by Maggie Wells
Her kitchen was her haven.
Georgie was so lost in her task, she almost didn’t catch what her mother said next. “Gerry will be running.”
She paused, container still in hand, and stared at the phone on the counter. “What?”
“Gerry. The party is backing Gerry,” Meredith repeated.
Georgie bit her bottom lip. Unexpected tears gathered in her eyes and burned the back of her throat. Gerry. Perfect, clean-cut, straight-A student Gerry. Only a year apart, they’d always been close, in spite of his perfection and her obvious imperfections. She liked to think the two of them shared a sweet streak. The result of some rogue recessive gene, no doubt, but a connection, nonetheless. A humanity the rest of the jackals they called family could never tap.
Placing the plastic container carefully on the counter, she grabbed the phone. “So, it’s official? Gerry wants to be mayor?”
Her mother let loose with a tinkling laugh she reserved for when she heard someone say something so ridiculous she couldn’t believe she had to dignify the idiocy with a response. It was the only laughter Georgie ever heard from her.
“Of course he does,” she said, as if Georgie had been in on the plan all along. “That’s why I’m calling. There will be a formal announcement and a kickoff party for the campaign. You’ll be there.”
A command, not a request, so Georgie didn’t bother treating the statement as anything else. “Fine. E-mail the details.”
“I’ll have Justine send them on today,” her mother said, already handing the subject of her troublesome daughter off to her ultra-capable assistant. “Now, I must run. There are a million things to do.”
Georgie nodded dumbly. There were indeed a million details involved in running a successful political campaign. Everything from policy to yard signs. And Georgie was willing to bet her mother had a jump on five hundred thousand of those things.
Images of her father’s many campaign logos and slogans flashed through her head. Before she could get her filter in place, she blurted, “Does Gerry have a logo yet?”
“A logo?” Meredith repeated, clearly taken aback. “Yes. Of course. Why do you ask?”
Warming to the idea of helping her brother in some way, Georgie whirled to check her stock of red and blue food color. This was the good old U. S. of A. Campaign logos were always red, white, and blue. “Have Justine e-mail the logo as well. I’ll make some campaign button cookies for the reception.”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched too long. “Well, how sweet of you, darling, but unnecessary. I have the catering well in hand.”
The dismissal stung. Maybe even more than the thousands of others she’d endured over the years. The message was clear: We need you there so the press doesn’t ask where you are, but we don’t dare risk associating precious Gerry’s campaign with your sordid business.
But she said nothing. There was no need to express her sadness or disappointment. Her mother had made her opinions very clear. Georgie would have to change to fit the image if she wanted to be a part of her own family. And Georgie wasn’t willing to be anyone other than who she was. For anyone. As always, the conversation ended at an impasse.
Taking a steadying breath, she closed her eyes and said only, “Have a nice week, Mother.”
“Yes, you do the same, Georgianna. Talk to you soon.”
Georgie didn’t bother looking at the screen before dropping the phone into the pocket of her apron. Her mother never wasted time with extended good-byes. To Meredith, soon meant they would speak again in exactly seven days’ time. Now, she only needed to breathe through the pain and reach out for her happiness again.
Glancing down at the word written on her wrist, she ran a thumb lovingly across the inky script.
Her family no longer had the power to hold her back or tell her who to be. She’d do what she had to do to help Gerry out and keep the peace. The city could certainly use a change. The Palmer administration hadn’t done much to brag about.
Georgie rolled her shoulders. She’d show her face and keep her mouth shut. For Gerry. Their lives weren’t her life, and she was living her life as she saw fit. Besides, she had her eye on a new prize now. And she thought she knew the exact route to take in securing what she wanted.
Grabbing a scoop from a drawer, she began dropping generous hunks of dough onto parchment-lined baking sheets. The cakes were cooling. Her frosting and fondant were ready. Soon the whole place would smell like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. This evening, she’d see if she could use them to her advantage.
As always, she would rise.
* * * *
“I heard you had a visitor on Friday,” Colm said as he dropped into the seat across from Mike’s desk, uninvited.
Mike looked up from his computer, fixed his friend with a bland stare, and said only, “Have a seat.”
Colm grinned. “Thanks, I will.”
“How was the apple picking?” Mike asked, watching his friend with one eye as he continued tapping numbers into a spreadsheet.
A slow smile stretched his friend’s face. His green eyes sparked with contentment. If Colm hadn’t snorted, Mike might have punched him in the nose for looking so damn happy.
“Turns out, Monica doesn’t like apples.”
Surprise jerked Mike’s attention away from his work. “She doesn’t? Why did you guys decide to go apple picking?”
Colm smirked. “She didn’t tell me she doesn’t like apples. Another deep, dark secret uncovered.”
Mike chuckled at his friend’s dry tone. Colm and Monica’s relationship got off to a rocky start. Colm had assumed Monica was a single parent, too, and Monica was afraid to admit Emma was her niece for fear of losing Colm’s interest. Colm claimed they were working on their communication skills, but apparently Monica needed remedial help in being forthcoming about the most basic information. “And she didn’t want to tell you this?”
“She was worried I’d cancel the trip.”
They shared a good chuckle. Colm’s lady was some kind of high-powered financial shark, but she had an odd streak of vulnerability. While Mike was happy for his friend, he was also wary of Monica’s commitment to the relationship. Colm was a man who chose family over career. Mike knew what it was like to have the woman he once planned a happily ever after with choose career over family.
“So, your visitor?”
Shifting his attention back to the computer screen, Mike said, “You mean our client?”
“I didn’t get cake,” Colm said blandly.
“You want me to order you a dozen dick cookies?”
“Pass.”
“She signed a contract. We’re going to wire the whole building.” Mike shrank one spreadsheet down and opened a document. He had no idea what either of them said, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet his friend’s probing gaze. The guy was a former cop, after all, and Mike was half-afraid he’d be tempted to confess his attraction to the ballsy baker.
“The whole building?”
“She owns the place. Storage on second floor, and lives on the third.” He chanced a look and found Colm scowling, but knew his friend well enough to figure he was probably kicking his own ass for the oversight. “You weren’t exactly on your game at the time. No worries.”
“Rookie mistake,” Colm grumbled.
Mike smirked at the derision in his friend’s tone. “Right, because James and I never miss a trick.”
Colm ran a hand over his face in frustration. “Pretty basic question.”
“I asked the question, and we got the contract.”
“And cake.”
This time, he couldn’t hold back the smile. “And cake.”
“What kind?”
The memory made his mouth water. “Spice with cream cheese frosting.”
Colm gazed at the acoustic tile ceiling. �
�Fuck, yeah.”
“The kids picked the nuts out one by one,” Mike reported, shooting his friend the kind of exasperated look only another parent can understand. “The sugar high was pretty intense.”
“I’m sure.” He smirked. “I bet the kids were riled, too.”
“Funny.”
Leaning forward in his seat, Colm clasped his hands between his legs. “So, what’s your next move?”
“I don’t have a next move,” he shot back. A sly smile crept across Colm’s face, and Mike knew he’d stepped right into the trap. “I mean, not me. Personally.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mike realized he’d eventually have to disclose the agreement he made with Georgie to his partners. Embarrassment blazed inside him. “Well, that’s not strictly true, either.”
“Oh?”
Damn, he hated the smug eyebrow thing Colm did. The only thing worse was James’s shit-eating grin, and he could be sure he’d see those pearly whites once word got around. “She wants me to handle things for her.”
“Handle things?”
Mike curled his fingers into his palm but resisted the urge to punch the smug look off his friend’s face. Not only did Colm have a slight height-weight advantage, but he had a right to express concern over a client relationship starting off on a very odd note.
“The work on her contract,” he said firmly.
Colm clamped his mouth shut tight, but the speculative light in his eyes didn’t dim. Mike held out for about thirty whole seconds. Rolling his eyes and running a hand over the back of his neck, he heaved a sigh.
“And maybe other things. I think she’s flirting with me. Well, not really flirting… Coming on.”
“Coming on,” Colm repeated like a goddamn parrot.
“Yeah.”
This time, his friend frowned. “Strong?”
“I wouldn’t say strong.” Pausing, he picked through his jumbled thoughts for the right descriptor. “She’s very straightforward in a roundabout sort of way.”
“So…clear as mud?”
Mike nodded. “Exactly.”
“But you think she’s interested in more than…professional services?”
“Well, I could charge her a flat rate for whatever she wants from me. Then, we wouldn’t have to guess.”
Colm’s stoic expression broke into one of his rare, but infectious, grins. “You’re thinking about going pro. I’m so proud.”
Mike barked a laugh. “Maybe not pro, but I am thinking about getting laid.”
The admission seemed to startle Colm. To be truthful, Mike was pretty surprised himself. Yeah, he’d been thinking about the fascinating Ms. Walters for days, but this was the first time he’d allowed himself to think of her in more than some kind of fantasy. Hell, he hadn’t thought much about any woman other than Laurel for the past eight years. For better or worse, naked or clothed. Not because he was still carrying a torch for his ex-wife, but more because he was the one left holding the baby bag the day she decided she wasn’t cut out for motherhood. Three and a half years and two small humans into the gig.
“Are you?” Colm’s soft-spoken query roused him from his thoughts.
“What?”
“You’re thinking about getting laid?”
Feeling uncomfortable with both the cop-stare scrutiny and the intensely personal tone the conversation had taken, Mike shifted in his seat. He slid his finger across the computer’s touch pad and the screen brightened again. The mishmash of work-patterned camouflage he’d been hiding behind made no more sense than it had before he opened his big fat trap. “I’m a guy. I think about getting laid about a hundred times a day. Pretty sure there are stats to back me.”
“You’re thinking about sleeping with the pink-haired girl from the bakery,” Colm clarified. “The one with the funky clothes and the sexy nose ring.”
“Her hair’s blue now.”
Colm chuckled and Mike glared at him, annoyed by the tinge of disbelief in his friend’s tone.
“What? You think I can’t get her to sleep with me?”
Raising his hands to ward off attack, Colm fell back in the chair. “No, I’m only saying I never would have pegged her for your type.”
“My type? You think I don’t like funky and sexy?”
“I think you have a closet full of Brooks Brothers and Ralph Lauren.” Colm chuckled. “If I remember correctly, Tyler had diapers with the polo player guy on them.”
“They weren’t diapers. They were pants things. And I didn’t buy those,” he retorted, annoyed at being forced to take the ribbing for his ex-wife’s choices.
“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”
Mike huffed rather than answering.
“Vanilla,” Colm supplied. “Favorite color? Blue. Cubs fan, Bears fan, light beer drinker,” he continued, ticking each point off on his fingers. “You live so far on the outskirts of the city you might as well be the ’burbs, drive an SUV, and feed your kids Chick-fil-A because you got it in your head their food is healthier than McDonald’s.”
“Fuck off,” Mike growled in response.
“I’m not saying any of these things are wrong,” Colm hastened to add. “I’m saying you aren’t exactly the kind of guy to go against the grain.”
More disturbed by the blunt assessment than he cared to admit, Mike jerked open a desk drawer. The file labeled Getta Piece Bakery stared at him from the top of the stack. He’d memorized her phone number hours ago but hadn’t mustered the nerve to dial. The silence hung so heavy, the room practically buzzed with anticipation. The phone rang in the outer office, but only once. There was nothing Rosie detested more than a ringing phone. And nothing spurred Mike on like a challenge, spoken or unspoken.
“Maybe it’s time I shake things up.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to cock-block you, man,” Colm began in a low voice. “I only…” He sighed heavily. “I know Laurel did a number, and I totally get the…urge to try something different, but I met Georgie Walters, and I don’t know…” He gave a helpless shrug. “She seems happy the way she is, and let’s be honest, you’re not.”
The observation snapped Mike to full attention. “What do you mean I’m not?”
Colm released a short, bitter laugh. Like a pressure cooker letting off steam. “I mean you haven’t exactly been in a happy place since the divorce. Hell, since before the divorce,” he amended.
Before Mike could protest, Colm lifted a hand to stay the argument.
“No one can blame you. You have every right to be pissed off and restless. No one knows better than me. Or James.”
Mike conceded the point with a nod. Colm’s late wife had spun a web of lies so convoluted a soap opera writer would have called them outlandish. Carmen had been caught in a multicar accident weeks shy of her due date. In one day, Colm had lost his wife, gained an infant son delivered by emergency cesarean, and discovered the woman he married was a complete fabrication.
“I know,” Mike said quietly.
“I have two concerns here.” Colm scooted to the edge of the seat again. “Maybe three.” He raised his index finger. “There’s the client thing, but sexual ethics wouldn’t faze James, and probably wouldn’t have stopped me if the chance had presented itself. We won’t waste time pretending we have any scruples.”
Mike couldn’t help but laugh. Colm was nothing if not scrupulous. Still, he couldn’t resist echoing Georgie’s take on the subject. “Ethics are so pesky.”
With a brief nod and a wave, his friend brushed the concern away. “Second, she seemed really cool. Like a butterfly or something.”
Mike chuckled at the comparison but saw no reason to argue.
“I liked her. And, I get the need to use your dick again, but you don’t have to be a dick. If you’re only looking to stick your pin in someone, maybe you should pick on a moth
or something.”
“Oh my God, you suck at this.”
Colm nodded but plowed on undeterred. “I don’t want to have to worry about you. I have a kid, and work, and a girlfriend who feels compelled to lie to me for my own good.”
“Noted. Don’t drunk dial Colm and cry.”
They sat staring at one another, but this time the hush seemed easier than had been in a long time. They’d been friends most of their lives, having met when Mike transferred into Colm’s class in middle school. Sure, the demands of college, careers, marriage, and family had caused their friendship to expand and contract over the years, but this kind of easy understanding had always been there. Mike didn’t know where the connection came from, but he was glad they had it. Particularly now, when everything around him seemed to be chaos.
Including this ridiculous pull he felt for a woman he never would have thought much about if he’d seen her in a bar or passed her on the street. But there in her sweet-smelling-but-dirty-enough-to-make-a-man-go-blind bakery, she was the most intriguing woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Colm wasn’t far off with the butterfly thing, but Mike would never admit as much. Nor would he let his friend forget the analogy anytime soon.
Steepling his fingers, he peered at his best friend over the tops of them. “So, I am an unethical pervert who should go stick his pin in moths and forget about the pretty butterfly because I’m too fucked up for words.”
Without cracking a smile, Colm nodded. “Exactly.”
“Got it.”
Another protracted minute passed without either of them budging.
Finally, Colm shot to his feet. “So, you’re gonna call her?”
“Yep.”
“Figured you would.” With a shrug, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he headed for the door. “Happy hunting.”
“Thanks.”
Without having to be asked, Colm closed the office door behind him.
Mike grabbed his cell and fell back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his fingers around the rubberized case and curled the phone like a dumbbell. The mental image of Georgie posed in his office door wearing nothing but those fuck-me shoes she had on Friday night appeared like the mirage he’d been chasing all weekend. A grim smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. If he were a good man, the ethical man he liked to pretend he was, visions of pretty pink, purple, and blue butterflies would have danced through his head.
