphne.” But Mira didn’t look sorry. With her tousled hair, flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips, she looked like a satisfied, sexed-up woman. The primal caveman in Sam stood up and roared with pride at pleasing her. “We didn’t think you’d be home so soon. Weren’t you and Gib and Milo headed out to grab drinks at that new place on Southport?”

  “Yes.”

  Sam peered over his shoulder at the clock. Still early enough that Daphne’s story didn’t add up. “You’re not a one-drink girl. When you post up at a bar, you’re there for the duration.”

  “Anything worth doing is worth doing right.”

  “So what happened?” Mira asked, walking her over to perch on the stools lined up at the gray granite breakfast bar.

  “Milo caught the sniffles. You know how he carries on like he’s got tuberculosis after a single sneeze. He stayed home to take enough supplements to choke a wildebeest.”

  “What about Gib? You guys hang out all the time.”

  Her cheeks filled with the same color as the roses on her pajamas. “Sure. I know. But tell that to one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelors. Women were crawling all over him from the moment we sat down at the bar. He’s got his hands full. In fact,” the corner of her mouth skewed down, “he probably hasn’t yet noticed that I left.”

  “He’s letting this magazine feature go to his head.” Mira crossed her arms and shook her head. “You were there with him. Ergo, he shouldn’t have even noticed the random, bed-hopping candidates throwing themselves at him.”

  “It wasn’t a date. He can look all he wants. Hell, he can do way more than just window shop. Because he’s certainly not coming home with me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Being in a bar with a friend is like being in the army. You never leave a man behind.” Sam edged out from behind the counter. The afghan was a loose knit, but he thought he’d bunched it up enough to keep him decent. From the front, anyway. “Want me to get him back, on your behalf? Short-sheet his bed, or put hair-removal cream in his shampoo?”

  Daphne rolled her eyes high enough her pupils completely disappeared. “No. You know why? Because you’re not twelve and at sleepaway camp for the first time.”

  Geez. Didn’t he at least get points for trying? “Sorry. My options are limited. We’re good friends. It’s not like I can deck the guy for wanting to score. But I will tell him that he acted like a royal douche. How’s that?”

  “Satisfactory.” Daphne shuffled over to peck Sam on the cheek. “You’re a good guy, Sam. No wonder Mira’s all hot and bothered for you.” Then she curved her fingers into a claw and ruffled the hair across the top of his chest. “Of course, the way you look without a shirt might have something to do with it, too.”

  He swatted away her hand. Like it wasn’t eight hundred degrees of weird already having a conversation with her half naked. Daphne was like a...well, not a sister. More of little brother, actually. They watched Bears games together and told dirty jokes. On his birthday they’d had a contest to see who could eat more hot wings in a row before caving and reaching for beer. She’d come within one wing of beating him. For the most part, except for nights like the party Gib threw for Ivy and Ben, he even managed not to notice her fairly perky breasts. So to have her touching him was wrong and creepy and almost incestuous. “Cut it out,” he ordered. “How would you like it if I ran my hand across your chest?”

  She giggled, unfazed. “Probably not as much as Mira does?”

  “That’s enough, Daph.” Mira hip-checked her away. Then she slid in and wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist. “See, if you’d stayed at the bar you could’ve hunted up your own man instead of pawing at mine. Didn’t you see any contenders?”

  Daphne pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose. “Nope. Well, none who were available.” She rummaged in a drawer by the sink and came up clutching a giant Toblerone bar. Waving it triumphantly overhead, she said, “This shall be the only thing sharing my bed tonight. And I know I am guaranteed satisfaction.”

  “That makes two of us.” Mira grinned and dipped her hand beneath the afghan in the back.

  “Seriously, make tall, dark and hairy next to you throw on some clothes before he touches anything in my kitchen. And try to keep your shouts of ecstasy under wraps, okay? This chocolate will only go so far in blunting my envy.” She waved good-night and headed back down the hall.

  Sam waited impatiently until her door closed. Then he let the afghan fall to the ground. He picked Mira up and set her on the counter, moving to stand between her legs. The way her robe gaped open gave him all sorts of ideas. He followed through on idea number one by palming her petal-soft breast. Immediately her nipple rose to a point, which he rolled between his thumb and first finger. “I thought she’d never leave.”

  Mira grabbed his hand and lowered it to her thigh. “She didn’t. She could come back at any moment. Which means we can’t do this.”

  “We can. It’d be easy. You’re at a really good height to line everything up.” To prove it, he cupped his hands around her ass and scooted her forward until they touched. “See?”

  Huh. She didn’t immediately wrap her legs around his waist, so he assumed she wasn’t sold on the idea. Clearly he needed to sweeten the pot. Sam nibb
led her ear, then caught the lobe between his teeth and gently bit down. Sure enough, she shivered from head to toe.

  He’d already spent a considerable amount of time and energy learning what Mira liked in bed. What made her toes curl, what caused her soft and sweet sigh, and what made her clench around his finger, all hot and slick and wet. Just thinking about it pumped blood from all of his extremities straight to his dick. Good thing he had a strong grip on Mira to keep him steady.

  “Sam, I can’t piss off Daphne. She’s a terrific roommate. Plus, I think your friendship would be irrevocably scarred if she caught you having sex in her kitchen. She seems rather proprietary about it.”

  He moved down, licking alive a trail of nerve endings in her neck. Not wanting to rush things, he paused at the hollow of her collarbone, right where her pulse fluttered blue just beneath the surface. A little light suction there and she squirmed against him. Smooth legs moved restlessly against his thighs. Exactly like she did in the middle of sex. God, he had to have her now. Right now.

  No matter how much he tried to stay in control, keep his passion checked to see to Mira’s needs first, she was his undoing. The mewling, sexy noises she made, her unbelievably soft skin, the way she moved against him, fueled his lust to levels he’d never before sustained for so long. Mira was both gasoline in his bloodstream and the match that set it aflame.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” she whispered.

  “Good.”

  Grabbing hold of his shoulders, she pushed him away to arm’s length. “Just hold that thought until Daphne falls asleep, okay?”

  “See? This is why we should’ve stayed at my place,” he grumbled. “No scheduling sex around roommates.” Sam wanted Mira on a twenty-four-seven basis. The need for her was like a low-grade fever, heating his blood no matter where he went or what he did.

  “Yes, but no bathtub, either. Remember, that’s why we came here tonight. I promised you a bubble bath for two. The tub even has Jacuzzi jets.”

  “Bribe accepted.” He picked her up and carried her back to the bedroom. Just inside the door, he stubbed his toe on something and ended up dropping her on the bed. “Son of a bitch, that hurts.” Sitting down, he gave a vicious kick with his other foot to the offending bag.

  “Stupid thing. What do you have in here—concrete?”

  “Ooh, pull it up. I need to sort through the mail I brought home from the store.”

  Sam propped himself against the mound of pink pillows, one arm draped across a raised knee. “You’ve got all this to keep your attention, and you want to read the mail?”

  “No, in my list of prioritized tasks right now, mail does not supersede screwing you cross-eyed.”

  “Good to know.”

  “But I told you, we can’t do anything until Daphne falls asleep.” She dragged the bag onto the bed and pulled out a big stack of envelopes. Spreading them across the white comforter, she began pushing them into piles. A colorful postcard of a field of lavender caught his eye. There’d been a memorable weekend in Provence a few years ago with a picnic basket, a blanket and this blonde...who he totally wouldn’t think about now that he was lying next to Mira. Sam picked up the card and flipped it over. Then he swore in a low, steady stream of invectives while he shoved his way up the bed to lean against the headboard.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The mailman mixed in some of my mail with yours.”

  “And that’s really a reason to curse a blue streak at him? Don’t get mad at the postman, Sam. They’ve got that whole workplace rage thing going on—you don’t want to rile them up.”

  “I’m not mad at our mail carrier. I’m mad at my fucking selfish ingrate of a sister.” Sam read the short card again. It didn’t get any better the second time. The shiny, sun-dappled scene slipped from his fingers.

  He felt like a giant mixing bowl, full of disparate emotions and reactions. Should he punch the pillow until it exploded in a flurry of feathers? Scream his frustration loud enough to piss off Daphne? Give in to the crushing despair, cover his head and curl up in a ball? For now, he pulled his legs up, crossed his arms over his knees and dropped his head. Then he took a few deep breaths. Tried to steady himself, so as not to scare Mira.

  “Bad news from your sister?”

  “Yeah. Bad news for me, anyway,” he mumbled.

  A heavy silence occupied the room for a few minutes, as present as a third being. He felt Mira pick up the postcard from where it perched on his feet.

  “Diana finished her pastry training—”

  “Six months ago,” he barked, cutting her off.

  “Ultimately, that’s good, right? It means she’s qualified to do whatever you need in the bakery.”

  Sure. The kid always had a light touch with all kinds of dough. She could keep up with him pretty well before haring off to Europe. “Keep reading.”

  “Sounds as if she’s fairly enamored of this Italian count. Do they still have counts in Italy? I thought they got rid of the nobility after World War Two.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Everyone uses titles over there, even if they’re several generations dead. You can even buy one, with enough money.”

  “It does matter.” Mira’s eyes widened. “What if she’s being scammed?”

  “For what? The grand Lyons family fortune?” The words tasted as bitter as rancid milk. “All we have is the bakery, and I guarantee they know how to make their own damn biscotti over in Italy.”

  “Your sister is flitting around Europe with some strange man, and you don’t care?”

  “My sister is fucking flitting around Europe!” he shouted, raising his head to glare at her. “She’s got no job, no responsibilities, and is living in the back pocket of some rich guy. No, I’m not worried about her. Let’s flip that coin. Aren’t you going to ask if she cares about me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sam nipped the card out of her hand and waved it in the air. “Did you see anything in here about when she planned to return? When she plans to stop living the high life? When she’ll stop playing, come home and finally set me free?” He ripped it in half, and then kept ripping, taking out his anger until it was nothing but a colorful pile of confetti on the bed.

  “Set you free?” Mira repeated his words in a low, shocked murmur. “From what? The bakery? The thing you love with a passion, and trained for all over the world?”

  “I trained to be a chocolatier.”

  “And you make chocolates. We’re selling them in the store.”

  “No, I dabble. I steal time when I can. The bulk of my day is spent decorating wedding cakes, icing cookies, but not hand-molding chocolate.” Sam rolled onto his knees. He’d hugged the dream close to him for so long, he wasn’t even sure how to form the words. How to talk about the future his sister denied him with every single day she stayed overseas.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Now that he’d popped the cork on his secret, it all poured out. “I want to make art. I want to make amazing, sinful flavors enrobed in rich, beautiful chocolate. The kind of thing that makes you catch your breath when you look at it, and makes your eyes flutter shut when you taste it.”

  “If you can cook it half as well as you describe it, you’re in business.”

  “Well, I’m not. Not yet. The best way for me to break into the gourmet chocolate business is by exhibiting at the Fancy Food show here in Chicago. I’d get immediate name recognition, unparalleled nationwide marketing just by manning a booth and handing out samples for three days. It’s my shot.” One he’d dreamt about for years.

  The way some women planned their wedding day, down to the tiniest detail, before even landing a prospective groom? Sam lulled himself to sleep at night planning his exhibition booth. The color of the draping. The multitiered trays to show off the product. And of course, a c
onstantly changing list of which flavors and designs to showcase. Of course there had to be a standard dark chocolate ganache truffle, for the purists. But what else? Port-soaked figs enrobed in chocolate? Blackberry sage, or pear and honey truffles? Or maybe hazelnut praline?

  “When is it?”

  “January. But the registration cutoff is in a week. And it’s not cheap. The only way I can justify the expense is if I can immediately expand into a full-fledged business and hit the ground running as soon as the show ends.”

  Her eyebrows drew together as she pondered his story. “So you’re saying you’d quit the bakery completely?”

  See? Mira got him. He didn’t have to talk in circles explaining himself. She understood what he needed to do, and why. Better than anyone else ever had. “Not completely. But yeah, most of my time would shift to chocolate.”

  “That’s why you want Diana back here.” She drove her first finger straight down into the pillow for emphasis. “To carry most of your load in the bakery.”

  “If she doesn’t take my place, I can’t do it.” Sam wasn’t a figurehead, sitting in a glassed-off office counting his profits. Sam was Lyons Bakery. “I can’t abandon our family business, let it crash to a halt.”

  “Of course not.” Mira ran a soothing hand back and forth on his thigh. It didn’t stop him from pushing off the bed and pulling on his boxer-briefs. He needed to pace. Thinking about his sister worked him up too much to sit in one place.

  “Diana’s got to be back and in place before I throw away thousands of dollars on exhibitor registration. We came real close to going under.” He braced his hand against the doorjamb while he remembered long, shaky nights of trying to make the numbers add up. “It took me a year to pull us back from the brink. Even though things are better now, we’re still treading water pretty damn fast. An unbudgeted outlay like that, not to mention all the extra for ingredients and manpower? Too big a risk to take without a guaranteed reward.”

  “Did you ever tell Diana there was an end date to her European adventure?”