“Hey, Lizzy. Long time, no see,” he said, glancing around the shop in a frantic kind of way.
“E-Elizabeth,” she corrected automatically.
“Oh, all right. Sorry.”
She stared at him, which of course he didn’t notice because he was too busy looking at everything else in the place besides her.
He walked into the backroom then out of it again.
He peered into the washrooms.
He opened and shut a few closets.
He paced back and forth, sat down in a booth, got back up and paced some more.
The guy was as tall and muscular and breathtaking as he’d been a decade before when he used to saunter through the unremarkable halls of Wilmington Bay High School, oblivious to anyone and anything beyond the football field and his bevy of admirers. If it were possible, he seemed even more youthful and in command now than he did at age eighteen.
And she felt about as queasy as she’d felt the last time they’d been face to face.
Finally, his pacing stopped. “Where is my uncle?” he asked in a husky whisper, directing the query at a tray of chocolate-dipped sugar cookies. “Uncle?” he called out. “Uncle Pauly?”
She wanted to tell him, but the words were lodged in her esophagus and, anyway, he wasn’t talking to her.
He strode into the backroom again, as if convinced the elderly Italian man could be found hiding behind a jar of candied cherries or a vat of butterscotch syrup. The long black eyelashes blinked in confusion when he emerged into the main shop once again, his gaze and those nutmeg-brown eyes directed at her.
“Don’t tell me he left already.” This was more a threat than a question. He shook his head at her as though that gesture alone would discourage an affirmative reply.
She held her breath and nodded.
“Where is he?”
She pursed her lips, just as she’d learned in her special speech tutorials so long ago, formed the first letter and tried to push it out of her mouth. But she stuttered anyway.
“L-Lufthansa. F-Fl-Flight four-oh-three.”
He cocked his gorgeous head to one side and stared at her in the way she’d grown so accustomed to during her miserable school years: Poor Old Lizzy, the look said. What a geeky dweeb.
“What time is it scheduled to depart?” he asked her with an affected gentleness that made her want to rip out his vocal cords.
She tapped her watch and gathered her courage for whatever might happen next. “T-Twenty m-m-minutes a-ago.”
“Oh, bloody hellfire!” Rob shouted, adding several inventive phrases to his curse before pausing to take a breath.
Elizabeth had managed to squeeze out a few additional syllables of explanation, but Rob was quick to catch on to the full meaning, she noticed, even when words were left unspoken.
“Uncle Pauly said he’d be gone only a couple of weeks.” He rubbed his palms against his eyes. “Not a freaking month. And he never mentioned Europe.” He pounded his fist on the ice-cream-window part of the counter three times in rapid succession. “He said everything would be explained when I got up here.” He turned toward her. “Guess you were elected to supply the details.”
If she’d been capable of it, she would’ve laughed. Oh, yeah. Now that was a first. One for the record books. Elizabeth Daniels: Verbal Disseminator of Information. Hee-hee. Ha-ha.
“S-Sorry,” she said.
He paused. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…” But words must have defied him, too because he left the sentence uncompleted.
A jangling of bells broke the silence.
“Howdy, folks,” the chatty old florist from down the block said. “Hey, Pauly, Siegfried,” he called. “Need to get me a double scoop of Cherry-Almond S—” He stopped mid-speech and surveyed Rob from the top of his dark Italian head right down to his pricey black-and-white Nikes. “Holy Hydrangea. Is that really Roberto Gabinarri standing in front of me?”
Rob grinned but a look of something other than gratification (wariness, perhaps?) slid over his face like a well-formed mask. “Good to see you again, sir. You’re looking fit as ever.”
The gentleman shook his head as if disbelieving the sight. “Been blazing a hot trail through Chicago, I hear. But, we’ve all missed you in Wilmington Bay, son. Does your uncle know you’re back?” He didn’t wait for Rob to answer. “Pauly! Siegfried!” He raised his palms. “Where are they?”
She watched Rob inhale several slow breaths. She could almost see him selecting his words with precision, the way a pastry chef might chose just the right filling for a pie.
“They’re taking a much-deserved vacation,” he said, nodding sagely at the older gentleman and motioning him closer as if letting him in on a deep family secret. “And we couldn’t let them close the shop now, could we? During June?”
The florist’s eyes grew large. “Oh, no.”
“Of course not. Especially since their best customers were counting on them.” Rob winked at the man and grabbed an ice cream scoop. “This cone’s on the house,” he said, digging into the tub of Cherry-Almond Swirl and piling the sweet concoction in massive, if inexpert, blobs atop a sugar cone. “Uncle Pauly’s orders.”
So Rob was going to start bribing and spin-doctoring, was he? Fine. She’d play along. In fact, she had to hand it to him. Considering the look of bliss on the talkative florist’s face, the gossip he’d inevitably spread about them could only be in their favor. She clamped her mouth shut and did her part by passing the man a paper napkin and shooting him a closed-lipped smile.
“Why, thank you, dearie,” the florist said to her. “Gotta get back to talking to my geraniums and begonias before they start complaining.” He licked his cone and twinkled his delight at her with his eyes.
She waved him off without uttering a sound, a trick she’d perfected through years of social avoidance, then she grabbed her notebook and ripped out the page she’d been working on. She handed it to Rob.
“What’s this?” he said, slumping against the counter.
With her pen, she pointed to the heading she’d written in block letters.
“A schedule? For what? The shop?” He stared at her as if this were the most foreign of concepts.
She nodded.
“For us? To divide up the opening and closing times?”
Good. He could read. She nodded again.
“But who’s going to work the shifts in between? Last time I talked with Uncle Pauly, he said he and Siegfried were doing most of the serving themselves. Said they didn’t trust many people and they’d only hire out part-time helpers during really busy times or when one of them was sick.”
She knew this, which was why she’d have to rely more heavily on Jacques, and why she’d called both Gretchen and Nick and told them they absolutely had to come over tomorrow to help her with this. She was desperate.
“M-M-My fr-friends will be w-working here,” she said.
“Well, great,” he said, looking relieved. “Hey, I mean, if you think you can handle all of the organizing, get trustworthy people to take the over shifts and all, you can count on me to chip in with other things. Funding their salaries for the month. Doing all the stock ordering. Sending out publicity notices. Anything you need, just so I can be back in Chicago soon.”
She winced. She’d been especially dreading relaying this part of Pauly’s parting message. Although she didn’t know the precise reason, she sensed Rob wouldn’t like the news. “Y-You can’t l-leave.”
“Why not?” he said, but the uneasiness in his tone convinced her he wasn’t surprised there might be a complication.
“P-Pauly called your m-m-mother. T-Told her to expect you for Sunday d-d-dinner tonight. And every n-night.”
“Oh, hell.”
She pushed her long, unruly hair out of her eyes and blinked at him. Funny, she’d never before seen the Golden Boy’s rugged olive complexion look quite so peaked.
“Lizzy,” he said, setting her carefully constructed schedule back on
the counter. “You’re looking at a dead man.”
And with that, he collapsed into a six-foot heap of hunky male onto the floor.
An Excerpt from DOUBLE DIPPING (September 2011)
Opposites collide in Brant’s light mystery/romantic comedy when a dedicated 2nd grade teacher fights the school’s new financial director in order to reinstate a much-beloved autumn festival. But secrets, ambition, attraction and meddling family members complicate matters in this small Midwestern town...
Cait whipped the lid off an activity box and dropped it to the floor with a clunk. She tossed some folders onto a kid’s desk and glanced up again at the clock. Another twenty minutes gone and still no Ogre-ish Budget Man. Huh.
She’d tried to find the guy, but his office was locked. Figured. So she’d scribbled a message for him to find her, tacked it to his door and took out her fury on the remaining boxes.
In an unpacking frenzy, she displayed the puzzles, put away the new stash of construction paper and arranged the language arts worksheets. Where the heck would she get the money to purchase the rest of the supplies she needed, though? The ones the school was too thrifty to buy this year?
Pain-in-the-neck Budget Man at it again, no doubt.
Still, she surveyed her mostly completed room with pride. Here were concrete lessons. Well-organized activities. The one place in the world where she felt in control.
At the double knock, she turned toward the door. A man stood in the doorway—a lean, tall figure, claiming the space.
She froze. A visceral reaction rooted her sneakers to the ground. Dark, wavy hair. Chipped-chocolate eyes. Enticing lips. A distinguished jaw line. And somehow she knew instinctively it was The Ogre. Only he wasn’t, was he? The man before her might be pure evil, but Holy Hollywood, he was Cary Grant reincarnate.
She drew upon her most assertive teacher voice. “Hello. I’m Caitlin Walsh.”
He quirked a brow in apparent surprise. “If this is Room Number Eight, I guess you would be.” His rich baritone swirled around her. He offered his hand along with a shrewd, resolute look. “Garrett Ellis,” he said, his gaze sweeping the room collecting details. “Looks like you’re ready for the first day tomorrow.”
“Not quite,” she murmured. Whoa. This was Budget Man?! That cologne…it had to be something expensive, European. Goodness. She’d gotten a whiff of Italy when their hands touched, and her fingers practically tingled from the contact. “You got my message, finally.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, very slightly, but she noticed.
“Yes. I understand you’re disappointed by the cancellation of the Harvest Hoopla.”
Now there was a genius remark. Making it out to be her problem. His insinuation made her curse power-hungry males everywhere for their absurd games.
“I’m disappointed, of course, but also concerned.” She kept her tone neutral. “The funding we need to get the festival up and running is nominal. We’ve always held it on school grounds, so there’s no additional charge for location and—”
“Not quite. There are set-up and clean-up costs.” He appraised her with an adversarial confidence.
“But not many,” she shot back. “The vendors use cafeteria tables and share a percentage of their profits to offset expenses. We photocopy the fliers at school—”
“Which means you’d need reams of paper, the use of the district’s copy machines and—”
Her temper flared. “I’d appreciate your attention without interruption.” She waited until he closed that mocking mouth of his. “As I was trying to say, Mr. Ellis, only a small portion of the school’s extracurricular budget is used for decorations, advertising and incidentals.” She raised her palms in question.
He raised his eyebrows in response.
Okay, so he was a tad slow. She’d try again. “For an educational event that brings pleasure to the children, business to the community and overall goodwill, the benefits of the Hoopla are clear. I can’t understand why you’d choose to let it go.”
Cait didn’t think men in their early thirties still snorted, but Garrett Ellis was an exception.
“We’re talking about the same event, right? The one where kids wear ‘goblin ears’ and run around painting pumpkins and eating caramel apples until their teeth rot?” He snorted again. “I read about it in the old newsletter files. Very educational.”
His sarcasm made her skin itch. “Well, we also have a storyteller,” she said.
“For fairy tales?”
She paused, imagining an evil sorceress turning him into a real ogre—one with warts and two heads—but she only said, “No, Mr. Ellis. Ghost stories.”
“I see.”
“And Ridgewood Grove’s balloon artist comes, too. There’s face painting…” She thought of her mom and sucked in a few gulps of air. “And caricature drawing. And the Jenkins family runs the Harvest Vegetable Taste Test, which is amazing.”
“Baked squash is amazing?”
She couldn’t help but laugh, remembering. “It was brown-sugar ‘n’ cinnamon-spiced squash. Last year they also made sweet potato dumplings, zucchini pie and Mr. Jenkins’s specialty—rutabaga al formaggio.”
He creased his brow, clearly unimpressed.
She sighed, grabbed a pen, then squeezed and twisted it. “Look, if it’s a matter of money, I’m sure the vendors would be willing to contribute a little more to offset the startup costs. They rely on events like this to attract new customers. Or, though we’ve never had to do it before, we could have a small admission fee for adults and students. I’d be willing to donate something, too, in addition to doing all of the organizing.”
An odd expression crossed his face. “Sorry, Miss Walsh, but there’s more to it than that.” Of course he didn’t deign to elaborate. He took a couple of steps forward and picked up the crumpled, trodden memo. “Mine, I presume?” He actually had the nerve to wink at her before tossing it in the trash.
She felt her face flush. She should’ve pitched the darn thing earlier. She took a few breaths until she could speak calmly. “Mr. Ellis, I’m sure you have your own, um, logic, but you’ve yet to tell me one good reason why you—”
“What’s this?” He pointed to her list with the words STILL NEED written in red marker along the top.
She’d have thought it was self-explanatory but, perhaps, he needed that spelled out for him, too. “It’s for supplies I don’t have yet. Things the school district won’t pay for but that the children still need. Now, about the—”
“The school district won’t pay for them?” He seemed taken aback. “But the parents will buy these items instead then, right?”
“The parents have already been sent a list of over twenty school supplies they need to provide. I didn’t put these things on their list because, in past years, the school has purchased them. Not this year, though.” She crossed her arms. What would Budget Man say to that?
He scrutinized the list with a mystified expression. “Ridgewood Grove Elementary can certainly afford to buy felt, yarn and glitter bottles.” He mumbled the names of the other things then looked her in the eye. “Let’s go get these for you.”
She almost dropped her pen. “What? Now?”
“Sure. Why not? You got other plans?”
“Well, um, no,” she admitted. “But—but wouldn’t that contradict the ‘streamlined’ office-supplies budget you set up?”
He shook his head. “I may have canceled your little festival, but I didn’t set up the supplies budget. Some blunders actually preceded me, though you may find that hard to believe.”
He seemed strangely sincere about it and, to top it off, he’d just given her the perfect opportunity to snoop a little into his life. She should grab it. But she still had questions. “What about the other teachers? They need these supplies, too.”
“One problem at a time, Miss Walsh. And you’re first on my list.”
Now what did he mean by that? That her problem had come up first, or that she was a problem? She cou
ldn’t help but wonder if Garrett Ellis was really trying to help her, or if he was merely acting supportive because he wanted something in return. Maybe he was trying to buy her silence…
She studied him. He had the classic glint in his eye of a player. The kind of man who’d switch allegiances—or women—like airport rent-a-cars if someone got in his way or if his ego got neglected for five minutes. She knew men like this. Guys just like her ex-fiancé Fredric. They didn’t spill secrets easily, and they always, always had ulterior motives.
She needed to clarify terms. “So, you’re saying the school is going to buy these things for me after all?”
“If the school doesn’t cover it, Miss Walsh, don’t worry. I will.”
***
Garrett watched the curvaceous blonde throw a few last things together, and he shook his head behind her back. This was exactly the kind of individual who could get away with skimming budget funds if she wanted to. No one would suspect someone as lovely and as, well, wholesome-looking as Cait Walsh. Not of fiscal misdeeds.
Still, it would be bad form to deny a teacher her glitter. The school board had approved the office supplies change, but he wondered who’d orchestrated it and why. Something seriously strange was afoot in this district.
He studied Cait. She was young, dynamic and closer to his sister’s age than his. Twenty-five, maybe. But unlike Sis, this shapely woman was a neat freak who used round vowel tones as weapons. She challenged him with that reserved posture, that combination of clarity and caution. With those huge gray-green eyes, freckle-splattered nose and forehead creased in concentration over God knew what, she was cute as hell.
Which annoyed him. He had too much to do. A leak to pinpoint. He had no intention of finding anyone “cute as hell.” Least of all a potential embezzler from Wisconsin.
He saw her lift a bulky beige tote with the letters “CLW” stitched in green. It looked as heavy as a golf bag, but shorter and twice as dense. She had it crammed with papers, scratch ‘n’ sniff stickers, lots of stuff he couldn’t see. He’d have offered to carry it for her, but she grabbed it tight. Didn’t look like she’d trust the FBI with that thing. Huh. Suspect behavior.
Pride, Prejudice and the Perfect Match Page 18
