A Fine Romance

by Christi Barth

  Fun with Ivy. Exactly what she’d been missing since moving to Chicago. The perfect antidote to the anxiety and stress poisoning her thoughts. “The guy with the scary arm veins on the new season of The Bachelor?”

  Ivy shuddered. “Definitely not. Daphne mentioned you haven’t spent many nights at home recently. I want to hear all about Sam.” She leaned forward, elbows on the desk and palms cupping her chin. “Does all that quiet thoughtfulness hide a growling monster in bed?”

  Oh, yeah. In bed, Sam had all the roaring passion and strength of a lion in heat. Or a jaguar. Heck, he channeled the entire Large Cats exhibit at the zoo. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”

  “Aw, come on. Toss me a few sexy scraps. Kiss and tell a couple of things.”

  Instead of a stroke-by-stroke replay, she’d give Ivy a better tidbit. A thing she desperately needed to bounce off of someone. “Sam told me he loves me.”

  “Really? That’s no scrap. You just tossed me an entire porterhouse steak full of gossip. Well, go on. What did you say?”

  Mira bit her lip. Telling Ivy wouldn’t sound any better than when she’d replied to Sam. “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “That’s basically it. Just oh.”

  Ivy’s elbows slid to the side, slamming her hands down against the blotter. “Did you forget how to use your words? Or did you decide to let your actions speak for you, and you jumped him?”

  “Sam is giving me time to mull my response.” Thank God. The minute those three words slipped past his lips, Mira had felt the panic of a prison escapee, trapped in the middle of two zillion-watt searchlights. Overreaction? Sure. Which is why she calmed down considerably ten seconds later. That kicked off the non-stop searching of her heart and her head for the right response.

  “Do you need it? Do you love him?”

  As if that solved anything. Of course, in Ivy’s eyes, permanently shaded by rose-colored glasses, it solved everything. “I do love him.” She’d known deep in her heart for weeks. Even if she refused to admit it except late at night when her subconscious tangoed with her conscious mind. “And it’s all your fault. I started to fall in love with him when you forced us to go on that Chicago River cruise.”

  “Fault? That’s an odd word choice. You should be throwing me a parade. Spelling out Thank you, Ivy in fireworks over Lake Michigan.”

  “Before you ask me to rename a street in your honor, let’s be clear. Sam’s not perfect. He’s thoughtful and sweet and challenging and yes, makes the earth spin when we’re in bed.”

  “I knew it.” Ivy grinned, her hazel eyes bright with joy for her friends. “Two of my favorite people—you totally deserve each other. Both of you with just enough imperfection to keep it interesting. Like the kick of a little cayenne in a Mexican chocolate cookie.”

  “You don’t understand. He’s loyal to a fault and he believes in me. Hands down, he’s the most fun I’ve ever had. It’s wonderful. Sam’s wonderful.” The more she thought about it, the more amazed she was that Ivy and Sam never tried dating. How could any woman who truly knew him, resist him?

  “So?” Ivy prompted.

  “So—he’s loyal to a fault. A big fault.” Jitters skittered up her spine, forcing her up, out of the chair. Mira retraced Ivy’s pacing route. “He’s pressed the pause button on his entire life to concentrate on his mother. She doesn’t need him anymore, not to that extent, but he refuses to see it.”

  “A problem, but not insurmountable.”

  “And he believes in me.” Mira threw her arms up in the air. She knew how to handle indifference. Her parents grounded her in that area early. But Sam’s total, unquestioning support threw her for a loop. “What if I fail again? What if I let him down? Or you? Or my parents?”

  Ivy tugged the wrap off her ponytail and scrunched her fingers through her hair. “Geez, Mira, if I’d known you were throwing a pity party, I would’ve brought in some appetizers and a couple of bottles of wine. Maybe loaded up some Norah Jones on the iPod.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You’re really worried about your parents? How about you worry about them letting you down? Because parents who don’t want the absolute best for their children are losers. They should’ve rewritten the stupid strictures on that trust years ago.”

  Mira agreed. Unfortunately, she didn’t get a vote. “But they haven’t.”

  “Yet the world keeps turning. You can’t let me down, because you’ve already exceeded my expectations. And the only way you could let Sam down is by not being honest with him. It all boils down to only one person, Mira. You only have to worry about letting yourself down.”

  “News flash—that is a very real possibility.”

  “Well, a little nervousness will keep you fresh. Keeps you from stagnating in your comfort zone like algae. Speaking of which, let’s talk about this matchmaking plan of yours.”

  Guiltily, Mira remembered the flyers she’d designed in a spurt of anger. Now that she and Ivy were reconciled, putting them up without her permission simply wasn’t an option. “I don’t want to fight about it.”

  “Neither do I. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it is a good idea. Smart. Opportunistic. It just pushed me way out of my comfort zone, without any warning. But we’ve got to compromise. You can’t advertise it at the grand opening.” She flicked through the pages of her calendar, lips pursed. “Take another month or two to work up a full business plan, do some comparative modeling. We could roll it out right after the New Year.”

  Mira knew that waiting was the appropriate choice. Rushed plans often turned into failed plans. Taking the time to do it right would be worth it, in the end. “Even hype it as a New Year’s resolution—the chance to finally find true love.”

  “Exactly. And then that automatically feeds off of the desperation women feel as Valentine’s Day approaches. We’ll be off and running in no time.” Ivy came around the desk, arms outstretched. “Let’s hug on it.”

  Much calmer and ridiculously grateful for it, Mira squeezed her friend. “I’ve changed my mind. I would like to wear that beautiful butterfly tomorrow. As a good-luck talisman.”

  “And I’ve changed my mind.” Ivy grabbed the box off the desk and tucked her arm behind her. “You don’t need luck. When the accolades come pouring in and the cash register rings nonstop, I don’t want you to think for a second it has to do with luck. Once we successfully open, then I’ll hand it back to you.”

  “Fine.” Mira pretended to pout. “Do I at least get the opening-day tiara you promised me?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sam stared at the tall, circular display case. Inside were the top tiers of all of this weekend’s wedding cakes. A traditional white fondant, covered in white roses. Chocolate buttercream icing with alternating white and dark chocolate diamonds, like an Italian harlequin. Thick cream cheese frosting clustered with marzipan pumpkins. And one entire cake that was simply a single red rose, petals unfurled, full and lush.

  Solid work. Good cakes. Each one good enough to be photographed and put on the website. Even the one his mentee Javon made. It was the first time the seventeen-year-old had done an entire wedding cake without any supervision from Sam, and the kid had rocked it. Sam knew he’d get a minimum of five referrals from each of these weddings. He didn’t care.

  Dropping to a crouch inside the daily bakery case, he took another inventory. Pecan caramel brownies dipped in chocolate. Raspberry-filled cupcakes. Slices of apple strudel. The snickerdoodles his mother taught him to make at age five. Cream puffs. éclairs. Individual fruit tarts. Chocolate raisin whiskey shortbread bars. All strong sellers that flew out the door as fast as they baked them. Looking in these cases, he saw the entirety of his days. How many people could do that? Could literally see exactly how the
y’d spent their day? Be able to measure precisely how profitable each day had been? Watch the smiles as he handed over a favorite sweet to a toddler—or a grown man—grinning in anticipation? Sam just didn’t care, though.

  Pushing to his feet, he walked to the back kitchen. The rubber seal on the door snicked as he pulled it open. Leaning with one hand on the doorjamb, he stared at the tidy triple line of truffles on the shelf. Truffles created for the grand opening next door. Champagne and raspberry truffles, each topped with a carefully piped red heart. Those, he cared about. Not that it mattered. Not anymore.

  He heard knocking, but didn’t bother to turn around. There was no baker’s code requiring Sam to respond to whatever imagined cake emergency had someone banging on the front door at nine o’clock on a Thursday night. They had to be high to imagine he’d open up his business three hours after closing to sell a couple of doughnuts. Come to think of it, anyone jonesing to get into a bakery this late probably was high. Well, just call him a crusader on the front line of the drug wars, ’cause he’d be damned if he’d enable their munchies.

  Frustration made him want to slam the door hard enough to bounce it off the hinges. But the rubber pressure seal that kept in all the cool air would only give him a soft squish. Oh well. Just one more unfulfilled desire to add to his list.

  “Hey there, handsome.” He spun around to see Mira’s beautiful face framed by a fuzzy blue scarf smiling at him. The connecting door was open a tiny sliver. “Why didn’t you open up when I knocked?”

  “Didn’t know it was you.”

  “Fair enough, since I didn’t expect to find you here so late.” She eased through the door sideways, then quickly shut it behind her. “I don’t want you to see the store.”

  “I saw it ten hours ago.”

  “Yes, but a lot can happen in ten hours. Things change.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Mira rushed at him. Cold air clung to her jacket as he automatically folded her in his arms. And then clung a little tighter when she boosted herself up to wrap her legs around his waist. “Feeling frisky?” he asked. Hopefully not. In his current foul mood, the only company he was fit to keep was with a case of beer.

  “Feeling anxious. Good anxious. Night-before-Christmas kind of anxious. Right-before-graduation excited. Staring-at-the-pee-stick-for-a-plus-sign nervous.”

  Just when he didn’t think it possible, his mood turned ten shades darker. About as black as the sludge left when he changed the oil in his car. Turning, he deposited her on the nearest table. And then took a couple of steps back. “Wait. What the hell? You think you’re pregnant?”

  “After the way we’ve been double-teaming it with your condoms and my birth control pills? Of course not.” Laughter pealed while she swung her feet. “Don’t be so literal. In case you’re worried, there are still about eighty or so shopping days until Christmas, too.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Sam released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Crisis averted. Not that a child with Mira would be a disaster. The thought of dealing with the sudden idea of a child was what threw him for a loop. He’d reached the end of his rope for the day. Maybe for the week. No more surprises, no more giddy, gorgeous girlfriend. Sam needed to be alone. “Shouldn’t you be home? Resting up for your big day?”

  “I went home. That lasted all of maybe ten minutes. Daphne’s over with Gib watching the Bears’, and I quote, ‘attempts to claw their way into a championship.’ The apartment was too quiet. If I stayed home, I probably would’ve done something crazy to cut the tension.” Hopping off the table, she shrugged out of her jacket to reveal jeans and an electric blue sweater that, under different circumstances, would’ve kick-started his libido into overdrive. “Maybe paint hot-pink polka dots on the walls. Or rearrange all the furniture. Either would give Daphne just cause for kicking me out. So I came back for one last look at the shop. If nothing else, I figured the walk might smooth out my jitters.”

  “Did it?” How could he get her out of here? Sam didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He just didn’t want an audience while he licked his wounds. If he took the time tonight to, well, flat-out sulk, then he’d be able to paste on a good attitude for tomorrow’s big opening.

  “Nope. Which is why I’m so delighted you’re still here. You’ll probably need five hits of espresso to catch up to my adrenaline buzz. There’s no way I could sleep tonight. Waaay too amped up.” Mira bopped a little closer, hips swaying. “So why not stay up with me? All night? I promise to make it worth your while. We could play strip poker.” She toyed with the bottom edge of her sweater, edging it up enough to flash her belly button. “Or I could just strip. Your call.”

  “Surprise me.”

  She cocked her head to the side. Slid her fingers out from beneath her sweater. “You know how all of your friends think you’re so quiet? Reserved? Closemouthed? I’ve been telling them for weeks that they’re nuts. That you throw words at me with the focused regularity of a senior citizen force-feeding quarters into a slot machine. Until tonight. Suddenly you’ve clammed up. I’m finally seeing the infamous Sam Lyons restraint.”

  “Welcome to me.” Untying his apron, he lobbed it high to land in a heap on the back counter.

  “I don’t like it. The Sam I know doesn’t hold back his words, his emotions. He’s passionate. Which means that something’s wrong.” Hands planted on her hips, determination burned like the blue flame of a Bunsen burner in her eyes. “You might as well tell me now. No secrets, remember? We promised. So, spill.”

  “There’s no secret.”

  “Excellent. Glad to know you’re a man of your word. Let me rephrase. Tell me why you’re moping.”

  Sam sighed. He loved Mira. He loved everything about her. He especially loved this playful, bouncy side of her. But right now he’d give every dollar in the cash register for her to go away. “Can we talk about it later? After the opening? That’s where all your focus should be right now. On you. Your big day. My stuff can wait.”

  “No, it can’t. I would never de-prioritize you like that. Besides, there’s nothing I can do at the store. Come on. Whatever’s going on with you, I bet I can help. Consider what a good distraction you’ll be. In fact, if you want me to sleep at all tonight, you have no choice but to talk to me.”

  Christ. If their roles were reversed, he’d probably be just as tenacious. How could he blame her for caring? Sam pulled the giant calendar from the wall. Trying to get his mother to use the computer to book appointments had felt like a root canal straight to the brain. After two months, he’d given up and stuck with the decades-old tradition of scribbling down everything in the daily blocks. He flipped to January.

  “See that?” Sam stabbed his finger at the stupid little square around January 8. It jammed his knuckles upward and hurt like a son of a bitch. At least now he had a rational reason to swear a blue streak. So he did.

  Mira grabbed for his finger. “Let me kiss it and make it better.”

  He yanked his elbow back before she managed to make contact. “You can’t make it better. You can’t fucking fix it.”

  “Sam, what is wrong with you?”

  “My mother.” Sam made the same ta-da motion a magician would make after producing a rabbit out of a hat. Every single person in his life had poked and prodded to get him to admit it for at least a year. Even Mira knew him for—what—a week, tops, before pestering him about his relationship with Kathleen. “There, I’ve finally said it out loud. My mother is my problem. Freud can rest easy in his grave knowing that he was right. You can blame everything on my mom.”

  “What sort of blame are you tossing around?” she asked cautiously.

  “My mother,” he snapped out, “apparently went out and snagged herself a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, she told you about John? I’m glad.”

  No way had he heard her correctly. “Wai
t. You knew?”

  “Your mom told me about a week ago. I think she really likes him.”

  Sam stalked over to her and glowered down all over her bubbly enthusiasm. “You knew and didn’t tell me?”

  “Do not even go there, Sam Lyons.” Mira shook her finger at him. “Every time your mother comes up in conversation, you shut it down. And you shut me out. You’ve made it crystal clear that my opinions on your mother, and her impact on your life, are unwanted and unappreciated. You can’t have it both ways.”

  The force of her righteous anger reeled him backward until he collided with the sink. “Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you?”

  “Sorry. No, actually, I’m not. I held my tongue before. Decided to bide my time and see how this thing between us played out. But now it seems that we’re in a relationship. You can’t pick an entire section of your life and declare it off limits. So yes, I knew about your mother’s boyfriend. And if you’d like to discuss how your mom dating again makes you feel, then I’m listening.”

  Maybe she had a point. Two-way street and all that. Besides, once he told her the situation, he knew Mira would back him one hundred percent. “I don’t want to talk about my mom dating. It’s not you,” he held up his hand, palm out, to prevent another flurry of words, “it’s that I’m not sure yet how I feel. My knee-jerk reaction is that she can’t possibly be ready yet, or be well enough. But I’m going to sit on that, let it settle for a few days before I try to figure out my real reaction.”

  “Well, if you aren’t freaking out about John, what’s got you so worked up?”

  He stabbed at the calendar again. “Thanks to her new man, my mother wants to escape what she shudderingly calls the frigid Chicago winter. They’re going on a romantic getaway—her words, not mine—a weeklong Caribbean cruise. She’ll be gone the same week that the Fancy Food show runs. Without her here, I won’t be able to do the show. We can’t afford to just shut down for three straight days. That’s it. Mom gets a tan, and I lose the opportunity to start my chocolate business.”