“Okay,” I say with a chuckle. “Now I’m confused. First you say we have history and it means something, then you say because of our history we shouldn’t…have something?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” she replies. “I’m as confused about all of this as you are. But something’s weird.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Anyway. If things do change, you’ll call me?”
“Yes, Claire.”
“You’ll tell me honestly what’s going on with you two?”
“You mean if we wind up back in Paris in my bed and saying how we shouldn’t have started something we can’t finish?”
“Whatever,” she draws out. “You know what I mean. History…”
I pull two oversized packages of paper towels from the bottom shelf of the grocery store’s cleaning aisle and feed them into the bottom of my shopping cart. “History! Exactly!” I hastily lower my voice when I realize it’s probably carrying in the grocery story aisle. “I was a history major, studied the crap out of it.”
“And?”
“And if there’s one thing I took away from it all it’s that that old adage is true: History tends to repeat itself. Chad and I have a history and it’s gotten us nowhere good and…no.” I wag my head. “It’s in the past and there’s no future for us. We can’t go down that road again. No. Impossible.”
“If you say so, Sophie.” Claire sounds deflated. “Just don’t kid yourself. Be honest.”
I twist my lips from one side to the other. “You want honest?”
“Always refreshing.”
“Okay, history or no history, Claire, it was actually kind of nice talking to Chad. One-on-one, you know?”
“Tsk-tsk. See! See what I mean!”
I can’t help but giggle at her giddiness as I push the cart with one hand down the rest of the aisle, shifting the cell phone from my shoulder to my ear.
“Then here’s one to drive your matchmaking, goofy self, crazy,” I say. “Chad said he’d come by the café again tonight.”
“Okay, are you blind? He so wants to make history happen again! You two, hooking up, rooomance…” She continues to drone on all sappily.
I love egging Claire on sometimes. It can make any bad day turn delightful. She’s so easily excitable and reactive.
“Chill,” I say as I turn the corner of the aisle and peruse the never-ending row of breakfast cereals. “Nothing like that. I really am so swamped with no one to help me out. When he offered to come by again after work I thought it’d be kind of nice.”
“I bet!”
“Besides, with Evelyn not around and with Conner no longer in town, maybe he’s just…lonely. I don’t know.”
“Uh-huh…” Claire’s voice is thick with skepticism.
“Remember,” I say matter-of-factly, to make my case more logical than fantastical, as Claire is apt to see it, “Chad did work for me once upon a time. Look at this as him coming back as a temporary seasonal hire.”
“Seasonal my rear. It’s March. What season are you talking about?”
“Easter,” I blurt out as soon as I see the goofy bunny on the box of Trix.
“Dear god,” Claire moans. “You are so full of it. I love you, Sophie, but you’re a kick. I miss ya.”
“I’m not full of it. I’m serious.” I reach up top for a box of GrapeNuts.
“We’ll see about that,” she says. “A couple month’s time you two will be hitting that historical Parisian bed all over again.”
“Whatever,” I dismiss. “So speaking of a couple months. May. You and Conner really are going to try to come out here then? That would be awesome!”
“We’re trying. I’ll keep you posted, of course,” she trills. “Until then, keep in touch. I’m going for a run with Schnicker. I’ll talk to you later.”
I finish my grocery shopping, mulling over my conversation with Claire. It’s completely in line with her personality and record to poke and pry at anything with a romantic label on it, however labyrinthine. But does she really have a point? Is there something there for Chad and I to have? Or is it just history? Is his helping at the café just a recipe for history to repeat itself? Starting something we won’t finish? Or is all this nothing more than a friend helping a friend?
Still as uncertain as I was before Claire called, I carry my groceries up to my apartment, tossing over the issue to death and coming up answerless at every turn.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“So you totally get what I’m saying, right?” Chad asks, shaking his head sharply. He pushes thick strands of loose hair back, then rubs at the side of his face, a five o’clock shadow clearly pushing through. “You cannot demand a re-do on a project that isn’t even done!”
“I get it,” I say. “I think you’ve got a quirky client on your hands.”
Chad’s been commissioned to do a portrait for a wealthy client—the narcissistic wife of a deep-pocketed IT colleague of his dad’s. The woman insists the painting looks nothing like her—saying he’s made her hips as wide as a hippo’s, her face not much more flattering—and is demanding he start fresh.
“It’s not finished,” Chad sings on. “Parts of the painting process may look nothing like the end-result you have planned.”
I do get it. I told him the same thing can happen with certain recipes; it’s one reason why I don’t like people taste-testing certain unfinished pastries. If it’s not complete it can leave a horrible impression.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, leaning forward and squinting at the card that has the rose-flavored macaron recipe on it.
Chad begins to clean the chalkboard that, until recently, contained the day’s long list of completed to-dos. As he reaches high up to the far right corner of the board, his baby blue polo hikes up to where I can see the rim of his black boxer-briefs.
I feel my cheeks flush when I catch myself thinking about how he used to wear boxers, then I quickly scold myself for having such thoughts, and for even noticing a difference. I abruptly return my attention to the recipe card as Chad says something I don’t comprehend.
“Sorry, what was that?” My cheeks are still warm.
“I said I told her I’m not redoing it,” he says with a hint of derision, “and that she’s no longer allowed to look at my work in progress. I don’t care how much I’m getting paid.” I watch from the corner of my eye as he cleans the lower half of the chalkboard, keeping the recipe card poised in front of me, as if actually reading it.
“And,” he huffs, “I reassured her that her painting will be better than she could imagine.” He flashes me a quick grin. “I am a kick-ass painter.”
I give a short, awkward laugh, returning my attention (for real this time), to the recipe card.
Despite my teasing, Chad is a talented painter. I’ve often wondered why he hasn’t given up his career in marketing and taken a stab at selling his artwork full-time. He has his trust fund to fall back on in case things are slow-moving in the art world. Perhaps that’s the responsible side of Chad showing itself—the side I don’t notice often enough, or, at least, give credit to.
“You want to know somethin’ cool?” He tosses the wet rag onto the table beneath the chalkboard.
“Huh?”
“That lack of inspiration with my painting that I was having?”
“Yeah?”
He grinds his jaw, locks it to one side, then makes a clicking sound. “It’s back.”
“Oh really?” I briefly look up from the recipe card, giving Chad a small smile. “You found it fast.”
“Yeah…well…” His voice falters before he makes another clicking sound. “Hey! You know what?”
“Hmm?”
“I think it has something to do with me being here.”
“Oh?” I set the card down and awkwardly look up at him, darting my eyes from his, to the back wall, then back to his. “Wha—what do you mean?”
He gives a sly grin and takes a half-seat on the barstool opposite.
He leans his more heavily tattooed arm on the table and says, “Well, your amazing chocolate chip cookies and chocolate croissants for one.”
“First, it’s called a pain au chocolat,” I correct with a snarky expression.
“Excusez moi.” He leans further into the table. “I don’t know. I haven’t just…hung out like this. It’s nice.”
“Like what?”
“Like this. You, me.”
“Hanging out with friends,” I rush out. “You’re telling me you’re a lonely boy? You have no friends to hang out with?”
“No,” he says in a low, drawn-out voice. “But not friends like—like you.”
I begin to fiddle with the recipe card, gently bending back one of its corners.
“Not with, you know, a girl…friend,” he stutters. “Not a girlfriend-girlfriend, but—”
“No,” I blurt, feeling my cheeks warm again at the adolescence of our conversation. “No, no, of course not.” I fold the corner harder. “I know what you meant.”
He clenches his fist and shakes his head. “Yeah, just a—a friend…who’s a girl,” he murmurs, taking the exchange one step deeper into the adolescent and extremely awkward realm.
I bite my bottom lip and cast my eyes down at the recipe card.
“A woman, I mean,” he stammers out a retraction.
He clears his throat awkwardly as I realize the nervous twitching I’ve been doing, ruining the once-neat and crisp recipe card.
“I mean,” he mutters, “it’s nice to hang out like this, with you…a friend.”
“Yeah.” I press back the crease. “Yeah, it is.”
“It’s just, usually if we’re not tearing into each other we’re at each other’s throats and—” He chuckles lowly, glancing up at me only briefly.
At the mention of “tearing into each other,” a sudden vision pops into my mind: Chad’s strong arms wrapped around my body; his tender lips pressed to mine; the scent of his cologne and my perfume wafting in the air, mixing, post-coital; the honking of the taxi cabs’ horns sounding from down below on the cobblestoned Parisian streets, carrying up to my cramped studio apartment, an apartment filled with mixed feelings of something forbidden, something beautiful.
I swallow the forming lump in my throat and meet Chad’s gaze—his strong, dark gaze.
“Anyway,” he says from nowhere, voice husky. He sits upright, though still in a half-seated position. He rubs at his jaw. “I like it here…with you. It’s fun.” He pans about. “And the inspiration?” He inhales deeply, then exhales dramatically. “Aww, yes. The inspiration is definitely the chocolate treats you bake.”
“Made possible by those top-of-the-line ovens you and Jackie hooked me up with.” I nod towards the ovens. “That was really nice of you guys.”
“She’s the one who bought them.”
“You helped, you installed them.”
He casually shrugs in response.
“I really appreciate it.” I give him a thoughtful, grateful look, mouth turning up in a small yet genuine smile. “You’ve always been a help around here, Chad. And while I pick on you, I do appreciate you, your help.”
“It’s always my pleasure, Sophie.” His expression mirrors mine, eyes locked onto mine. And the way he says “Sophie” is almost guttural, kind of beckoning.
I stand up taller and dart my gaze to the recipe card. Feeling jittery, the mood having turned too serious, too quiet, I nervously clear my throat and swat at my bangs.
“Anyway,” I say rather loudly. I clear my throat again, this time louder. “I’m glad you’ve found your artistic inspiration again.” I smooth back the creases on the recipe card some more. “You know I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling inspired, too?”
“Oh yeah?” A silly grin begins to take over his face. “How so? Am I just that much of a Marie-Thérèse to Miss Picasso of the Pastry here?”
“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. I wave the macaron recipe card in front of him. “For starters, the mere fact that I’m doing these puppies on my own, and churning them out? Definitely inspiration.”
“Hey.” He winces. “Who says you’re on your own?”
“Well…” I make a long face as I look at the card.
He snatches it out of my hands and inspects it. “Okay.” He hands the card back. “So I haven’t exactly had a hand in helping you make those froo-froo treats.”
“Guess it’s, like you said, just nice having that company,” I say. “Hanging with a friend…”
I pick up a wooden spoon and roll it between two fingers. “I mean,” I say, pushing from my mind any inappropriate thoughts Chad has conjured up tonight, keeping things completely simpatico and platonic here, “I came up with that jasmine- and green tea-flavored macaron, then that eggnog-flavored filling for the cupcake I totally nailed… I guess maybe having company here that isn’t totally lame is kind of…inspirational.” I point the spoon at him as he stands.
“All right, all right.” He does a snap and clap thing with his fingers and fist. “What’s next? As much as I love hanging out behind the scenes of The Cup and the Cake with you, and as much as I like a good ribbing—”
“Oh, shut it,” I say much too flirtatiously.
He points to the card and says, “I don’t think either of us really wants to stay here until dawn making froo-froo treats, now do we?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“So, what’ll it be?” He casts about. “Clean the windows? Again?” He says this in a joking tone.
He made a fuss earlier tonight when he asked what he could help out with and I directed him to the windows. He’d already done that the night before (yes, the second night he closed the café with me; tonight being the third consecutive night). He was beside himself when I told him that I usually cleaned the windows every night.
“If they’re dirty, then yes, please,” I say, deciding to go easy on him.
He wags his head in disbelief.
“At least the front door,” I say. “I suppose you don’t have to do all the windows again.”
“Whoa!” He waves his hands about. “Is this going to upset the balance that’s Spic-n-Span Sophie?”
I quickly shake my head and stop myself. “What am I saying? Chad?”
He looks at me with a curious, awaiting expression.
“You don’t need to be doing this. Coming in each night Oliver’s gone? Working for me?” I wrinkle my nose as I take a moment to realize how often Chad’s come in to help this weekend, and how very bizarre it all is.
“I know,” he brushes off. “Like I said,” he steps nearer to me, “I like it.”
As much fun as it’s been, I think, as easy-going as it’s been having Chad around these past few nights, it’s not exactly necessary.
“Wouldn’t you rather enjoy some downtime though? Seriously?” I bite my bottom lip, choosing my next words carefully as he steps closer. “Enjoy some just-you time, playing video games or darts at a pub or something silly like that?” He steps even closer, and my voice squeaks out, “Before Evelyn’s back?”
“I’ve got all next week before she’s back.” He stops one short step away from me. “Besides, I like it here, Sophie.”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” I say in a jittery tone, immediately swallowing away the small frog that leaps about in my throat.
“Because it’s true.” His voice is low, his words crisp; he’s so close I can nearly feel his breath on my face.
And when he’s referencing our sexual past, conjuring up memories I’ve tried so hard to repress, it’s not exactly appropriate that he’s here, is it?
“You like it because I send you home with chocolate baked goods,” I say through more jittery laughter as he leans against the table, standing tall over me, eyes locked with mine.
“Oh, definitely,” he rasps, not for a single second tearing his eyes from mine.
And as discontented as he may be in his relationship, he is still in a relationship, Sophie.
“And bei
ng inspired here…” I murmur, not really sure what I’m saying as I feel my cheeks flush with each second that passes, our eyes still locked.
“Something like that.” He leans forward an inch, maybe two, and smiles.
And now I am officially confused.
Chad then makes a small sigh. “How about I help you with these froo-froo things, and I can leave the windows for later?”
I swallow and give a short, sharp nod. “Okay.”
The nearly intimate moment is abruptly broken as Chad points to the recipe card. But the intimacy returns in an instant as the side of his body presses to mine ever so slightly as he reaches over me to retrieve the card.
I swallow again, keeping my breath steady, refusing to send off a single signal that I’m utterly confused. What is happening? Are we flirting? Are we just friends who once had benefits caught up in a strange moment that is, in all actuality, still platonic?
Chad begins to read aloud, in a horrible French accent, the ingredients on the recipe card.
I clear my throat and inch back gingerly, surreptitiously. “Macarons may not be rocket science,” I say, getting my head straight, “but they’re not ABC-123.” I playfully pluck the card from his fingers and raise high one doubtful brow. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“I love a challenge.” He motions for me to hand over the large ceramic bowl.
“You do realize I’m planning on staying here for the next few hours—on a Saturday night—making four dozen rather complicated cookies?”
“Like I said,” he says, somewhat cavalier, “I like a challenge.” He looks at me from the side with one raised eyebrow. “And I can’t think of a better way to spend my evening.”
And, as I gesture for him to fetch an apron, I smile to myself, watching him strut in that aggravatingly becoming way of his—laidback, confident, determined—and I can’t help but think, I can’t think of a better way, either.
As he makes his way back, tying off the waist of the teal apron, his cell phone rings.
“Oh, wow,” he gasps as he looks at the phone’s screen.
“Pike house reunion party?” I kid as I fetch the ingredients.
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 30
