Cupcakes & Chardonnay
by Julia Gabriel
Published by Serif Books
Copyright © 2013 by Julia Gabriel
Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mean, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system, without the written permission of Julia Gabriel.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN-10 0988633841
ISBN-13 978-0-9886338-4-1
Chapter 1
Suzanne Austin let herself drop forward onto the glass pastry case, all her weight supported by her forearms. The glass was cool against her bare skin and she took a deep breath, trying to inhale that coolness into her very core. It was working, a little. Maybe. Her legs felt like rubber after the lunchtime rush and she and the girls had only two hours to get ready for the after school crush, when throngs of hungry, sugar-deprived teenagers would descend on the tiny shop for their daily cupcake fix. The lunch crowd was generally quiet and subdued, employees stopping for a cupcake as a way to forestall returning to the office or the store just yet. They waited patiently and almost always knew which flavor they wanted before they got to the head of the line. But after school it was an entirely different story. All that young energy, released after hours of being cooped up in classrooms ... well, the atmosphere of The Cupcakery became boisterous to say the least.
On top of all that, the San Francisco State student whom Suzanne had hired to work afternoons was sick again today. Some kind of flu that was going around. Suzanne hoped against hope that she wouldn't come down with it herself. That would be a disaster. She was barely staying on top of all the corporate catering orders that were rolling in after the San Francisco magazine article.
She pushed all thought of illness out of her mind and knelt down behind the display case to tally up what needed replenishing. Completely sold out of both chocolate and vanilla. All the red velvets gone. Just two bananas foster left. One each of key lime coconut, butter-espresso swirl and chocolate mint cheesecake. She and the girls in the back would have to bake like the wind to refill the case in the next two hours.
She counted cupcakes, two by two, with the sound of whirring mixers and the clatter of cupcake tins in the background. It was music to her ears. Having her own business was stressful beyond belief but Suzanne wouldn't trade it for anything. She still wasn't over the thrill of unlocking the shop every morning at dawn and knowing that it was completely hers. She doubted she ever would be.
From just above her head came the light thwack of something hitting the top of the pastry case and a male voice saying, "Suzie Q."
Suzie Q. There was only one person in the entire world who called her Suzie Q. Brent, her old boss and the executive chef at HobNob. Brent had been instrumental in getting The Cupcakery off the ground, starting from the very moment Suzanne had turned in her resignation as head pastry chef at his restaurant. Brent had been nothing but encouraging in the two years since she had gone out on her own. He'd offered business advice, pep talks, referrals. It had been his idea to branch out into corporate and party catering, two areas Suzanne hadn't thought she was ready for. And his quotes to San Francisco magazine had been so flattering, anyone would think he worked here.
Suzanne stood up, a big smile on her face. "I'm afraid you've come at the worst time. We're out of just about everything ..." Her voice trailed off and took her smile with it. It was not Brent standing in front of her display case. For starters, she doubted Brent would be caught dead in a suit that expensive. Like Suzanne, he prided himself on being down-to-earth and practical.
"Well, that's a shame. The most famous cupcakes in the entire Bay Area and none left for me?"
That voice. Deep, raspy, slow. Like sex on steroids, a friend of Suzanne's had once called it. She hadn't heard that voice in years and it wasn't doing one thing to solidify her already rubbery legs. She couldn't believe it still had that effect on her.
"You seem surprised to see me, Suzanne. Who else calls you Suzie Q?"
Was that a note of jealousy she detected in his voice? She dismissed that thought immediately. That he would be jealous—that he had ever been jealous—simply couldn't be believed.
"As a matter of fact, someone else does call me Suzie Q. Someone who has been a great help to me with—" she gestured toward the front of her shop—"all of this." What is he doing here? Suzanne hadn't seen Daryle Catterton in at least three years, so long in fact that she had forgotten that he used to call her Suzie Q.
She tried to take in his appearance without obviously checking him out. Damn. Why couldn't he have gained some weight, added a spare tire? Where's a receding hairline when you need one? Daryle was as tall and fit as ever. He ran his long, slender fingers through that thick mess of dark waves, better hair than any man had a right to have. Those dark eyes, pools of bittersweet chocolate, were taking in her tiny shop—the metal café tables and chairs, the oversized posters of cupcakes on the walls, the mixers and ovens in back. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the sweet aromas of vanilla and almond, sugar and coffee.
He cleared his throat and cast his eyes down to the display case. It was only then that Suzanne noticed the mass of roses splayed on the glass. There had to be three dozen roses lying there, in every color—white, yellow, peach, pink. Every color except red, and she was glad to see that.
She looked up at him. That wicked little smile was playing around his lips. "Why are you here?" she sighed. She was suddenly aware again of just how tired she was, how hectic this week had been, how much work there was still to be done. She came into the shop each morning at 5 am to begin the day's baking and she didn't normally leave until 4 pm when Karen, her assistant manager, arrived to handle the evening hours.
She hadn't had the patience for Daryle's games three years ago and she didn't have the patience today.
Well, I guess I didn't expect her to be happy to see me, Daryle thought. Maybe he shouldn't have done this at her business. Maybe her apartment would have been better. But he wasn't sure she would have agreed to talk to him there. At The Cupcakery, he'd thought, she wouldn't make a scene when he showed up.
Her hands were shaking slightly—from nervousness or anger, he wasn't sure. She tried to cover it up by unclipping the barrette from her hair, smoothing back all the stray wispy strands that were floating around her ears and cheekbones, and then pulling it all back into a neat, tight ponytail. All that glorious hair. Inside it looked dark brown. But outside, Daryle knew, the sunlight would reveal all its sparkling auburn highlights.
She was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Her beauty was compounded by the fact that she was mostly oblivious to it. Oh, she thought herself pretty enough, he knew. But she would never ever call herself beautiful ... or gorgeous ... or stunning. All the words he imagined went through the head of every man who passed her on the street. Or ventured into The Cupcakery to indulge a sweet tooth and encountered the proprietor in her crisp pink and brown striped apron, her cheek beguilingly smudged with flour, her lips the color of luscious pink icing.
From the minute Daryle saw her four years ago, he knew he had to move her to San Francisco. And that was exactly what he'd done, in the space of a mere three months. He'd overcome her natural resistance to throwing caution to the wind, her pragmatic outlook on life. He'd swept her off her firmly grounded feet and wooed her clear across the country. After that ... well, let's just say he mishandled things slightly.
"Are these for me?" she a
sked, pointing at the flowers.
"They are," he replied.
"Why are you bringing me flowers?" Her blue eyes flashed with what could easily be mistaken for murderous intent. "We haven't spoken in years and today you show up out of the blue with flowers?"
"I have a favor to ask."
He watched as one perfectly arched eyebrow lifted smoothly upward and then, just as gracefully, settled back down. The expression on her face said you don't have a you-know-what's chance in hell of getting a favor from me. Unfortunately for her, he wasn't giving up that easily. He couldn't afford to.
"Consider it a business proposition."
"You want to buy me out? What do you know about cupcakes?"
He looked around The Cupcakery. She'd done well for herself, no doubt about it. Not that he had ever doubted she would. It had never been her ambition or success that was in question.
"I hadn't thought about that. But no. It's a different sort of proposition, one that could help your business here. Not that you seem to need much help. I read the magazine article. Pretty impressive, Suzie Q."
"Oh, were you in that issue too?" Daryle was a regular fixture in the party pages, at this restaurant opening or that charity gala, always with a tall beautiful blonde on his arm.
"I've been keeping a low profile lately."
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and let out a long, slow, barely-controlled exhale. He could tell she was nearly out of patience with him, and she'd never had much to begin with.
"I don't know why you're so mad at me," he said. "You dumped me, remember? I have a favor to ask, one that only you can grant and one that will benefit both of us. Is it so unbearable for you to hear me out?"
She glanced anxiously back at the girls in the kitchen, furiously mixing batter and spreading frosting on row after row of cupcakes. "I don't have time to talk right now. I'm short a person today and the after school wave starts soon. A hundred hungry teenagers can clear out this shop in twenty minutes flat."
"A hundred teenagers? In here?" He put up his hands and pretended to back slowly toward the entrance. "If you're trying to scare me away, that'll do it."
Ah! A smile, at last. Maybe he still had a chance. The slimmest of chances, but he was an optimistic person.
"How about we talk over dinner?" he suggested. "When do you close?"
She was silent for a moment while she considered this. "The shop stays open until nine, but my assistant manager closes up."
"So if I swing by around six-fifteen?"
She looked ruefully down at her faded jeans and sweater. "It'll have to be someplace casual. I look a mess."
One hot mess. He looked at the apron cinched tightly around her waist. Her breasts strained against the pink and brown stripes. She'd put on a little weight since he'd seen her last, weight that was in all the right places. Cupcakes'll do that to you.
"We can do casual," he said. He nodded toward the flowers, still strewn across the display case. "Get those in some water."
At six-fifteen sharp, Suzanne was standing on the corner outside The Cupcakery. Her shop—her pride and joy—was in the Marina neighborhood of San Francisco, on a side street just a block down from the main Chestnut Street shopping and restaurant area. The Marina was right on the water and populated with expensive homes, young professionals sharing apartments, and tourists coming to see the famous Golden Gate Bridge.
In the distance, a foghorn moaned. This was Suzanne's favorite part of the day, when the fog rolled in off the bay and filled the streets of the city with its whispery silver tendrils. She loved the fog. It was mysterious and elegant and romantic. There was nothing more intimate than walking hand-in-hand with someone, enveloped by the soft grey fog. It made you feel as though you were the only two people in the entire world.
Not that she had walked hand-in-hand with someone for a long time. Her only relationship was with The Cupcakery, and she didn't mind one bit. Building a business was an all-consuming affair, so consuming in fact that she was—that very minute—toying with the idea of telling Daryle that she'd changed her mind and couldn't go to dinner. She was exhausted. Her feet hurt. She wasn't particularly hungry, a casualty of working in a sweets shop all day. What she wanted most in the world at that moment was to go back to her cozy apartment, fix a cup of tea and watch the news until she fell asleep. Running a business left little energy for anything else. Suzanne could barely remember what it felt like to have a hobby ... or a relationship. Although her little visit from Daryle brought some of that back, all too clearly.
"Ugh," she said out loud, thinking of the hassle of canceling on Daryle. Daryle came from a wealthy family and he was used to getting his own way. His grandfather had made the family fortune manufacturing some obscure piece of machinery. His mother had invested her inheritance in a failing Napa vineyard back in the early seventies and turned the enterprise around. Suzanne couldn't imagine what that might be worth now. The real estate alone must represent a bloody fortune.
She was still pondering Daryle's immense trust fund when a sleek charcoal grey sports car pulled up next to the curb. She ignored it. Expensive luxury cars were a dime a dozen in San Francisco, especially since the dot-com boom. You couldn't throw a rock without hitting a Yahoo millionaire ... or a Google gazillionaire.
"You should nab yourself one of those guys," Brent liked to tease her, only half in jest. Suzanne wasn't interested. Daryle had been her little experiment in the lifestyles of the rich and famous. It had been fun, sure ... for awhile, anyway. Spur-of-the-moment trips to Paris and Hawaii with no thought to the expense? Meals in the newest, trendiest restaurants before mere mortals could even think about getting a reservation? What woman wouldn't enjoy that?
But she'd also found it incredibly frustrating. Daryle was the most unfocused person she'd ever met. He slept in until noon, stayed out late partying, spent his days doing whatever. He didn't have to work and so he didn't. Sometimes he simply bought new clothes instead of doing laundry! Face it, the guy was plain lazy. And Suzanne just hadn't been able to live with that. She preferred people with direction.
The passenger-side window on the grey car rolled down and the door opened outward. "Suzie Q?"
Suzanne's heart dropped into the pit of her stomach when the car pulled up to a gracious old stone mansion. She had never been to this restaurant but she had heard plenty about it. Brent talked about it all the time. Tucked away in a quiet residential neighborhood near the ocean, it was called simply "The House" and was very small and very private. Every party, whether one diner or twenty, got their own room in the mansion.
Suzanne was furious. In a city like San Francisco, there was no shortage of truly excellent casual places to eat. They could have walked to a dozen of them from The Cupcakery, places where no one would even notice her jeans and sweater. But no. Daryle had to choose one of the least casual restaurants in the entire city.
A tall young man dressed in a sharply pressed suit leaned down and opened the car door. He extended his hand to help her to her feet. At the same time, another young man opened the door on Daryle's side. She fumed as she followed Daryle up the wide stone steps to the entrance, a heavy dark wooden door. This was just like Daryle, she thought, no regard for anyone else. No thought to how she might feel having to walk into a fancy restaurant dressed like a college student.
The heavy wooden door opened just as they reached the top step. "Mr. Catterton, a pleasure to see you again," the maitre'd said and ushered them inside. He looked over Suzanne with a straight, neutral face but she could see in his eyes that he had registered her outfit.
As she followed the maitre'd down a long hallway, she discreetly glanced into the other dining rooms. The men were all in suits. The women wore either suits or dresses. In her jeans and sweater, she was underdressed by at least a factor of ten. Maybe twenty. It was a wonder they even let her in. Daryle, of course, was still wearing the grey suit he'd had on earlier. If she'd been dressed for it, she would have loved to eat
here. Her fingers were itching to text Brent and tell him where she was. But then, of course, she'd have to explain why she was there. And at the moment, she wasn't entirely sure what she was doing there. The only thing she was certain of was that she was dreading the evening and wishing she could turn around and run right back out the door. She'd have given it a try, too, if Daryle hadn't been right behind her.
The maitre'd led them to a small, private dining room in which there was only one small round table and two plush, velvet-covered chairs. Oil paintings hung on the walls and the sconces were dimmed to a rosy glow. With the right person, it would have been very romantic. Suzanne rolled her eyes.
The maitre'd pulled out a chair for her. Daryle removed his jacket, then seated himself.
"The fumé blanc, sir?" the maitre'd asked Daryle.
Daryle nodded. "Thank you, Christopher."
When the maitre'd left, Suzanne said, "This is your idea of casual?"
Daryle took a deep breath. "Okay, so it's not casual. But we are seated in a private room. No one can see you. Did you see anyone you know out there?"
Suzanne shook her head.
"Then why do you care? This restaurant is a good customer of the winery. I like to eat at our customers' restaurants so I can keep track of any menu changes. It allows me to suggest new wines for them."
"It almost sounds like you're ... working."
"Yes, I am, thank you very much. Two and a half years ago, my mother expanded Iris Vineyards. We are now a full winery. We make our own wines instead of just selling the vineyard's grapes to other winemakers."
As if on cue, a waiter with stiff, ramrod straight posture returned with the bottle of wine Daryle had requested. Daryle waved off the waiter, saying, "I'll pour." He held it up so Suzanne could see the purple and blue Iris Vineyards label.
She watched his long, slender fingers deftly uncork the bottle and pour the golden liquid into her glass. "Taste it," he commanded. "What do you think?"
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