In the Mood for Love: A Cupcake Lovers Novel (The Cupcake Lovers)

by Beth Ciotta

  Even though Harper had only been in residence sporadically, she’d filled this house with life. With upbeat music, endless television, and lots of chatty phone calls. She’d baked dozens of cupcakes—something Mary used to do. She’d had several long consultations with Rocky regarding furnishings and decorations. Rocky was always a positive, vibrant force. Sam’s kids had only visited the house a few times, but they’d added an infectious dose of innocence and laughter. Even though she’d felt awkward when interacting with them, she’d appreciated their presence. And Sam …

  Every time Sam was in this house with Harper, the atmosphere snapped and sparked. Whether they were immersed in their own work—her spinning crises, him focused on carpentry—or banding to discuss blueprints and paint samples … the air was charged.

  Of course, most of that was due to their sexual chemistry.

  Jumping his bones last night had been rash, but instinctual. Medicinal. In the midst of her meltdown, her complicated thought process had narrowed to a one-lane highway. Destination: distraction and salvation. Mode of transport: sex. Specifically sex with Sam.

  She’d been stunned when he’d waylaid her efforts. Even more stunned when he’d tempered her desperation with a kiss that had hummed through her body like a siren song. Hypnotic and tender. That kiss had soothed and seduced her soul, even as she’d blasted her former employer, no doubt confounding Sam with her convoluted ramble. That kiss had prompted her to text him without fully contemplating the ramifications of marriage to a widowed father of two, a man who was rooted in Sugar Creek, a confident, capable man who challenged her in every way.

  YES.

  Even now … even though her brain said no, her soul cried yes.

  It was frightening … and encouraging. A sign that there was life beyond Andrew. Although that in itself felt like a betrayal.

  One step forward, two steps back.

  Harper pitched the pillow and stretched. Her neck hurt. Her back ached. She blamed a night of restlessness. Between being fired, the panic attack, Sam’s proposal, and her shocking acceptance, her mind had refused to shut down. One worry led to another.

  Had Edward learned of her dismissal? Could he feel her sweating deportation? Was he anxiously awaiting her return? Plotting his ultimate revenge? What if … What if … What if …

  Sleeping with her phone in hand, she’d obsessively checked her e-mail through the night as well as her multiple social media accounts. Edward had hacked his way in before, he could do so again. He could also post anonymously or under an assumed name. But there’d been no taunting message. Maybe the taunt was in the anticipation.

  If only I hadn’t lost my job.

  Unemployment. Another dilemma that had fueled her insomnia. She’d been tempted to zip off e-mails to a couple of associates, trying to get a better handle on her dismissal, but she’d resisted. What if they didn’t write her back? Or what if they did? What if they made her feel worse by sharing specific complaints about her past behavior and recent failures? Like she needed something new to obsess on? She wasn’t the most popular person at Spin Twin Cities. She knew her coworkers considered her an enigma. Publicists were supposed to be personable. And she was … in a guarded and calculated way. What she wasn’t was chummy. Harper hadn’t had any true friends in a long time. She hadn’t had a “boyfriend” since Andrew. Her libido had been comatose long before his death and hadn’t sparked back to life until Sam. Even then she’d done everything in her power to ensure a purely physical, meaningless relationship. After the debacle with Andrew, she’d sworn off intimacy in order to shield her tender heart and fragile composure.

  Yet I’ve agreed to marry Sam.

  She couldn’t explain her bizarre decision beyond that hypnotic kiss and the obvious. He’d thrown her a lifeline. A way to stay in America. A way to avoid Edward. A chance to reconnect and continue with her old clients.

  That’s if they’d have her.

  If not, she’d reach out to others. Plenty of people needed the kind of help she could provide. She’d build a new client list. Since she wouldn’t be relying on the L visa, she could freelance. Which, given her independent streak, wasn’t a bad thing. She wondered if Sam would be willing to relocate to L.A., not that she was ready to return.

  Yesterday, she’d braved the distance between her house and the pond. She’d sat on the end of the pier. She’d dangled her toes in the water. All exactly as planned. Except she only lasted ten minutes before anxiety reared its butt-ugly head.

  What if some crazed murderer was lurking underwater? What if they pulled me in and held me under? A terrifying watery demise?

  What if someone was hunting in the woods and a bullet went astray, striking me instead?

  What if, what if, what if?

  Once her mind latched on to a fear, it was hard to let go.

  She’d scrambled back to the house in a sweat. She’d run on her treadmill until she’d outrun the panic. She’d showered and focused on good things, brainstormed several promotional ideas regarding the Cupcake Lover recipe book. She was determined to succeed with her second attempt to leave the grounds. A trip into town. A meeting with the CLs.

  She’d dressed for confidence—a bold blue dress and a pair of spiky Mary Janes. She’d been jazzed about discussing business with the club. But then she’d gotten that damned “pink slip” text. The top guns hadn’t had the decency to call her. Although, to be fair, most business these days was conducted via texts and e-mails. Less personal. More efficient. Still. She’d been with the firm for seven years. The cold dismissal was hard on the pride and disruptive on every level—professionally, financially, personally. The thought of returning to Canada—for good—had tripped all sorts of panic buttons. She barely remembered texting Sam. She should’ve texted Rocky. The Sugar Creek native was easily as grounded and responsible as Sam. Compassionate, too. Plus their association was purely business. Whereas with Sam …

  Harper looked away from the billowing curtains, suffered another painful neck twinge. As if that wasn’t bad enough her muscles ached and her head throbbed. Compliments of an anxiety hangover. She glanced at her alarm clock.

  It was 7:05.

  Sam would be getting the kids ready for school. Once they were married, would that task fall to her? Through the night, she’d wondered about a lot of things regarding her role as wife and mom. She couldn’t wrap her brain around the domestic role. She could, however, imagine spending more time with Sam. Even though he irked her more often than not. Even though they had little to nothing in common beyond housing renovations. She admired his grounded sensibilities. He was unflappable. Strong and reliable. She knew now why she’d reached out to Sam and not Rocky. Harper breathed easier when Sam was around, even when she was composed.

  Her cell phone chimed. An incoming text. She nabbed the smartphone from her nightstand.

  Daisy.

  GOOD MORNING, SLICK. SORRY I DIDN’T ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR LATE-NIGHT TEXT. GLAD YOU’RE OKAY. I FELL ASLEEP WATCHING A JERRY LEWIS MOVIE WHICH MADE ME THINK OF THE JERRY LEWIS TELETHON AND THE RAT PACK. MAYBE WE SHOULD HAVE A CUPCAKE LOVERS TELETHON. DO YOU HAVE ANY CONNECTIONS WITH JERRY LEWIS OR FRANK SINATRA JUNIOR? CAN WE MEET TODAY? I’LL FILL YOU IN ON THE CUPCAKE LOVERS MEETING AND THE LATEST GOSSIP. I’M WORKING AT MOOSEALOTTA TODAY. DO YOU WANT TO DROP BY FOR LUNCH OR SHOULD I VISIT YOU LATER AT THE FARM?

  Harper rubbed her eyes, the screaming-long text aggravating her already pounding temples. Daisy texted a lot and she spelled everything out. Harper itched to print out a list of acronyms for the woman. Or to download a hands-free texting app to her phone so she could simply talk and send texts sans typing. Although, come to think of it, that could lead to even longer messages. Gathering her thoughts, Harper texted back, reminding herself not to use acronyms because Daisy always asked for an explanation, which, made their exchanges twice as long.

  NO RAT PACK CONNECTIONS. JUST WAKING. NEED TO CHECK MY AGENDA. CAN I GET BACK TO YOU LATER ON PLACE AND TIME?

  Harper’s
brain cramped as she spelled out each and every word. Maybe she could turn Daisy on to Skype or FaceTime. She hoped the woman didn’t press because Harper needed to mentally prepare before she committed to leaving the house. She also wanted to get her thoughts together regarding the loss of her job and her impending marriage to a man she barely knew. One of Sugar Creek’s own. A Cupcake Lover, no less. Relation to Daisy, Rocky, Luke, and by extension of marriage, Rae and Chloe. Harper realized suddenly that by saying yes to Sam she’d signed on with the entire Monroe clan.

  “Good Lord.”

  She groaned when her phone chimed with Daisy’s response.

  VINCENT’S GRANDAUGHTER WAS IN LAS VEGAS LAST MONTH. SHE MET DON RICKLES. MAYBE HE CAN HELP US.

  Don Rickles? Wasn’t he like a hundred and five by now?

  JUST LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU CAN SQUEEZE ME IN. I’M FLEXIBLE. HOW’S YOUR PLUMBING TODAY? SAM’S A WONDER, ISN’T HE?

  Harper blinked. She knew Daisy was referring to her fake flood in the kitchen, but her wording sent Harper’s thoughts down another road. Her face heated as she wrote … SAM’S GR8. TTYL.

  A second later, Daisy texted: WHAT’S THAT MEAN?

  Gah. Harper had no sooner typed out every word of her previous message, signing off with Daisy, than her phone chimed again. This time it was Sam. Even though he couldn’t see her, she smoothed her mussed hair as she read his text.

  U OK?

  Harper’s pulse tripped. No polite greeting, but a show of concern. She typed: FINE. U?

  GOOD.

  KIDS?

  KICKING MY ASS.

  She wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. Although she knew his son, Ben, was shy and nerdy and often sulky. Little Mina was the opposite—an animated, demanding chatterbox who had Sam wrapped around her little finger.

  ABT THE PROPOSAL … Sam continued.

  Harper tensed. CHANGE YR MIND?

  NO. U?

  NO.

  Harper frowned when her phone actually rang. Apparently Sam felt the need to speak. She pushed up and leaned back against her mountain of pillows. She cleared her froggy throat. “Yes?”

  “Let’s keep this private until we discuss specifics,” Sam said.

  The sound of his voice sent a sizzle through her being. He could probably give her an orgasm by reading a grocery list. She knew she had it bad for the man—sexually—but this was ridiculous. Assuming the kids were within hearing distance, Harper kept her response clean and short. “Okay.”

  “Are you free for lunch?”

  She blinked. “What? Like a date?”

  “It would help pave the way if we established a relationship. Lunch for starters.”

  Harper saw the logic. Marrying out of the blue would cause community gossip and maybe tweak the suspicions of the USCIS field office. Wedding an American simply to attain a green card was highly discouraged. “I’ll whip up something for us here,” she said.

  “The point is to be seen, Harper. Together. In public.”

  A restaurant. With employees and customers. People she didn’t know. Where anyone could go postal.

  “You still there?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll pick you up at noon.”

  “One would be better,” she said. More time to mentally prepare.

  “One it is.”

  Harper stonewalled a nagging what if. “Okay.”

  They disconnected and she swung out of bed with a “can do” attitude.

  Yesterday, Spin Twin Cities had served her a pink slip and lemons.

  Last night, Sam had provided a recipe for lemonade.

  He was right. They could both benefit from this business arrangement, the hot sex being a perk. She knew she was hard to take sometimes. She could be manic and bossy. But her heart was in the right place. Did Sam sense that somehow? Did he see beyond the walls she’d worked so hard to erect? He must have. Why else would he offer to share his life with her? Why trust her with the children he so obviously adored?

  The fact that Sam was willing to take a chance on Harper filled her with mixed emotions. If nothing else, it was a rousing kick in the ass.

  Embracing the future, Harper swigged water then traded her teddy for workout gear. She switched on CNN, switched it off, switched it on. Better to be aware. She skimmed TMZ then pulled up a contact list of her clients. She had a lot of work to do before Sam got here and … right.

  Daisy.

  Harper hopped on her exercise bike, phone in hand. Her multitasking abilities were excellent if she did say so herself. She pedaled and texted: AGENDA FULL THROUGH LUNCH. MEET ME HERE AT SIX?

  Five seconds later Daisy replied: COCKTAIL HOUR! WOO-HOO!

  Harper smiled. Not for the first time, she imagined the eccentric geriatric as the star of her own quirky reality show. She texted back: PINK COSMOS FOR TWO. Because even though she’d been avoiding alcohol, Harper figured she’d have reason to celebrate by six o’clock.

  Today she was going to make it into Sugar Creek and back without a meltdown.

  Today she had a lifeline.

  SIX

  Daisy Monroe shuffled into the kitchen rocking (as the kids said) plush moose slippers and a hot-pink robe embroidered with a purple crown and the word PRINCESS. She didn’t care that her morning ensemble was more suited to a teen. She cared that it made her smile.

  Last year she’d invested in her own business, a trendy café called Moose-a-lotta. She not only worked behind the counter, she sometimes dressed in a moose costume, appearing at special functions as Millie Moose, the mascot of Moose-a-lotta. Her partner, Chloe, nine months pregnant with Daisy’s first great-grandbaby, had had an encounter with a bull moose resulting in a life epiphany. Born and raised in the Green Mountain State, Daisy had a lifelong appreciation of the antlered creature and it had been a hoot decorating their café with eclectic moose-a-bilia. Clocks, pillows, salt and pepper shakers, mugs. They even had their own logo—a cartoonish moose wearing cat-eye glasses and chef’s hat—a reflection of the owners’ personalities. Daisy owned an assortment of metallic and blingy bifocals and Chloe had graduated with honors from a culinary arts institute. Which is why they’d met in the first place, but that was another story.

  As for the princess robe, it had been a gift from Daisy’s honey, a man who appreciated her whimsical side. A man who treated her like royalty. Which is why she had decided this very morning not to operate behind Vincent’s back, but instead, to include him in her scheme.

  As always, the owner of Oslow’s General Store, Sugar Creek’s go-to grocery since 1888, had beaten her to the kitchen and had breakfast waiting on the table. Daisy told herself it wasn’t because he didn’t trust her not to burn down his house (her concentration wasn’t what it used to be—or so her family told her), but because he liked doting on her. Which felt significantly different than being made to feel like you were no longer able to care for yourself.

  Vincent turned to face her, toasting her with a percolator and a wide smile. “Morning, Petunia.”

  She found it amusing that he’d nicknamed her after a flower when she’d been legally named for another flower. She thought it was cute. Like Vincent. (Or Speedy, as she sometimes called him.)

  “Morning.” She smiled as he pulled out her chair and poured her a cup of coffee, treating her—as always—like royalty. Princess Petunia. Hee. “I got a text from Chloe,” she said as he took his seat, “asking if I could work the afternoon shift instead of the morning. A last-minute scheduling snafu.”

  “Not a problem,” Vincent said, while slathering his toast with apple butter. “I’ll take a break from the store and drive back to give you a lift. Marvin can handle Oslow’s for a half hour solo.”

  “Your son could handle the store all day, every day. Something he’s told you time and again, but you’re too set in your ways to retire.”

  “I’m too young to retire.”

  “You’re seventy-three.”

  “You’re seventy-six and you’re still working.” />
  “Yes, but this is my first job. You’ve been working your whole life. You deserve a break. At least cut down to half days like me and we could have some fun together.”

  He glanced over. “I thought we were having fun.”

  He looked a little stricken and Daisy was reminded of how sensitive Vincent was compared to her deceased husband. Just one of the things she loved about him. Smiling, she reached over and brushed crumbs from his snowy beard. “Of course, we’re having fun, Speedy. I meant more fun.”

  Vincent was a grounded man with a gentle soul. Which was nice, but kind of boring. She’d been pleased as punch when she’d learned he occasionally indulged in nocturnal joyrides, racing the back roads and tipping the needle past seventy. Yes! Hence, his pet name—Speedy—which no one else understood because Vincent Redding plodded along in everyday life. Slow and easy. Steady and sure. A chubby, white-bearded, Santa-like man who favored baggy-seated denims, plaid shirts, and red suspenders.

  The ever cautious man narrowed his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

  Over the last few years, Daisy had developed a reputation for being reckless. She preferred to think of herself as a thrill-seeker. So what if she incurred a few bumps and bruises as a result of the random adventure? Life was short and, after losing Jessup (a man who’d expected Daisy to behave like a prim and proper wife) to cancer, she’d vowed to make up for lost time, grabbing the gusto, the brass ring, and whatever else snagged her attention along the way.

  “I’m compiling a family bucket list,” she said while drenching her French toast with a local maple syrup.

  “What’s a bucket list?”

  Daisy gaped at her other half, her significant other, the man she was living with in sin—unless you counted the vows they’d taken at Rocky’s wedding as legal, which they weren’t. “Haven’t you ever seen that movie?”

  “What movie?”