A Fine Romance

by Christi Barth

  “Is that the real reason why you hired me? So the Parrish family fortune could be your emergency parachute if we hit a bumpy couple of months?” The possibility rocked Mira to her core. And she knew their friendship could be irrevocably tarnished if she waited around to hear Ivy’s response. She held up her hand and shoved back from the table. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. It’s clear we both need to cool off. So, with my boss’s approval,” she inclined her head to Ivy, “I won’t waste any more of the company dime on lunch. I’m headed back to the store.”

  Where she had every intention of designing a flyer for the first Match-N-Mingle event. The name had popped into her head mid-argument. At least one good thing came out of this disaster of a lunch. Like a lone dandelion poking its yellow head out of a stinky, putrid pile of manure.

  * * *

  As Mira shrugged out of her coat, her arm went too wide and jammed her finger hard against the display case. She hissed in pain. Looked around at the quiet store and remembered that neither Helen nor Hays were on the schedule for the afternoon. “Son of a bitch that hurts.” She shook out her hand. “This day is a one hundred percent, certified clusterfuck.”

  The heel of her pump had snapped off in a grate on the way to the El. She got off four stops early to pick up a replacement pair, and buy a zippy new outfit for the grand opening party. Retail therapy always cheered her up. Or rather, it used to cheer her up. Until Mira’s pile of new clothes were snatched out of her hands because her credit card was declined.

  Right now on the scoreboard she boasted an epic fight that might cost her a friend, which in turn might cost her a job. A job she might not have for long anyway, if the store flopped or a local morning show decided to focus in the next few days on her run of bad luck with managing stores. A boyfriend like a mussel shell, only opening up so far and then cracking when pushed further. One who shared his problems, but didn’t want her to share her opinion in return.

  No money in the bank, and no pretend money left to spend on her credit card. Unless...Mira scrabbled through the stack of mail she’d dropped on the counter. New credit card offers came about once a week. Maybe she’d get lucky and find one to tide her over.

  A thick, cream envelope caught her eye. With her name in a dark swirl of calligraphy, it looked like a wedding invitation. Intrigued by the randomness, she ripped it open. A thin, plastic card slipped out. Reading the accompanying note took less than a minute. It also took less than a minute after that for all her frustration and rage to unleash in a choked-off scream.

  The connecting door to the bakery slammed open. Sam stormed through, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”

  “What isn’t?” she answered grimly.

  In two giant steps, Sam made it to her side and ran his hands gently over her body. “Are you hurt? Bleeding?”

  “No.” Embarrassed at screaming? Yep. Annoyed that Sam caught her in the middle of a temper tantrum? Yep. Wishing a giant carton of Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake would magically appear before her? Yep to the umpteenth degree.

  He parked his hands on her ass, snugging her close. The fact that Mira hadn’t even enjoyed her super-sexy boyfriend feeling her up, albeit while checking for bumps and bruises, proved she’d spiraled to a dark, unhappy place. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you, sweetness? ’Cause you’re only supposed to howl like that when you’re naked and under me.”

  “Bad afternoon. Ivy and I got in a fight. A big one. An I’m-not-sure-we’re-still-friends kind of a fight. An I’m-not-sure-if-I-still-have-a-job kind of fight.” She leaned into him, absorbing the comfort of his hard muscles. Of knowing he’d take her side, because that’s what boyfriends did. Having him in her corner steadied Mira, smoothed off the jagged edges of the emotional wounds Ivy had both stirred up and inflicted. A girl could get used to this.

  Sam kissed her cheek. “Of course you’re still friends. And of course you still have a job. Arguments are rough. But people make up. You’ll both apologize, hug and put it behind you. Would I be a sexist dog if I suggested shared ice cream on the couch and a viewing of Pride and Prejudice would fix it all?”

  “Yes,” she said in a particularly aggrieved tone. Why let him know he was probably right?

  “You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. You’re worn to a nub. Chances are you blew things up bigger than they really are.”

  “So what—you’re telling me I just need a nap?” Mira knew she sounded testy. Maybe total exhaustion spurred a bit of an overreaction. But things were still dire.

  “An early night, after a proper dinner, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I could bump up ravishing you on my schedule,” he said with a double squeeze of her ass. “Preview week’s over, so the store’s closed until the big grand opening. Cut yourself some slack. Maybe you and Daphne could relax by going shopping tomorrow.”

  That drove her blood pressure straight back up into a borderline stroke. “My parents sent me a Bloomingdale’s gift card today.” Mira picked up the note and the card, waving them under Sam’s nose. “To wish me good luck and help me buy an appropriate outfit for the grand opening. Can you believe that?”

  “I guess. Why? Is it something insulting like twenty-five dollars?”

  She huffed out a breath that fluffed her bangs. “Try twenty-five hundred.”

  Sam plucked the card out of her hand and stared in wonder, as though it were an actual pile of cash. “Damn. What are you supposed to buy—mink-trimmed panties?”

  “Don’t you see what an insulting gesture this is?”

  “No.”

  “It says they don’t think I can afford to buy a new outfit for myself.” She grabbed the card back and skittered it along the counter.

  “Can you?”

  Not according to the store who’d cut up her credit card into tiny pieces half an hour ago. “Well, not one that costs a thousand dollars,” she hedged. “I’m not destitute, for God’s sake. There’s a roof over my head, and working utilities. I’m not living on ramen noodles.” Although she did have some on the pantry shelf. And cans of tuna, because it was cheap, too. Yogurt for breakfast and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch kept her grocery costs pretty low. Ivy never needed to know that every single time she opened a can of tuna, Mira’s resolve slipped another notch. Or that the last time she had ramen for dinner, she went so far as to look up the password to her untouched trust-fund account. Just in case...

  “Yeah, but a couple of months ago you were in a Red Cross shelter.” Sam ran his hand through his hair, standing the black thickness straight up like a miniature Mohawk. “Pointing out that you’re rebuilding from scratch isn’t an insult.”

  “It’s their way of sending a message. They know this store will flop, just like the others did. I’ll run it right into the ground, and I’ll need the family money to bail me out.”

  “You sure they’re sending that message? Or were you already thinking it yourself?”

  Back against the wall, Mira slid to the floor. She hugged her knees to her chest. When did her baker boyfriend decide to moonlight as a shrink? At least with a real shrink she wouldn’t be sitting on the floor. “I’ve had a string of failures. Why should this store be any different? Why should I kid myself that it will succeed?”

  “Because you’ve worked too hard for any other outcome to be possible.”

  She shook her head. “I work hard every time. Look what it gets me. No house, no car, no savings in the bank. Blood, sweat and tears, but nothing to show for it.”

  “Okay, before you go completely off the rails, you should just stop.” Sam held up his hands at eye level, palms facing her. “Stop wallowing, stop whining, and just stop. Maybe you do need that nap after all.”

  “Even if a miracle happens and the store flourishes, it’ll take a long time to get in the black. There’s certainly a cap to my salary. It isn’t as if there
’s any place for advancement from store manager. I won’t earn my first million this year to satisfy the terms of the family trust.” Heck, working here, she wouldn’t earn her first million in ten years.

  “You knew that when you signed up for this gig.” Sam eased to his knees beside her. Today the scent of carrot cake and pecan pie clung to him.

  “I was drowning. Homeless, jobless, and Ivy tossed me a life preserver. I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about the Parrish family legacy.” Every day that ticked closer to her birthday, she felt it. Mira felt the weight of turning her back on generations of her family. Of a financial legacy they’d all protected, kept safe for the future. One that she’d basically thumbed her nose at for the last ten years. Ever since she’d informed her parents that she wanted to be respected for who she was, not the size of her bank account. That she wanted to be able to respect herself, and her choices, first and foremost.

  She’d tried to sign away all her rights to the family money, to be strong and independent, but her parents’ lawyer wouldn’t let her. And, having given up access to the family fortune, Mira couldn’t afford to go hire another attorney. So she’d lived with eschewing the money in principle, knowing that by her thirtieth birthday, all temptation would be permanently removed.

  “So now that you’ve committed yourself to this store, and to Ivy—what? You’d back out? How would that get you to a million dollars in the next year? Unless you win the lottery, that’s a fucking unreachable goal. There’s no way to make it happen.”

  Mira was so tired. Maybe her quarter-life crisis was hitting a few years late. Maybe Sam was right and she really just needed one solid night’s rest. Did the why really matter, or just the absolute knowledge that she was drained to the core? Tired of working twelve-hour days. Tired of trying her hardest and still not ending up where she wanted to be. Tired of scrimping and saving and still not being in the same place as her peers. Being strong and independent was freaking exhausting. Was it really so wrong to want life to be a little bit—okay—a lot easier?

  “There is one way.”

  “Join a high-end escort service?”

  It stung, but Sam’s jibe wasn’t far from the truth. “Close. I could marry someone suitable. That would solve the problem entirely. I’m sure my parents have a string of candidates just hovering in the wings.”

  His face shuttered closed so fast she couldn’t glimpse even a second of his true reaction. “You’re bluffing.”

  Bluffing, babbling, brainstorming—why label it? “I call it exploring my options out loud. It would sure be easier.”

  “Okay, if you’re not bluffing, then I’ve got to ask what the hell you and Ivy drank over lunch. How many beers did you throw back?”

  “None. I left without touching a bite.” Big mistake. Near starvation on top of her exhaustion probably wasn’t helping her frame of mind. It would be nice if she could talk Sam into cooking dinner for her. He might be a certified pastry chef, but he sure knew his way around the rest of the kitchen, too. The other night he’d made them a boeuf bourguignonne and warm spinach salad for dinner. She thought her taste buds had died and gone to heaven. Later that night, he’d given her a completely different reason to scream the Almighty’s name.

  “Then you must be experiencing short-term amnesia. There’s no other explanation.”

  “For what?”

  “For forgetting that impassioned speech in your bedroom the other night. You know, the one where you told me not to toss away my hopes and dreams without a fight?”

  “I remember.” Mostly she remembered how their whole conversation felt like she’d been talking to a patch of the concrete her family sold. Mira didn’t think she’d gotten through to him at all.

  “So why the double standard?”

  “You’re talking in riddles, Sam.” Thoroughly dispirited, she ran her palm across the glossy wood floor. It kept her from reaching out to Sam, from giving in to the urge to stroke his leg. The hard-as-Plexiglas tone in his voice and the shuttered glaze to his eyes pretty much screamed hands off.

  “Why are my dreams worth chasing, but yours get shoved under the carpet?”

  “Because you have dreams, Sam. Big ones. Dreams that can and should blossom into a beautiful reality. I don’t.”

  “Give me a break. You’re one of the most driven people I’ve ever met. Next time we all go hit the lanes, your bowling nickname should be Pile Driver.”

  Mira bit her bottom lip. “Sure, I work hard. I keep reaching for that golden ring with my eyes shut because I don’t know what it looks like. Is my dream to manage a store? Manage a corporation? I don’t know. For years my only goal was to do the opposite of what my parents wanted. That’s not really a fleshed-out life aspiration. When it comes down to it, all I really want is to be happy. And wouldn’t that look stupid on a business card—Mira Parrish, Happy Person.”

  Finally Sam thawed a little, scooting closer to touch her side. “I think it’s great. That’s all most people want. They’re just too scared to admit it. Life doesn’t have to be some huge complication. Happiness is a great goal. An honest goal.”

  “Most importantly, it is achievable.” Not the way he meant, however. No matter how hard she worked, the store could tank tomorrow. Or she could work herself to the bone for six months, scrimping and worrying the whole time—and then have it tank. That very real possibility did not, in any way, make her happy. “I could reach it tomorrow if I relent and get married. I think it’s safe to assume my parents would give me a mixed assortment of eligible men far nicer than a box of Godivas. I’m sure I could be happy enough with an appropriate man.” Well, not sure. But pretty darn close to throwing in the towel on struggling for something better. What was so wrong about taking the easy route? Aside from the fact that it was caving and Mira wasn’t positive she’d be able to look herself in the mirror with any modicum of respect the rest of her life.

  “No.” The shutters fell away from Sam’s eyes, revealing a frantic desperation that shocked her. “You’d be content, at best. Cows are content. Weeds are content. What about your independence? Caving to your parents means tossing that away. What about your chance at true love?”

  Love didn’t enter into the equation at all. The choice to fulfill her family’s legacy, carry on the name and the company and yes, live in the style she’d quite enjoyed for her first twenty-two years, was about business and generational responsibility. Not something as pie-in-the-sky as true love. “Ivy’s the one who believes life’s like a fairy tale. Not me. There are no guaranteed happy endings.”

  “You don’t believe in true love? Or you don’t believe it’s out there, waiting for you?”

  “You make it sound like love is tangible.”

  “It is. It’s sitting right next to you. I love you, Mira.”

  Her mouth went instantly dry, like she’d licked the floor of the Sahara. “If this is your way of convincing me to follow my wholly unclear dreams, I’d say that’s cheating.”

  “I love you,” he repeated. A soft smile teased at the corners of his full, sensuous lips. Sam’s version of five o’clock shadow—one that showed up by two—darkened his jaw and lent him a hint of bad-boy roughness. In short, he was everything she never realized she wanted in a man, in a sexilicious package. And he loved her? How could the universe be so cruel as to dump this in her lap today? It complicated everything exponentially.

  Sam took her hand, and kissed the back of each finger in turn. “Look, I know you’re already juggling a million things right now. You don’t have to say anything. We don’t have to discuss it. I just figured that if you were about to decide the next step in your life, you ought to have all the facts.”

  “Oh.” So utterly romantic that she wanted to squeal in glee. And practical. But Sam was right. She couldn’t respond now. Letting slip how crazy in love with him she was wouldn’t be fair to either of
them.

  “Every time Diana and I tried to take a shortcut in life, my mom would give us the same speech. She’d ask if we wanted to do things the easy way, or the right way? You could take the easy way. But would it be right for you?”

  A heavy, smothering blanket of unease tightened her chest when she tried to think about it. When she first left grad school, it had been so easy to be righteous and declare her independence from the shackles of the family trust. But living these years without it wore her down. If A Fine Romance didn’t succeed, Mira didn’t know if she had the strength to start all over again. To persevere. Not when there was a far easier solution within reach. “I don’t know.”

  “Just please, don’t make any snap decisions,” Sam begged. “Get through the grand opening. Put it out of your mind until then. The what-the-hell-do-I-do-next part, I mean. Feel free to dwell on how I love you.”

  His declaration of love would undoubtedly scroll nonstop through her mind like the CNN news ticker at the bottom of the TV screen. “Oh, I’ll be dwelling, alright.”

  “Good.” He flashed a wicked grin. “I plan to make a multisensory presentation later to show you just how much I love you. Your only job is to lie back and enjoy it.”

  “Now that I can commit to, on the spot.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mira pulled her hood up to protect her ears from the steady wind. It might land her on Glamour’s infamous back page with a black box across her face as a fashion disaster, but she didn’t care. Huddling into her coat like a scared turtle was the only way she’d found so far to combat the icy wind off Lake Michigan. Living in Florida had lessened her cold tolerance to an embarrassing level. She told herself every morning not to pull out the puffy winter coat until at least October. There might only be two days left in her self-imposed stricture, but a person could die of hypothermia in two hours.