by Susan Crosby
“What I work for.”
Asher nodded. “But you’re thirty-six now and well past the age when you should feel the need for conquests.”
“You’ve become quite a philosopher since moving here.”
“I’m a single dad, trying to keep my son from hurting any more than he already is. I’ve learned to be more careful with people’s feelings. I ask that you tread cautiously with Felicity. I’ve met her on only a few occasions, but as you’ve learned, everyone around here talks. I know she’s a treasure for someone. Someday.”
The implied warning settled the debate Michael had been waging with himself. Torn between asking Felicity out again or leaving her alone became a simple decision now.
* * *
“I’d like to see you again.”
Felicity held the phone a little closer to her ear as she went through the door to the prep room and stepped into the quieter space. She wasn’t open for business yet, but people were milling about in the coffee shop.
“I’d like that, too, Michael,” she said. “The problem is when.”
“What’s your schedule for the day?”
“My aunt is coming in to run the shop for a few hours because I need to go to San Antonio and pick up some supplies.” She had a master list for the next twelve days. If she didn’t stick to it, she wouldn’t be able to fill her orders, and that would be disastrous.
“What time are you leaving?” he asked.
“In an hour.”
“May I go with you?”
“To the warehouse?”
“Are there rules against it?”
“No, but I doubt it will be interesting to you.”
“I find everything about you interesting, Felicity.”
“Oh. Well.” She fumbled for words. Good grief, what a thing to say to her. “Okay, then. We’ll need to take my pickup because I’ll have cases to bring back.”
“You drive a pickup?”
“It’s practical.”
“Is it pink?”
She grinned. “What? Macho man doesn’t want to be seen in a pink truck? Oh, don’t worry. It’s not pink.”
“Good.”
“It’s a stick shift.” She was having so much fun listening to his hesitations and silences. She’d give anything to see his expression.
“That’s a skill in my repertoire.” He sounded slightly offended that she would question his masculinity in that way.
“Then you’re on.”
“I’ll see you soon.” He hung up before she even got to say goodbye.
Felicity went back to dipping her mint patties in dark chocolate. Some candies she could make ahead, like the batch of salted caramels she’d made earlier. Others, like her specialty truffles, needed to wait until the last few days before Valentine’s Day.
Her hands ached. Caramels needed to be wrapped right away or they would lose their square shape. She’d twisted a few hundred caramels in papers, then formed mint patties by hand, liking the free-form shapes. She’d planned her trip to San Antonio this morning purposefully, knowing her hands would need a break before getting back to work this afternoon.
Felicity kept an eye on the viewing window between the kitchen and front room. Michael hadn’t said exactly when he would arrive, only “soon.” She saw Liz come in and head to the coffee counter. She must have called ahead because a tall cup awaited her.
“Details,” Liz said as she came into the prep room. “I want all the details.”
“Dinner at Vines and Roses,” Felicity replied with a smile, dipping a patty into the chocolate without looking, she’d done it so many times. “Champagne, shrimp, Cornish game hen, German chocolate cake, long drive through the country, a tender kiss on my doorstep.”
“You hate shrimp.”
“I ate only one. It’s not as if I’m allergic, you know, and he’d thoughtfully ordered ahead. I’m sure it seemed generous of me to let him have the other three.” She fluttered her eyelashes.
Liz grabbed Felicity, laughing. “You’re usually so direct.”
“I get that from you.” She shrugged. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Is there a second date?”
“He’s going to the Sweets Market with me.”
“Is he meeting you here?”
Felicity set the last patty on a parchment-covered tray and carried it to the cooler. “Anytime now. He’s even going to drive my truck.”
“Has he seen it?”
“No.”
“This ought to be interesting.” She looked out the viewing window. “And that has to be Michael Fortune.”
Felicity’s pulse raced, spreading warmth through her veins. He’d left off his tie, his concession to going casual, she guessed. The open collar of his white shirt revealed a vee of skin she wanted to press her lips to. “Yes, that’s Michael,” she said, brushing her hands down her apron.
“I can see why you fell. He reminds me of someone I knew long ago. Same air of confidence. Same perfect posture.”
“The man you moved to Red Rock for? The love of your life?”
“Years and regrets ago. I didn’t move here for him, but because of him. We’ll talk about that another time. For now, all I can say is hubba-hubba, Mr. Michael Fortune. He does seem like a man who people don’t often say no to.”
He spotted them through the window and came directly back, which was a good thing, Felicity decided. She’d been rooted in place just watching him. It hadn’t occurred to her to go out to greet him. She just wanted to stand there and soak him up.
“Good morning,” he said.
Felicity moved in for a quick hug, then realized her hands were covered in chocolate. “Liz, I’d like you to meet Michael Fortune. Michael, this is my aunt, Liz Thomas.”
As they exchanged a few pleasantries, Felicity realized the coffee shop had gotten noisy enough to hear from the prep room, and customers were moving toward the front window to stare outside. “I wonder what’s going on?” she said, curious at the odd behavior.
“Are you ready?” Michael asked.
“Um, yes.” She untied her apron, then hung it on a hook. She pulled her purse and clipboard holding her supply list from a cabinet. “Don’t worry about doing anything back here, Liz. Just rest your foot. We won’t be too long.”
“Maybe a little longer than you had planned,” Michael said, urging her forward with a hand at her lower back. “If you don’t mind, Liz.”
“I’m fine. She’s the one with the rigid schedule. If you can change her timeline a little, more power to you.”
“I like a challenge.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Liz said, right behind them as they left the kitchen.
Felicity paid no attention to their conversation. Something was happening outside the shop. “What’s going on?” she asked the crowd in general.
Every person in the room turned and grinned at her. Michael continued to guide her to the front door. Then she saw it—a big, black limo was parked in front of the store, three cars back from her truck.
“Yours, I assume,” she said as they escaped the curious eyes following their every move.
“For a few hours. Meet Jackson,” Michael said as the chauffeur opened the door for them.
“I know Jack. Didn’t know you were really Jackson. Or that you owned a limo. I only know you love salted caramels.”
He touched the brim of his hat, not a chauffeur’s cap, which really would’ve looked ridiculous on him, but a pristine white cowboy hat. “How’re you, Miss Felicity?”
“Feeling pretty taken aback at the moment.” She glanced at Michael, who had mastered the art of no reaction.
A limo. She’d ridden in one for her senior prom, sharing it with three other couples, but that had been a tradition.
This was an extravagance. It made her feel distinctly uncomfortable in front of all the townspeople following her every move and expression, but it would make her feel positively ridiculous at the Sweets Market.
She put
a hand on Michael’s arm and moved him out of Jack’s hearing. “I appreciate the gesture, Michael, I really do. But we’re taking my truck.”
“Why? The limo’s large enough to haul your supplies, isn’t it?”
“That’s not the point.” She could feel thirty-plus pairs of eyes zeroed in on her. She tried to keep her expression neutral because of it. “This is a business trip. I need my truck.”
“But—”
“I would understand if you decide not to go with me.”
His silence lasted a beat or two. “I thought it would give us more time to get to know each other.”
“Maybe if you’d asked me first.” Maybe, but doubtful. “I don’t need those kinds of luxuries, Michael.”
He was obviously a good poker player because his face never betrayed his feelings. He just stepped around her and spoke with Jack, who pulled a cooler out of the car, passed it to Michael, then took off.
As Felicity walked to her pretty aqua pickup with its True Confections emblazoned on the doors in gold, she spotted Liz giving her a thumbs-up through the window. “Be yourself.” Felicity could hear the unspoken words from her strong, independent aunt echo through her mind.
At the truck, Michael put out his hand. She dropped her car keys into his palm. He hefted the cooler. “I brought lunch for the trip back. If that was too presumptuous, I could give it to those teenagers gawking at us.”
She liked the barely restrained sarcasm. “What did you bring?” she asked sweetly.
He smiled finally. “Estelle put it together. I haven’t even looked.”
“Oh, good. That means no caviar or sushi.”
They got into the truck and took off. She was glad to leave the prying eyes behind, especially because most people knew she didn’t usually wear a lacy blouse and swirly skirt to work, like she had on today. She’d hoped to see him and wanted to be prepared, but she imagined everyone was talking now.
As Michael pulled away from the curb, she found herself staring at his throat, and the bit of chest revealed by the missing tie.
“Does it bother you?” he asked after a few seconds of silence.
Oh, yes, it bothered her a whole lot, that triangle of skin.
“Everyone watching you being courted, I mean,” he added.
“Am I being courted?”
“Two dates in two days is a good start.”
When she didn’t respond, Michael pulled over and parked. They were still on country roads with no other cars in sight. He reached for her hand and placed it at his throat, holding it there, wanting her touch as much as she seemed to want to touch him, then he leaned over and kissed her, a longer kiss than the night before, but still more tease than arousal—or satisfaction.
She tasted of chocolate and mint again, her signature scent, he decided. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I walked into your shop.”
He got right back on the road again. She was quiet, too quiet. He’d obviously made a mistake ordering the limo. He’d thought she would be thrilled. Most women—
She wasn’t “most women,” obviously.
“Why do you drive to San Antonio for supplies instead of having them delivered?” he asked, uncomfortable with the silence. “Or ordering off the internet?”
“Um, fine chocolate needs temperature control, so shipping charges are high. And right now the weather’s right, so I can bring it myself. Summer presents more problems. Plus, at the Sweets Market I can taste test new products. The owners are good about ordering samples.” She turned toward him a little. “I haven’t been completely satisfied with the white chocolate I’ve been using. It’s good, but it’s not great, so they ordered some samples for me. I’ll taste a few brands today.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m envisioning a white chocolate truffle with cinnamon in the ganache, then a cinnamon heart candy on top for Valentine’s Day.”
“I prefer dark chocolate over white,” he said.
“Lots of people do. Some prefer the taste. For others it’s a caffeine issue. Sarah-Jane thinks white chocolate is a waste of calories.”
“I have to agree. Seems like it’s not even real chocolate.”
“Officially, it isn’t, because it doesn’t contain chocolate liquor, but otherwise it’s pretty much the same ingredients. Quality is the big variable. Good quality has cocoa butter. Poor varieties are made with vegetable fat.”
“And you always use the best ingredients.”
“Why use anything else? I want return business. Taste is important. And consistency. I know what I sell is a special treat for a lot of people. I like to picture the pleasure on their faces.”
The Sweets Market was on the outskirts of San Antonio, so it wasn’t long before they arrived. She’d called it a warehouse, so he’d envisioned a metal structure and high ceilings, but it was a converted office building made of brick. Inside, many of the walls had been taken down, replaced by shelving stocked with lots of equipment he couldn’t identify.
The owner, Morgana Garcia, a tall, slender, maybe fortyish woman, accompanied them as they bypassed the stock of metal molds and assorted paraphernalia.
“You don’t need any of these things?” he asked Felicity. “It seems to me that some of this might make your work easier.”
“It could, but the results wouldn’t be what I want. I hand form every piece of candy. If I used molds, they’d look uniform. That’s not what makes me happy. I want every piece to look homemade because they are.”
“Felicity is very particular,” Morgana said as she opened a door. “She uses only organic products. She even makes her own powdered sugar.”
Michael felt the cooler air at the doorway. Here was where the chocolate was kept. The boxes read like a travelogue—Belgium, France, Italy, Switzerland, several South American countries, but also American locales, New York, Chicago and San Francisco. The fragrance of chocolate hung in the air, making his mouth water.
“How do you choose?” he asked Felicity.
“By personal enjoyment and then by purpose, although sometimes I’m looking for something in particular, like for the Valentine truffle, which means purpose first, then what tastes best. Certain chocolates work well for one kind of candy but not another. I also have to appeal to a variety of tastes.”
He was fascinated by her business persona. She was friendly with Morgana, but Felicity worked off her checklist, not allowing a lot of time for chitchat. He would’ve thought she’d be the kind to become friends with her suppliers. Instead she was just friendly.
“I set up a blind taste test as you requested,” Morgana said. “I also got a few new darks this week and put out samples of those. I made up a ratings sheet for you. Take your time. I’ll be back later. Oh, there’s some bottled water in the cooler behind you.”
“Thanks, Morgana.” Felicity examined the table of products.
“White or dark first?” Michael asked.
“White. Want to be my assistant?”
“What does that involve?”
“Tasting.” She grinned at him. “Honest opinions required.”
“I wouldn’t give you anything less than honesty,” he said, making a different point. He cupped her arm. “I expect the same from you.”
Her gaze never left his. After a few seconds, she sighed. “I hate shrimp.”
The remark came from nowhere, so it took him a second to register it. “You do? But I ordered...”
“I know.”
“And you ate...”
“I know.”
“Don’t do that again, Felicity. I appreciate that you were trying not to hurt my feelings, but I can handle honesty better than lies meant to soothe my ego.” So, he’d started wrong on their first date by ordering ahead of time. He wouldn’t do that anymore.
“Okay,” she said, relief in her eyes.
Obviously, she was careful about not hurting anyone, an admirable trait, but not one he required.
“Now, what I need from you is just your reaction to taste, that’s al
l. Which white chocolate do you like best?”
They went down the line, testing five different whites. “I like number two best, number four least.”
“You have a good palate for this. Number four is a ringer.”
“Vegetable fat?” he asked.
“Exactly. I liked number two best, too. That’s what I’ll order.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Now the good stuff.”
“This won’t be as easy. There are different levels of cacao and sugar because of different purposes. You may not like something I buy because it won’t be in its final form. Would you like me to taste first?” she asked. “Save you from eating the bitter stuff?”
“I want to experience it the same way you do.”
She grinned. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She picked up a small chunk, closed her eyes and sniffed it. If it’d been a glass of wine, she would’ve swirled it, he decided. Then she popped it in her mouth but didn’t bite down.
Michael did the same. The fact her eyes were sparkling should’ve tipped him off, but he thought she was just smiling at him, happy to be together. As was he. But then it hit him, the bitterness in it, making his mouth unhappy. He looked for a place to spit it out.
Felicity passed him a paper towel. He couldn’t get rid of the cacao fast enough.
“I don’t like the flavor either, but it’ll be perfect for a truffle I’ll infuse with cabernet sauvignon. The chocolate has to be strong enough to match the depth of the wine.”
They went down the line. Felicity gave him samples of only those she thought he would like. Next came the flavorings.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” he asked as she opened the first bottle, essence of orange, then held it up to him. “That’s good.”
“I’d like to make my own fruit purees, and maybe someday I will, but for now I buy those ingredients. What do you think of this?”
He pulled his head back. “I don’t like it.”
“Women do. It’s green tea. I pair it with Meyer lemon honey. I’ve recently developed a peanut butter and jelly, and not just for the kid client. Adults love the memories it invokes.”
“I noticed that your candies have different tops. Some have an object, like a cocoa bean. Others have—I don’t know what to call it. Swirls? Decorations, anyway.”
