Fortune's Just Desserts

by Marie Ferrarella

  And then, just like that, the ginger-and-bubbles concoction had soothed Eva’s queasy, rebellious stomach. Only then did Mrs. Mendoza indulge her self and accept the serving of Wendy’s dessert that Enrique offered her. Two bites into it, she made a comment about having died and gone to heaven.

  Seeking her out, the restaurant owner’s wife had raved about Wendy’s dessert for a good five minutes—longer than it had taken her to consume it.

  Wendy knew that Marcos had heard his aunt, but he’d made absolutely no comment. Again he’d cocooned himself in a blanket of silence like some damn noncommunicative robot.

  That’s what he was, she decided heatedly. A robot. He had to be. Only a robot wouldn’t have melted in the heat that had been created between the two of them in the storeroom this morning. And only a robot would have walked away without so much as a second glance because he’d so completely divorced himself from the situation.

  Muttering a few choice words under her breath about pig-headed, stubborn jackasses, Wendy walked into the women’s locker room. As the door closed behind her, leaving her isolated and all alone, she made up her mind.

  She was going to have to stop beating her head against the wall. Stop filling that same head with endless questions about Marcos.

  She was going to have to stop thinking about him, period, Wendy upbraided herself. There were a lot more men in the world, better-looking men, more interesting men and a hell of a lot friendlier men than this walking enigma who was her ill-tempered boss.

  The sooner she stopped concentrating exclusively on Marcos, the faster she was going to get over this. Whatever this was.

  Desperate to leave, she ran through her locker combination. She needed to open the stationery-store lock mounted on her locker in order to get at her civilian clothes.

  Just as the last tumbler clicked into place, she heard her cell phone ringing inside the narrow storage space. The call was on its third insistent ring by the time she got to her cell.

  Exasperated, Wendy opened it and pressed it against her ear without bothering to look at the caller ID first. “Hello?”

  “So how’s it going, Wendy-bird?”

  Even if she hadn’t recognized the deep, jovial baritone that vibrated against her ear, she would have known who was calling. Only one person called her by the name uttered by one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys, just before Tinker Bell convinced him to shoot down a flying Wendy.

  “Blake,” she cried as mixed feelings stormed through her. She hadn’t heard from her brother in ages, not since Christmas, when they’d all gathered at the house where they’d grown up. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Ah, you still know who I am. Good.” Pleasure filled his voice. “I haven’t heard from you in so long, I thought maybe you forgot all about me and the others.”

  The phone worked two ways, she thought. But there was an even more salient point to drive home. “I’m not the one who shipped you out,” she pointed out.

  “Neither am I,” he reminded her. “You know Mom and Dad just did it because they were concerned about you.”

  Because there were only six years separating them, she was closer to Blake than she was to her other siblings. They had a shorthand all their own. But it still took a second for her to realize that Blake had used the past tense when making a reference to their parents.

  “They’re not concerned anymore?” she asked, afraid she was misinterpreting his meaning.

  She wasn’t.

  “Not since María Mendoza called to tell Mom what a great job Marcos said you were doing.” He paused, then asked, “Marcos, that’s the restaurant manager, right?”

  “Right,” she muttered, hardly hearing the last question as she tried to absorb what Blake had just told her. It was safer just to have him repeat it in case she had gotten it wrong. “Run that by me again?”

  “What, hearing a compliment once isn’t enough for you?” he teased.

  That wasn’t it at all. “Mrs. Mendoza talked to Mom?” It was something she hadn’t considered.

  “Yeah.” She could almost hear the grin in his voice—or maybe it was a smirk. There were times with Blake that she couldn’t know for sure. “You know, it’s this universal thing all mothers have got going on. Keeping tabs on each other’s kids.”

  Wendy could have sworn that her brain was moving in slow motion, the words her brother was saying bouncing off her head as if her skull was made of trampoline material.

  Finally, Blake’s words sank in and registered. “And she said that her nephew said I was doing a good job?” Why the hell hadn’t anyone—meaning Marcos—told her this?

  “The exact words Mom used was that the woman told her this Marcos guy was raving about how creative you were, and how business has actually gotten even better since you started making these fancy little mouthwatering desserts of yours. Just how long have you been able to do that?” Blake wanted to know.

  Wendy shrugged in response even though her brother couldn’t see her. “It’s just something that seemed to come to me.”

  “Well, make sure it keeps on coming because I’ve never seen Mom and Dad happier with you. Both of them are really relieved that you’re not going to turn into one of those self-centered, entitled heiresses.”

  The image stung. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been an eager beaver before this, but that was because she’d thought her lot in life was to marry Channing and live happily ever after. Surprise.

  “Mom and Dad actually thought I was going to become like that?” she asked in disbelief. “How could they?”

  “Hey, nobody ever starts out thinking that their kid is going to wind up wasting their life and amounting to nothing, but I can tell you that they had some real moments of uneasiness when you dropped out of college, and then again when you messed up at Uncle Ryan’s foundation.”

  She supposed, as she listened, that she hadn’t exactly done anything to reassure her parents that she would amount to something, the way they all had.

  “But now they’re smiling again,” Blake was saying, “and you’re their little golden child, just like you were when you were little.”

  Yeah, right. Blake was clearly rewriting history. “Oh, please. I was an afterthought.”

  For a second, there was silence on the other end, as if her brother was trying to untangle the meaning behind her words. And then he said, “That’s not the way I remember it. You were their little princess. Later, when you messed up and then dropped out of college, both of them were afraid that they’d spoiled you to the point of no return.”

  This was all news to her. Had she been that wrong? Had she actually remembered things out of their proper perspective? She’d explore that later. Right now she was more interested in something else her brother had said. “And Mrs. Mendoza actually told Mom that Marcos told her I was going a great job?”

  “Yes,” he replied patiently. “How many different ways would you like me to say it?”

  She knew Blake probably thought she was milking this, so she explained why she was finding all this so incredulous. “It’s just that Marcos never said anything to me.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid you’ll get a swelled head,” Blake speculated, then laughed. “Been known to happen.”

  Suddenly, Wendy didn’t feel exhausted and drained anymore. Instead, she felt energized. “Thanks for calling and letting me know—about Mom and Dad,” she added as an afterthought. After all, her brother hadn’t called to discuss Marcos with her.

  “I just thought you’d be glad to know that the folks are proud of you.” And then he said with another laugh, “Sure took you long enough.”

  She took no offense. Blake could always tease her without hurting her feelings. “It’s just more dramatic that way,” she replied.

  All the while, her mind was elsewhere.

  Why hadn’t Marcos told her that he was happy with her work? Why hadn’t he thrown even one decent word her way, instead of making her feel so inadequate?

  “So the next time that we’
re both in the same city,” Blake was saying, “do I get to sample one of these heavenly creations of yours?”

  “All depends if you play your cards right, big brother,” she countered.

  Blake fell back on his standard, years-old threat. “Hey, remember, I’ve got those naked picture of you in the bathtub—with those dissolving bubbles.”

  “I was two, Blake,” she reminded him.

  Blake sighed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Take care of yourself, Wendy-bird. You done good.”

  She thought she detected a hint of pride in his voice, as well. It made her happy. She hadn’t thought that it would matter, having her brother proud of her, but it did.

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” she promised as she terminated the call.

  The moment she snapped the phone shut, her face clouded over. All this time, she’d been trying to get a positive response from Marcos. Except for that first time, when he’d assumed that Enrique had created the dessert, she hadn’t had so much as a hint that he even remotely liked her desserts, although everyone else did, including Enrique.

  It wasn’t everyone else she was trying to please. It was Marcos.

  Wendy changed quickly, shedding her uniform and slipping on a slim, thigh-high navy-blue skirt, a fitted, light gray sweater and her beloved four-inch strappy heels. She’d always gone for style rather than comfort.

  Running her hand through her hair, Wendy took a quick survey of herself in the mirror she had taped to the inside of her locker door.

  Satisfied with what she saw, she closed the door again and spun the dial on the lock to secure it.

  With a determined look, Wendy walked out of the locker room.

  Wendy Fortune was loaded for bear. A bear named Marcos Mendoza.

  To avoid the temptation of “accidentally” running into Wendy, Marcos had left the restaurant and gone home half an hour earlier. He’d left the task of locking up to Enrique. It wasn’t as if he was putting the man out. The chef usually stayed behind a lot longer than the rest of the staff.

  Marcos thought darkly if he couldn’t conquer his temptation, he could at least avoid it a while longer.

  Rather than his getting used to having Wendy around, those insistent urges that kept badgering him were getting worse with each passing day. He actually found himself wanting the woman at completely improbable times. Found himself trying to purge thoughts of her from his head when they popped up out of nowhere.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, no matter how much control he exercised over himself during his waking hours, he had absolutely no control over his thoughts when he was asleep. Which was why he caught himself dreaming about her every night. Sometimes more than once a night.

  It was getting to the point that he was afraid to go to bed and close his eyes.

  Afraid that his mind would betray him.

  The dreams were getting sexier, more complicated and, when he woke up, usually in a puddle of sweat, all he could think of was recreating those dreams and turning them into reality.

  He couldn’t go on like this.

  But he couldn’t fire her, either, he thought. He had no basis to let her go. Dreaming about an employee was not a reason for terminating her. It sure as hell wasn’t something that would stand up in any court.

  Besides, because of Wendy, business, which had never been bad, was growing more and more phenomenal. He had no reason to let her go, no excuse he could even try to inflate and offer to his aunt or uncle. Especially after he had told his aunt, in a moment of weakness, how wonderful Wendy’s desserts were.

  He supposed that if anyone was to leave Red, it should be him.

  But he wasn’t ready to go, either. His wings weren’t strong enough for him to attempt to fly solo yet. That meant that the only thing left for him was to just suck it up and somehow continue to forge on. Pretending that just having Wendy Fortune around wasn’t steadily melting away his inner core.

  How much could a man endure before he cracked? Or gave in?

  Marcos sighed and dragged his hand impatiently through his thick, tangled black hair. He was sitting on the sofa. There was some inane classic movie on one of the cable channels flickering on the giant flat-screen before him. If his life depended on it, he couldn’t have identified the name of the movie or what the story was about.

  He’d been hoping that the TV would either lull him to sleep or bore him into that state, but it just wasn’t happening. His brain was too wired to check out.

  Possibly ever.

  Another impatient sigh escaped. There just didn’t seem to be a solution to this.

  And then a thought hit him like some winged angel of mercy.

  Maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill, Marcos reasoned. Maybe, if they slept together, all this heightened anticipation that was ripping through him would disintegrate like so much sawdust in the wake of his colossal disappointment.

  After all, he sincerely doubted that anything or anyone could live up to the expectations he had attached to the chemistry that was snapping and crackling between Wendy and him. Intentionally or not, he’d given the thought of making love with her far too great a build-up in his mind.

  And he knew where that path, where having his hopes raised, always led, whether it involved being ten and hoping for something expensive and wondrous underneath the Christmas tree, or the first time he’d made love. It had been a pleasant enough experience, but the ground hadn’t moved. Fireworks hadn’t gone off.

  It would be the same, making love with Wendy. He’d be disappointed in the end, pure and simple.

  Maybe, since she seemed to be as interested as he was in making the experience happen, he should stop over-thinking all this and just do it.

  And once they had this powder keg they were sitting on finally defused, it would cease to be the elephant in the room, and they could go on with their lives.

  And maybe, just maybe, he’d finally get a decent night’s sleep.

  It was worth a shot.

  Debating with himself for a moment, Marcos stared at the landline. Should he pick it up and call her?

  Hell, do it, his brain urged.

  Taking a breath, he tried to piece together what he was going to say once she did pick up the phone. Nerves danced through him with spiky cleats. Marcos offered up what could have passed for a small prayer and reached for the receiver.

  He had no sooner started pressing the buttons on the keypad than his doorbell rang.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marcos wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour. He thought of just ignoring the doorbell, but there was no point in pretending not to be home. Whoever was standing on his doorstep could see that there were lights on inside.

  And if the incessant ringing was any indication, they were not about to politely take a hint and go away.

  Muttering a choice curse under his breath, Marcos switched off the TV and stormed over to the front door. He yanked it open, but the less than inviting words on his lips faded the moment he saw who was leaning on his doorbell.

  Wendy.

  A very annoyed, angry-looking Wendy. Thoughts of bedding her and getting past the unrelenting urges that were giving him so much grief were temporarily shoved to the background.

  What was she doing here at this hour? And how did she even know where he lived?

  Shaking off his temporary stupor, Marcos said, “I was just thinking about you. Of course, you weren’t scowling like that at the time.” He couldn’t come up with an actual reason for her being here, but he took a guess. “Something wrong at the restaurant?”

  All the way over from Red, Wendy had been practicing her conversation with Marcos in her head, repeating passages over and over again in order not to forget them. So when he finally opened the door and was standing in front of her, she shouted the first words that rose to her tongue. Unfortunately, she wasn’t starting at the beginning.

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she wanted to know.

  Marcos stared at her, more tha
n just a little confused. What the hell was she talking about? “I wasn’t aware that I was particularly mute around you.”

  Since Marcos wasn’t inviting her in, she took it upon herself to move the man aside and storm into his house. His flippant answer only served to annoy her more. “You know what I mean.”

  Turning, he closed the door behind Wendy. Damn, but that trite cliché really did apply here, he thought. His dessert wizard looked magnificent when she was angry. Her eyes were flashing and her cheeks were flushed. And all he could think of was that he wanted her.

  “You’re giving me too much credit,” he told her. “I really haven’t got the slightest idea what you mean.” And that was true at least half the time, he thought.

  Wendy spun around, glaring at him, her hands fisting at her waist. “You like my desserts.”

  Was that what this was about? He still didn’t see what the problem was.

  “Well, yeah,” Marcos responded. From where he was standing, that was a given. But how did that tie in with all the fury he saw in her face? He wished she’d calm down a little because the color that had come into her cheeks as she stormed in was really turning him on—as if he really needed that extra push. “They wouldn’t be on the menu every day if I didn’t.”

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder, still glaring at him. “So why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.

  He walked back into the living room. Wendy followed him step for step like a heat-seeking missile.

  “Because I thought you were bright enough to figure that out on your own,” he told her. “You didn’t strike me as the kind of needy person who had to have her ego stroked.” He’d finally come around, seeing her as something more than just a spoiled little rich girl. Had he made a mistake? Was his initial assessment of her right after all?

  Wendy blew out a breath and then pressed her lips together. He just didn’t understand, did he?

  “It’s not a matter of ego,” she finally said, throwing up her hands. “It’s a matter of knowing you approve. Of one person reaching out to another and saying something nice for a change.”