Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  With a full belly, I recline on the chair in my room, rest my feet on an ottoman, and flip through channels.

  She’s going to get him.

  The words cut through my psyche in a sharp burst of absolute clarity. It’s the same feeling I got in high school when it occurred to me that I was going to fail chemistry. There were no shades of gray; no wisps of doubt. The numbers were clear: My test scores amounted to triple my shoe size. Fail.

  Agitated, I shift in the chair while settling on a cooking channel. A celebrity cook is making some canned-goods atrocity. Julia Child must be rolling in her grave.

  In the same way that I knew I was failing chemistry, I know that Carmen, who might only set out to use Grayson, is going to win him over. How could she not? Women bold enough to wear dresses that tight, over curves that are so proportional they look computer-generated, are the same kinds of women that men start wars over. Even poor Marcus couldn’t resist risking his marriage for an affair with her. I am no match for Carmen Cole.

  I know what I need. Girl talk. I get up and dig through my purse for my cell phone. Dell will cheer me up. I dial her up and am immeasurably disappointed when I get her voicemail. I leave her a quick message, then sink deeper into the chair.

  Another lightening bolt of a thought occurs to me: I have no friends. Not locally. I don’t have anyone that I can sit with and vent about my day, my infatuations, my irritations.

  A soft knock at my door pulls my attention.

  “Coming,” I say and grab my plate. I’ll make sure to tell Gail how much I loved her barbecued chicken.

  But it isn’t Gail at the door.

  “Hey,” Grayson says.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “We keep missing each other in the evenings,” he says and leans against the doorjamb. He’s wearing a light gray suit, no tie, and shirt unbuttoned low enough for me to peep smooth skin. “I’ve had to take care of some business in New York so I’ve been getting in late.”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  “Everything good?” he says and looks over my shoulder into the room.

  “Yeah. I only want to chill out. Rest. Sleep.”

  “Sounds like antisocial behavior to me. Why don’t you come down and hang out with me and your mom?”

  I shake my head. The less time I spend with him, the easier it’ll be. “No. Not tonight.”

  His eyes darken with curiosity but he doesn’t push. “Suit yourself. Breakfast tomorrow?”

  I smile and push my empty plate toward him. “No, I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. Besides, I have something to give you. If you want it, then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “What is it?” I ask, my interest piqued.

  “I guess you’ll have to show up to find out.”

  “Grayson, I’m grateful you’re letting us crash here for a while, but you don’t need to buy me gifts.”

  “Who said anything about buying you a gift?”

  “Oh,” I say, more than a little disappointed. “What is it, then?”

  “If I say any more than I already have, then this will constitute a conversation. And it’s pretty obvious you don’t want to have a conversation with me, which is why you’re up here hiding in your room.”

  “What can I say? It’s a very lovely room.”

  “It’s a very lovely house,” Grayson says. “Why don’t you let me show you the rest of it?”

  “No. If I love it too much, I won’t want to leave.”

  “Would staying be such a bad thing?”

  “Pretty sure it would make your dating situation awkward.”

  Grayson has a subtle smile on his face as though he picked up on my fishing expedition. “At the moment,” he says, “I don’t have a dating situation.”

  I notice my left foot wiggling from nerves and I stand firm and fish some more. “Cute and rich and single. I don’t know…pretty suspicious to me.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of dating women I know don’t measure up to my ideal.”

  An image of Carmen inserts itself into my head. His ideal. Voluptuous. Flirtatious. She even runs her own business. Nope. An unemployed girl like me definitely doesn’t measure up to the ideal.

  Grayson puts a finger under my chin to lift my head. It breaks my heart to know that there’s some woman who’s going to marry him some day. There’s some woman who’s going to be able to stare into those eyes each morning and feel the tingles that are coursing through me right now. I should enjoy this moment while I can, but it’s hard when I know that this is going nowhere. The lingering resentment that I felt for him is beginning to fade, and damn if I’m not being swallowed up in that cavernous swell of infatuation again.

  “See you in the morning?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “I can’t wait to get my non-gift.”

  Chapter 18

  Before I go to the kitchen the next morning, I check in on Mom. I knock softly at her door and peek in. She’s sleeping so peacefully I decide not to wake her. I have to make sure to spend more time with her this weekend.

  I can smell the eggs before I enter the kitchen. Grayson picks up the pan to transfer the scrambled eggs and somehow loses his grip and drops the pan on the floor.

  “Damn it!” he hisses.

  “I’ll get the broom,” I say. He looks up, surprised to see me. His face is strained but he manages a civil greeting.

  “Hey, good morning.”

  “Where’s the broom?” I ask.

  Grayson walks over to a little closet off the kitchen. “A person who’s had a tour of the house would know where the broom is.”

  “Ha-ha,” I say dryly, following behind him. Grayson grabs a hand broom and a dustpan while I swipe the spray cleaner from the shelf. We bump into each other as we move around.

  “Ladies first,” he says and I scoot out past him.

  On our knees, Grayson sweeps up the eggs while I spray the area and wipe it clean with a paper towel.

  “Not as graceful in the kitchen as you were the other day,” I tease.

  “I have my off-days. Eggs and toast are about all I do in the kitchen, and if that starts to go kaput I’m afraid this will be the one room where I am completely useless.”

  “There’s more to do in a kitchen than cook,” I say.

  Grayson eases his head up to look at me. Some of the strain that was there only moments ago has lessened. We are so close our foreheads are practically touching.

  “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I stammer. I meant it exactly like that. But since I am a certified wimp, I cannot stand behind my words.

  “I don’t believe you,” he says. We stand. “I think you have a dirty mind, Callia. I’m going to have to keep my eyes on you.”

  “Psh!” I say and start to walk to the trashcan. I turn to him and he’s standing there, looking at me. “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping my eyes on you.”

  “Stop it, Gray! Where’s the trash?”

  He shakes his head and opens a cabinet door beneath the sink. We throw the eggs and paper towels into a trashcan that’s attached to the inside of the cabinet.

  “You want to try again, or shall I?” I ask.

  “If you don’t mind…”

  “I don’t mind.” I pull a few ingredients out of the fridge and utensils from drawers, although it takes me longer than it should, considering I have no idea where anything is. I remember that I saw an apron on the door to the pantry and I put it on. When I’m all set with my ingredients I start to whip everything up.

  “What are you making?” Grayson asks from his position on the stool.

  “Crêpes,” I say. “Vanilla crêpes stuffed with bananas. Is that okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’d like to make a caramel sauce but I don’t have everything I need.”

  “If you can work around it for now, I can have Gail make a run to the store later.”

&nbs
p; I look at him and smirk. “This is a one-time deal, Mr. Lane. Don’t get comfortable.”

  He smiles and starts to look through the unopened mail on the table.

  “I’ll make an extra for Mom. Will you make sure she eats it when she gets up?”

  “Mm-hm…” he says absentmindedly. His attention has shifted to the letter in his hand.

  Oh, well. This is nice. Me here, cooking for Grayson. But I won’t get used to it. This is a one-time thing, I remind myself. I remove the bacon he had baking in the oven. I look over at him reading through his mail with those cute little spectacles on, messy, curly, dark-brown hair, T-shirt, and holey jeans. Is it possible that the glasses make him look even hotter?

  Grayson throws down his mail and goes over to the coffee pot. He flicks it on as though he’s ticked off with it.

  “You have to fill it with water,” I say.

  Grayson looks at me oddly for a second, then shakes his head as if to clear it.

  “Gail sets it up for me in the evening. All I have to do is mash the button.”

  “Okay, then, sit. Time for breakfast.”

  Grayson stands there and looks at the coffee pot, willing it to perk faster.

  “Grayson, have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.”

  He plops back down on the stool and picks up the newspaper. I can tell he isn’t reading. Something has really gotten to him and it has something to do with that letter.

  When the table is set, I sit beside him and ask, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You seem…disturbed.”

  “Disturbed?” He looks at me. We are sitting far too near each other because if he leans down twelve measly inches, his lips could touch mine.

  “Yeah,” I say and look at my plate, “like you read something that bothered you.”

  “Ah,” he says. “Yeah.”

  But he doesn’t elaborate. He takes a bite of his crêpe and watches me with a smile as he chews.

  “Good?” I ask.

  He nods, removes his glasses, and takes another bite.

  Watching someone enjoy something I have made in the kitchen is the equivalent of being on a roller coaster as it descends from its peak: It is an exhilarating rush that my ego will never get enough of.

  “Good,” I say, like a proud mama bear.

  “How’s your job going?” he asks between bites.

  “It’s there,” I say, comfortable with my half-truth. The job is there, far away from me. “I read one of your books.”

  Grayson looks at me with surprise. “When?”

  “I didn’t read the whole thing. I happened to go by the library yesterday after work.”

  He looks at me curiously, but doesn’t challenge me. “Which one?”

  “Which library?”

  “Which book?”

  “Abandoned Boy. It was so sweet, Grayson. Dad would’ve been touched.”

  “Yeah, well, had it not been for his influence, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I don’t think I believe that entirely. It was nice. I’ll tell Mom about it.”

  “She’s read it,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Um.” He sips his coffee and eats some of the turkey bacon. “She saw a copy in my library.”

  “You have a library?”

  He sucks his teeth and narrows his eyes at me.

  I laugh at his feigned irritation. “Okay, fine,” I say. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. You can give me a tour then.”

  “Saturday might not work. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  I let the sweet coffee linger on my tongue before I swallow. Is he going to make me ask him?

  “Racquetball, archery, and a little hanging out with the fellas later on,” he says finally.

  “Archery?” I ask. “Like, Robin Hood?”

  Grayson smiles. “That’s your only association with the sport?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He sighs as though I’m a hopeless case. “A couple of friends are dropping by in the evening for dinner.”

  “Oh. I’ll make myself scarce.”

  “Nonsense. They’d like to meet you. And Carmen will be there, too.”

  “Carmen?” The stiletto has dropped. “How did she hear about this dinner party before me?”

  “She came by last night to check on your mom. You were locked in your room, remember?”

  “Vaguely.”

  He smiles. “She suggested dinner tomorrow night and I mentioned I had folks coming over.”

  “So she invited herself over?”

  “Exactly. I didn’t want to be rude so I figured why not kill two birds?”

  “Grayson,” I put my mug down. “I don’t think she wanted dinner with a group of people. I think she wanted dinner with you.”

  “We can’t always get what we want in this world,” he says in a clipped tone. Grayson picks up that opened envelope again.

  He doesn’t seem all that interested in talking about Carmen, so why push him?

  “Why keep looking at it if it’s bothering you?” I ask, nodding my head toward the letter.

  Grayson tosses the envelope down. “You’re right.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” I ask.

  “I told you, I have a stalker.”

  “The downside of fame.”

  “I’m not that famous,” Grayson says. “And I don’t want to be.”

  “Have you gone to the cops?”

  He sighs. “No. They aren’t threatening. Just creepy. I guess I will if I ever feel really…disturbed, as you put it.”

  “Can I read one?” I ask. “I’ve never had a stalker before.” He hands me the envelope. “But this isn’t your address.”

  “It went to my publisher, who sent it to my agent, who sent it to me.”

  “Must be nice to have people,” I say and read the letter.

  You are a man who has done great things with his life.

  You fill me with a love I’ve never known.

  —Your biggest fan

  “You consider this a stalker? What if this is a hot chick who’s shy?”

  “Yeah,” Grayson says and takes the letter from me. “That’s one idea.”

  “You have another?”

  After he puts the letter back in the envelope he looks at his watch.

  “Aren’t you running late?”

  “Yes,” I say, almost forgetting I’m supposed to be going to work. I take off the apron and head to the front door.

  “Hey, breakfast was amazing,” Grayson says, trailing behind me.

  “I’m not sure I should trust your word. I happened to go by your coffee shop the other day and I tasted that thing you call a blueberry muffin.”

  “What’s wrong with the muffins?”

  “I think eating drywall would’ve been more flavorful.”

  While I swing my purse over my shoulder, Grayson picks up my tote bag before I can get to it.

  “As a matter of fact, my partner and I have been looking into changing vendors. We don’t sell nearly as many of our menu items as we’d like. Except the coffee.”

  “The coffee is great,” I admit. I stand at the front door of the car and turn to him. “The muffins tasted like they were straight from a box. My taste buds were offended.”

  “You really take your muffins seriously, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I do.”

  “You know someone who can do better?”

  “Uh, yeah. I can do better than that particle board you’re schilling.”

  “Fine. Bake some. If I like them, we’ll make a deal and I’ll sell them in the store.”

  I throw my things in the car and shut the door. “You’re a real comedian, Gray. First of all, you wouldn’t know a good muffin if one floated down from heaven and knocked you in the head, which is why you’re selling those abominations in the first place. Second of all, I’m not a business. I’m a girl who knows how to bake her ass off.”

  Grayson says, “You haven’t baked y
our ass off, my dear. I know because I was just admiring it.”

  Shocked at his boldness, I use my two hands to push his chest. He takes a few steps back and comes back toward me, hands in pockets as though contrite, but still, there’s a rakish gleam in his eye.

  “You’re terrible,” I say.

  “And you’re freeloading,” Grayson says. “No one stays under my roof without paying their fair share of rent. You will bake me cupcakes before the end of this weekend, Ms. Cole, or I’ll send you packing back over to Trinity and leave you for the wolves to devour.”

  “And Mom? What’s her rent consist of?”

  “She keeps me amused by wearing funny outfits.” He steps closer to me and I step back into the side of the car. “And while your dress definitely has my attention, it doesn’t amuse me, per se.” He runs his eyes over my body. “It is great for the imagination, though.”

  Grayson’s standing so close that I’m starting to quiver from his nearness. I can smell his clean scent and it’s making me dizzy with desire. Why can’t I stop wanting this guy?

  “You have no effect on me, Gray,” I whisper. “So stand back.” I use one fingertip to push into his chest. He doesn’t budge. “You had your chance and you blew it.”

  “Rent,” he says, ignoring me. “I take payments in kisses and cupcakes only. I’m magnanimous enough to let the choice be yours.”

  Grayson’s gaze lingers on me and I’m taken aback by his sudden assuredness. Surely he can see how my chest heaves. I’m trying to steady my breathing but my body seems to have a mind of its own.

  Cupcakes. How did we even get on the subject? That’s when it occurs to me that Grayson is an average guy who has no idea that cupcakes and muffins are close cousins, not identical twins.

  I’m flustered.

  The glint in his eyes indicates that he’s well aware of my predicament and he’s enjoying it. Before I know it, he leans down and plants a tame kiss on my forehead. Then he smacks his lips together.