“I’m all right,” the guy said. “I’ve got a pretty high tolerance.”
“Me, too, dude. Me, too.”
The guy’s face pinched as he studied Jared. “Listen. I get growing up without a positive example of happy, loving parents, and trust me, I totally understand not wanting to get married. But you’ve gotta figure out how you feel about this girl. Otherwise you’ll lose her as a friend, too. And you don’t want that, right?”
Jared breathed deep, fighting and losing the urge to look across the bar at Mila. She and Nicole leaned toward each other, deep in conversation, while Nicole’s eyes darted toward Jared every few minutes. Mila, no doubt, grumbled about what a colossal jerk he’d been to her. He wanted to be over there with them, not marooned at the bar like some sad, lonely drunk.
“Nah,” Jared said, turning back to his new friend. “I don’t want that.”
“Maybe give it a shot, you know? Give her some hints that you might be interested in being more than friends, and she’ll give you a hint one way or the other.”
Jared rolled the cocktail glass between his hands, studying the melting ice cubes. He dropped the last of the remaining liquid into his mouth before shoving the glass away from him.
“What about this Vin guy?”
The big guy laughed. “I know Vin. Trust me. You’ve got nothing to worry about there. He’s a short-term relationship kind of guy.”
Jared looked up as if seeing the guy for the first time. “Hey, who are you, anyway?”
“Denny Torres.” He stuck out his giant hand and nearly crushed Jared’s fingers by way of introduction. “I’m a spokesperson for Indigo Hotels, so I’m here to judge this bake-off thing. Vin’s a friend, and I didn’t have anything else to do, so I came out early.”
Jared’s gaze narrowed. “Dude.”
“Yeah?”
“Stay away from Mila.”
Denny’s face split into a wild grin, and his booming laughter bounced off the ceiling. When he looked back at Jared, he wiped the corner of his eye as if the warning was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“First of all, I’m not looking for a hookup. Second of all, you just told me you’re in love with her. What kind of asshole would I be if I went after her now?”
Jared’s eyes trailed slowly back to Mila. She sipped her beer, touched a delicate finger to the diamond stud in her nose, scratched her arm. She shifted to allow him full view of the long oval burn scar running along her forearm. A memento from late-night baking after one too many Jäger shots. But damn, they’d laughed a lot. And the cake tasted all right, too.
Mila. His Mila. Mila Beauregard Bailey.
He smiled.
“So.” Jared turned back to his new friend. “What do I do?”
“To get her?” Denny said. He swiped a hand across his mouth. “I dunno, man. What’s she like?”
“She’s, like . . . perfect.” Jared sighed. “She’s seriously perfect, dude.”
“Damn, brother, you got it bad. I mean, what does she like? Is she a flowers girl? Special dinner? One of those chicks who breaks in half over stupid shit like mowing her lawn before she gets home from work?”
Jared attempted to focus his bourbon-addled brain. Flowers? Maybe. Special dinner? He’d have to drive her an hour outside Pine Ridge for that, and she didn’t have time. And she lived in an apartment, so the lawn thing was out, if he even knew what that meant.
“I dunno,” Jared said. “Flowers, maybe?”
“Great,” Denny said. “Send her a bunch of flowers. Tell her yellow means friendship, but then put some red ones in there, too, and let her figure out what that means.”
Denny raised his thick black eyebrows and nodded as if he’d discovered the cure for cancer.
“All right, man. Flowers it is.” Something about Jared’s decision didn’t sit right. Flowers meant funerals and apologies, and hadn’t he heard Mila groan over a bouquet from Marty once? But in the hazy bar with this big, weird dude encouraging him and the memories of last week’s closeness weighing on his mind, he went for it. “I’ll call the flower place when I get home.”
“How late are they open? It’s already eight o’clock. Try ’em now. From the bar phone.”
Before Jared could think twice, he was bent over the bar, the landline’s cord stretching across the taps, and instructing April’s Flowers to send Mila a beautiful yellow bouquet—“With some red ones thrown in there for love.”
He slurred his credit card number over the line, and when he handed the dismayed bartender the receiver and settled back onto his stool, Denny clapped him on the back.
“You’re golden, bruh. Well done. She’s gonna love ’em.”
Damn, he hoped so. He’d never sent Mila flowers before, had never even given her a Christmas gift aside from that remote key finder that had gone over about as well as a pair of socks. Was it too bold? Should he call April’s back and cancel?
He studied Denny for a moment before his brain sloshed into a different train of thought entirely. “Hey, man. You wanna buy a house?”
Denny laughed and swallowed the last of his pint. “No, thanks, man. Not really in the market. But I’ll drive you home if you want.”
“Dude, you’re hammered.”
Denny laughed again, stood up, and walked the straight line of the floorboard. “Totally fine. Told you I had a high tolerance. Come on, lovebird. Let’s hit it.”
chapter seven
Mila tried to argue with the kid, tried to tell him there was no way the flowers were for her. Edith O’Hare’s grandson raised his shoulders, shook his head, and refused to take the bouquet back. He raced out of the diner as if Mila might toss them at his head instead of enjoy them.
“Whoa.” Nicole returned to the counter after taking a phone call outside. “Who sent you flowers?”
Of course Nicole happened to be at the diner when the delivery arrived. No way to hide it now.
Mila couldn’t begin to guess who’d sent her flowers. Her dad, maybe? Once in a while he did sweet things like that out of the blue. Definitely not Vin. The frustration in his jaw when she’d left him at the front door of her building after their very quick drinks date two days prior rendered little to interpretation, and he hadn’t texted her since. Flowers, at this point, wouldn’t make any sense.
Nicole reached for the card, but Mila snatched it instead.
“Don’t you dare.”
“If I find out you’ve been dating someone and you didn’t say anything about it,” Nicole said, “I’m gonna need you to return the -st -ends half of our friendship necklace.”
Mila flipped open the little white card, smearing mayonnaise on the edge.
Mila—For friendship. Red for love. Jared
Mila’s brow pinched. She read it again. And again. Nicole finally caught her off guard and plucked the card from Mila’s fingers.
“Huh?” Nicole said, matching the confused stare on Mila’s face. “What does that mean? Did you bake him something recently?”
Mila scratched her nose and tried to ignore the nagging in her gut. Red for love. If Jared really did have feelings for her, the last thing he’d do is send a bouquet of yellow daisies and red roses. Flowers reminded him of funerals.
It was decidedly not Jared. It was decidedly not her.
“He’s such a weirdo,” Nicole said. She tucked the card back into the bouquet. “Not the prettiest flowers, either, right? I’m surprised April didn’t talk him into something a little more . . . sophisticated.”
“I dunno.” Mila trailed her fingers along the soft rose petals. “I can’t remember the last time I got flowers that weren’t from my dad. Even if they’re kinda ugly, it’s thoughtful. Right?”
Nicole rolled her eyes and took a slug of coffee. “Sure, Lee Lee. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
The order bell di
nged, and Mila retrieved the plates, deftly delivering a tuna melt—hold the pickle—with fries on the side to Karen Walsh at her usual table up front.
“Thank you, doll,” Karen said. A wide grin pressed into her face, warming Mila as if she’d stepped into a patch of sunshine.
“Can’t believe you skip the pickle,” Mila teased. “That’s the best part.”
“I trust you on most things culinary,” Karen said, “but that’s not one of ’em. Can you bring me a bottle of steak sauce?”
Mila dipped her chin. “Steak sauce? On tuna?”
“For my fries.” Karen’s bushy gray eyebrows wiggled in her forehead, and Mila grinned as she snagged a bottle of steak sauce from the counter and deposited it on Karen’s table.
“Hey,” Nicole said as Mila returned to the counter. “Does the grape hookup mean you don’t need my uncle’s apples? Or are you gonna work out some New York State fruit medley pie? That could be fire, Lee.”
“Hm.” Mila’s brain ticked through flavor combinations as she nibbled on her thumbnail. Apples and grapes would be okay, but nothing like the next-level concoctions she’d been dreaming up lately. “I don’t think I’m going to use apples this round. But thank Uncle Paul for me.”
“He’ll be heartbroken,” Nicole said, her dark brown eyes twinkling. “He knows how good you are. He thought your fortune and fame might make Williams Farm a household name.”
Nicole’s great-grandfather had traveled to North Country from Ocho Rios, Jamaica, as a teenager, working as a seasonal apple farmer before eventually securing visa sponsorship from the farm owner. Teddy Williams developed such a close relationship with the owner and his family, they sold the property to Teddy once they couldn’t run it anymore. Generations later, Williams Farm employed dozens of locals, hosted the Pine Ridge Spring Festival every year, and made the best apple butter Mila had ever tasted.
“Uncle Paul is going to make that farm a household name anyway,” Mila said. “He’s a marketing genius. Didn’t one of those daytime cooking shows call to interview him once?”
“Yeah, but nothing came of it.” Nicole licked her lips as if weighing her next words carefully. “Maybe you can do something with apples for the next round.”
Mila’s chest tightened. “Don’t jinx me. There’s no guarantee I’ll make it to the next round.”
“Good Lord.” Nicole slipped her black wool coat over her puppy-patterned scrub top and tugged on a ski cap. “Cynic of the Year goes to Mila Bailey.”
“It’s not cynicism,” Mila said. “It’s called being realistic. There are hundreds of people entering . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Nicole snagged a plastic-wrapped muffin from the bakery tray near the register. “The odds are against you; it’s a long shot; you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell. I’ve heard it all.”
Mila gritted her teeth and looked back to the flowers. The ground swayed under her feet, and she gripped the counter to steady herself. Even the earth’s axis seemed off today. Or maybe she’d just forgotten to eat.
“I have to get back to work,” Nicole said. “If you do end up wanting those apples, just let me know. Even if it’s only to bake your best friend and her lifesaving coworkers a loaf of cinnamon apple bread.”
Nicole flashed a bright smile, and as she pushed open the front door, she waved the muffin in the air and called over her shoulder. “Put it on my tab!”
Mila rolled her shoulders, refilled the coffee at table four, and returned to the counter where the flowers mocked her. She didn’t know why he’d sent them, but it certainly wasn’t to declare his feelings. If anything, they said, Here’s some flowers that were about to be thrown out. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.
“Hey, Mila?” Mr. Nimitz called from across the diner. “You got any more of that lemon pie?”
“Mr. Nimitz, are you serious? This will be your third slice. If your wife comes in here and asks who gave you extra dessert, my name had better not come out of your mouth, do you hear me?”
Mr. Nimitz’s face collapsed into a smile, wrinkling like an old paper bag, and she delivered the slice with glee. She’d offered a couple of her regulars pie in return for their honest opinion. She didn’t dare waste the bulk of her Concords on testing, but the sweet-and-sour lemon-and-grape combination proved surprisingly tasty.
The positive response to her first attempt with the grapes trickled into her sense of confidence, buoying her spirits as she returned to the counter. With her heart beating in her throat, she grabbed the diner phone from behind the register and dialed Jared’s number before she could think twice.
“ ’Sup, girl?”
Warmth bloomed in her chest, and she clutched the phone tightly. “Yo.”
“How’s it going?” he said. “Are you in need of a taste tester for that ridiculously incredible lemon thing you’re hawking over at the diner?”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Word travels fast in this town.” He cleared his throat. “I was at the gas station and heard somebody talking about how you were giving away pie. You shouldn’t give that away for free, you know.”
“I shouldn’t give my pie away?” A smile played on her lips.
“Mila. When you’re a pie baker, you sort of forgo the luxury of pie-related euphemisms. It’s just too easy.”
The return to casual banter distracted her, brought her back to a time when their friendship was easy and not always laced with fraught sexual tension. He sounded happy. Light.
Then she saw the flowers.
“Hey.” Her voice careened shrilly. She coughed. “Why’d you send me flowers?”
Silence. She gnawed on her thumbnail as the pause stretched on.
“I mean,” she said, “thank you. Very much. I just . . . You never do shit like that.”
“That’s right.”
Again, she waited. A rosy-cheeked couple with a baby strapped to the mother’s chest walked into the diner. Mila’s phone time ran short.
“Sorry. I, uh . . .” He laughed, a dry, brittle sound. “I forgot I did that.”
Her stomach twisted in on itself. “What?”
“I was on a good one,” he said. “I’d had a few drinks, and I thought it would be funny. You know, ’cause we both think flowers are kind of lame.”
A wave of nausea rolled through her. Funny? Humiliating was more like it.
“Mila!” Benny yelled from the kitchen. “Table eight! Hello?”
The family with the baby glanced around, sending Mila worried stares. Perhaps if they didn’t get their coffee within thirty seconds of sitting, they’d combust.
Didn’t they realize she was in the middle of complete and total embarrassment? She tamped down the annoyance and remembered she was at work. Getting fired wouldn’t lessen the instability weaving through her life.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Wait, no . . .”
“For the record,” she said. “This isn’t funny.”
He groaned. “I didn’t mean funny.”
Her skin crawled, anger itching at her fingertips. The gate in her mind that typically prevented controversial thoughts from slipping past her lips remained firmly open, unwilling to close.
“You think it’s a joke that I could receive flowers?” she said.
A long pause. “What?”
“You think this is funny,” she said. “Someone sending me flowers is funny.”
She heard him swallow.
“Of course not.”
She waited, the family with the baby fidgeting as they searched for someone to serve them.
“I . . .” His voice scratched over the line. “Okay, it wasn’t a joke. I wanted to send you flowers. I just thought maybe you’d think it was lame.”
Heat burned her cheeks. “What?”
“I felt bad for b
eing a jerk to you at Utz’s last night, so the flowers were a goodwill gesture,” he said. “But you’re always so cynical about that kind of stuff, so I . . . lied. About the reason. I don’t know, it sounds dumb when I say it out loud.”
Her brow pinched further, her grip on the counter tightened. “You decided to send me flowers, then you lied about it, now you’re blaming the lie on my cynicism? Do I have that right?”
More silence. She waited. Jared seamlessly navigated relationships with every other woman in his life, from casual one-night stands to long-term girlfriends, and yet he fumbled so badly when it came to his best friend. Didn’t he know Mila at all?
“Freaking Denny,” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’m sorry, Mila. I wanted to do something nice, and it came out . . . like that.”
“Excuse me!” The woman with the baby called out, her voice shrill and desperate. “Could we get some coffee?”
Mila bit her thumbnail. Hard. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” Jared said. “Are you around tonight? Let’s get a drink—”
She punched the power button on the cordless phone and replaced it in the cradle. Fuck him for making her feel stupid. For pretending like he’d made an effort at doing something nice, only to turn it around and blame her for the awkwardness.
Queasiness churned in her gut, and as she grabbed the coffeepot and two mugs, she bit the inside of her lip. Maybe whatever had simmered between her and Jared really was over. Maybe it had never even begun.
* * *
* * *
Mila entered her apartment later that night, her lower back aching after her long day at the diner. Benny had asked her to wait around for the last table to finish their ice cream sundaes before she closed up, and the table had lingered like they never wanted to go home.
The wall clock’s hands slid to eleven and six, and she massaged her pulsing temples in an effort to quiet her blood. Every bone in her body told her to wash her face and get in bed, but the kitchen beckoned, coaxed her into its loving arms with promises of clean measurements, exact weights, and pies fit to be photographed for the cover of Gourmet magazine.
Sweet Love Page 9
