The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5)

by Krista Sandor

  Oma lifted her chin. “I’ll go to the Senior Living Campus. I want to be better for Oktoberfest.”

  “That’s several weeks away,” Dr. Stein said. “With regular therapy, following doctor’s orders, and getting plenty of rest, I see no reason why you couldn’t attend.”

  Oma nodded. “I’m trusting this to you, enkelin, but I want Gabriel to help you.”

  “But, Oma,” Monica said, glancing back at Gabe. His face was neutral. She wanted to punch it.

  Oma lifted her chin another fraction of an inch. “That’s the only way I’ll agree to it.”

  “Where did you get all this time to help out?” Sam asked.

  Gabe loved his brother, but right now, he was in no mood for him to pull older sibling rank.

  Gabe shifted his weight from foot to foot in the bright fluorescent light of the hospital corridor. Dr. Stein had ushered them out of the room after they had agreed on a rehabilitation plan. Oma needed to focus on her recovery, not listen to the four of them squabble. He glanced over at Monica. She looked like she wanted to punch his lights out.

  “I think I know why our Chef Sinclair has some time on his hands,” Zoe said and held out her phone.

  There it was in living color. The viral fucking video.

  He hadn’t watched it yet. He didn’t think he needed to see it. He had been there for fuck’s sake! His jaw tightened as he watched the feed on Zoe’s phone. Whoever took the damn video did a great job of catching his rant. He looked like a full-on lunatic. There was even a close-up of the poor girl crying.

  Gabe shook his head. People know chefs are temperamental. Hell, how many chefs out there had made a career out of being an asshole in the kitchen? He couldn’t even count. But that behavior was kept in the back of the house. That searing drive for perfection was acceptable if it promoted order and produced amazing food. No chef worth his salt took that shit into the dining room.

  The video ended. A slice of silence stretched between the four of them as the screen froze on the girl’s sobbing face.

  Zoe took a closer look at her phone. “Jesus, Gabe! How old was that poor couple? They barely look twenty-one.” She glanced at Monica. “The girl looks a lot like—”

  He put up his hand. “Congratulations! Now everybody knows why I’m taking a little time away from the restaurant. Let’s move on.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Sam asked. The fire in his eyes had cooled a few degrees.

  He met his brother’s matching sage green gaze. “I’m here, and I want to help. Can we just go from there?”

  Monica shook her head. “I know what my grandmother said, but I don’t need your help, Gabe.”

  He put on the expression that usually sent the waitstaff running. “You don’t have a choice. I promised Oma I’d help with the bakery, and that’s what I intend to do. I don’t break my promises.”

  Monica took in a sharp breath, but she held his gaze and didn’t back down, not one damn inch. If anything, she almost seemed emboldened by his not-so-subtle dig.

  She narrowed her gaze. “I watched you demo a strudel on television not too long ago. Yours are still too loose.”

  Something hot and prickly stirred inside of him. Not since the days of his apprenticeship had anyone dared criticize his work as a chef. He was a certified master fucking chef. His days of being a novice were long gone. He stared at her. Dammit, if it didn’t all come rushing back to him! Her lips. Her touch. But he brushed it all aside. “Oma asked me to help you, so I’m going to help you.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “And for your information, I make one hell of a strudel.”

  “Too loose,” Monica said under her breath.

  “Okay, kids,” Zoe said, putting up her hands like a referee. “I’m not going to play dumb. You don’t have to be a genius to see that there is still some serious shit between the two of you, but, Monica, you know Gabe can help. His celebrity status is a plus and will attract more press. More press means more business for the bakery and more success for the festival.”

  Monica’s cheeks blushed crimson.

  Sam put a hand on Monica’s shoulder, and Gabe tensed. The urge to throttle his brother came back twofold. It didn’t matter how much time had passed. He was ready to pounce on any man who laid a finger on Monica.

  Sam glanced his way and dropped his hand. “Monica, your grandmother needs Oktoberfest to be a success. I don’t know if you’ve been back in Langley Park long enough to notice, but it’s my staff from Park Tavern who have been helping out at the bakery.”

  “The delivery guy,” Monica said, voice barely a whisper.

  “Yeah, my guys have been doing her deliveries and helping out when she’s short staffed.”

  Gabe’s chest tightened. “Why didn’t you mention this?”

  Sam of all people should have known that he would want to know if Gerda Becker needed help. He would do just about anything for her. Then it hit him, and a surge of guilt shot through him. How many emails from his brother had he left unopened? How many of Sam’s calls had he blown off? Christ! It was like every facet of his life was unraveling. All the control he thought he possessed was dissolving into thin air.

  Sam’s expression hardened. “That’s another one for your buddy, Corbyn.”

  “That’s a fucking excuse,” Gabe said on a tight breath, pushing aside the guilt. Absolutely, he needed to have a chat with his PR agent, but Sam could have conveyed this information to him. A text. A voice message. Something!

  “It’s no excuse,” Sam rallied. “You may own half of Park Tavern, but your involvement in it is slim to none. I needed to act. I can’t sit around and wait for you to get your priorities straight.”

  “My priorities?”

  The layers of anger were piling up again. But this time, that anger was directed at himself. He’d lost his mise en place, just like Chef Russo had said. And fuck, he hated being called out!

  “Hey, Cain and Abel, let’s give it a rest, all right,” Zoe said, pointing at the door to Oma’s room then gesturing for them to keep it down. “Do you guys need to go duke it out behind the hospital or can we move on?”

  Gabe glared at his brother but nodded in agreement.

  Sam did the same.

  “And you two, Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake,” Zoe said, gaze bouncing from him to Monica. “I get it. There’s drama between the two of you. Do I need to put together a strudel braiding contest and pin a gold star on each of your foreheads?”

  A beat of silence passed. He glanced at Monica. She shook her head obediently.

  “Gabe?” Zoe asked, hands on hips.

  “No. No gold stars required.” Despite all the shit that had gone down, he had to hold back a grin. He’d forgotten what a spitfire Zoe could be. She would be a formidable force in the kitchen.

  “Okay, all of you! Stop acting like a bunch of goose wankers, and let’s work together. As long as Chef Hissy Fit over here can rein in his temper and refrain from making another woman cry, his presence here is a good a thing.”

  He tried to throw Zoe a fierce look, but she brushed him off.

  “Don’t even try to play bad boy chef with me, Sinclair,” Zoe said, her formidable glare still in place. “I remember when you peed your pants in kindergarten. I don’t care how famous you are! I never will! But it can help Oma.”

  “Jesus, Zoe,” he sighed.

  She ignored him and set her sights on his brother and Monica. “We’re good?”

  Sam gave Zoe a reluctant nod. Monica followed suit.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Zoe said, softening her tone. “I initially pitched to KPR that we would focus on Oma and her contribution to the community, but I know they’ll love the idea of the German baker’s granddaughter and a TV chef tag-teaming it to make Oktoberfest possible. Does that angle work for everyone?”

  Gabe glanced at Monica, but she wouldn’t meet his eye.

  She rubbed her locket. “I’m agreeing to this for my grandmother. If allowing Gabe to help means she�
�ll focus on her rehabilitation at the Senior Living Center, then I have no choice.”

  Zoe nodded. “Okay, we’re good with Britney and Justin. Cain and Abel, can you handle working together?”

  Gabe nodded. “Yeah, I’m here for Oma.”

  “Sam?” Zoe asked. She reached out like she was going to touch his arm but pulled back.

  “You know I’ll do the right thing,” Sam answered, but he didn’t meet her gaze.

  Zoe let out a breath. “Gabe, Monica, I’ll be in contact.”

  Sam’s phone beeped at the same time as Zoe’s.

  “It’s Em, we need to get back upstairs to the babies,” Zoe said, sharing a look with Sam.

  Sam pocketed his phone. “Yeah, Michael just texted me the same thing.”

  “You guys should come, too,” Zoe added.

  Monica pursed her lips and shook her head. “I better get back to the bakery. I don’t think there’s any major damage, but I need to get in there and see for myself.”

  “Do you need a ride back?” Sam asked. “I could take you.”

  Monica rubbed at a kink in her neck. “No, but thanks for offering. I’d like to walk.”

  Gabe’s fingers twitched. He wanted more than anything to touch her. The fire in her eyes was gone, and it nearly killed him not to be able to take her into his arms. He dug his hands into his pockets. In the space of a little more than a few hours, he’d had a cupcake smashed into his face, kissed Monica in their secret spot, and then agreed to help her pull off Langley Park’s first Oktoberfest. He didn’t know which way was up when it came to the direction of his life or his feelings for this woman.

  He’d fantasized about what it would be like if he saw her again. In his ego-driven fairy-tale, he played the part of the successful chef who didn’t need her approval to make his mark on this world. But now, those childish thoughts made him cringe. Splashing his success in her face didn’t make him feel triumphant. He didn’t know what life had dished out to her, but the worry on her face was not the look of a woman who spent carefree days lounging on a super yacht.

  Monica headed down the hall. He knew that heartbreaking stride. He recognized the slump to her shoulders. He had seen it as a boy when he’d followed her to the hidden spot in the botanic gardens.

  “Gabe?” Zoe asked. “Are you coming up to see the babies?”

  He snapped out of his daydream. “No, I want to see that Monica makes it back all right. Can you tell everybody I’m sorry I had to rush out? I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  With a quick wave to Zoe and Sam, he followed Monica down the hall. He’d half expected her to run again, but she didn’t. Lost in her thoughts, she bit her bottom lip. Her eyes focused on nothing.

  The doors opened to the lobby, and Monica blinked as if she’d just woken up from a dream. He stayed half a step behind her as she exited the hospital and picked up the Boley Lake trail. It was dark. The breeze whispered through the trees, and a chorus of crickets and cicadas hummed, hidden inside the thick foliage that surrounded the path back to Langley Park’s town center. The lights from the botanic garden’s pavilion reflected off the water, winking and flashing every time a fish or frog disturbed the serene surface.

  Gabe’s gaze settled on the familiar scenery. In his haste to leave this place over a decade ago and prove he was more than just some infatuated paperboy, he’d forgotten how connected he was to the town. He knew each street, each shop. He could close his eyes right now and find his way to the bakery. Like the lines etched into his palms, Langley Park was etched into his soul. He glanced at Monica’s slim form still a step ahead. For nearly all his youth, every part of this town centered around her. He’d spent so many early mornings in the heart of the town center watching her from afar. He hardly knew how to exist in this place without her.

  He continued on a half-step behind as they emerged from the gardens and into the lamplight of the town center. She’d chosen to take Bellflower Street back to the bakery. His street. Two miles due west and he would be home.

  Home.

  A shudder passed through him. Once he’d left Langley Park, all he could picture when he thought of his childhood home was the goodbye letter from his mother taped to the front door. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Almost as if the events were connected in some kind of sick memory-lane dot to dot, thoughts of his mother’s abandonment always led to the memories of that fateful night when Oma slid another white envelope across the butcher block table.

  Years may have passed, but the scars of this place went beyond skin deep. The nagging voice that whispered all his insecurities amped up a notch in Langley Park.

  Maybe if he were a better boy, his mother would have stayed.

  Maybe if he were a better man, Monica wouldn’t have left him.

  The fire that had driven him to become the successful chef he was today roared to life.

  Monica stopped walking, and he almost plowed into her. They were already standing in front of the bakery. Lost battling the demons in his mind, his body had switched to autopilot. He hadn’t even realized they’d arrived.

  Monica pulled a set of keys from her pocket but hesitated before unlocking the door. She stared at the key. “You don’t need to be here, Gabe. I’ve got everything under control.”

  He took a step closer. “What if you decide to pick up and leave, Mon? You think I have any reason to believe you won’t jump ship the second something better comes along.”

  Her body stiffened, and she jammed the key into the lock. She opened the door and flipped on the lights.

  “You don’t know anything about me, Gabe! Not anymore!”

  After a day of having his emotions put through the ringer, it was comforting to allow the anger to take over.

  He plastered a rueful smile to his lips. “I know enough.”

  She stormed past him and went to the stove. A pot, black with its scorched contents, sat idle on the burner. She picked it up and threw it into the sink. It clattered against the stainless-steel basin as an angry, ear-piercing rattle of metal on metal echoed through the bakery.

  Monica spun around. A hot blush crept up her neck. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Gabe! But what you can’t understand is that, up until that point, up until the moment I stepped on that airplane, I’d spent my entire life being less than everyone around me. I was the baker’s granddaughter. That’s it!”

  A switch flipped inside him. He caged her in, anchoring his hands to the sink. “You were never just the baker’s granddaughter to me.”

  Fucking hell! His conflicted heart was flip-flopping all over the damn place. For one second, he’s the insensitive asshole who’s made it to the top without her, the next, he’s about to start spilling his guts like he was eighteen again. He leaned in. Her apple cinnamon scent. The curve of her cheek. The lift of her chin. All these things called to him, begged him to forget his anger, to forgo his bitterness.

  Monica clutched her locket and rubbed her thumb along the chain. He stared at the link. The link he had carefully bent back into place. His breath came in shallow puffs as he leaned in a fraction closer.

  Monica’s breathing mimicked his, and the quickening rise and fall of her chest told him she felt it, too. That underlying current, that electric spark that ignited when they were together.

  She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Can we call a truce and agree to work together for Oma? It’s only for a month and a half. After that, you can go back to prime-time television and underwear models.”

  His lips hovered millimeters above hers. “Do you think that’s what I want?”

  Her sweet breath came in audible gasps. He raised a hand and brushed her jet-black bangs away from her eyes. They were eighteen again, stealing kisses behind the ovens. He weaved his hand into her hair. Monica started to press up onto her tiptoes, their bodies remembering this perfect dance of lust and attraction, when the bakery door creaked open.

  “We’re closed,” he called out.

  “I’m not here for cupcakes,” came
a man’s voice.

  Gabe whipped around, ready to give this dipshit a piece of his mind. “I said we’re closed.”

  The man didn’t budge. “Like I said, I’m not here for cupcakes.”

  The customer flicked his gaze to Monica. “Are you Monica Brandt?”

  Gabe glanced at Monica. She’d gone pale. Who the hell was this guy?

  “Who wants to know?” he asked.

  The man gave him a placating smile and held up a badge. “The FBI would like to know.”

  14

  Monica gasped. The air in the room had turned thick and dry.

  “Is this about the fire?” Gabe asked, angling his body protectively in front of her.

  “Fire?” the man parroted back. He furrowed his brow. “Did someone set a fire here?”

  Monica took a step forward. She knew the FBI wouldn’t be here because the fire alarm went off. The image of blood, crimson red and creeping under the bathroom door, flashed through her mind. She swallowed hard. “No one set a fire. It was an accident. My grandmother owns this bakery. She’d forgotten that she put a pot on the burner and went upstairs to the apartment. The smoke triggered the alarm.”

  The man nodded. He was attractive. Dark, mahogany skin and close-cropped hair. She put him around her age, maybe a few years older.

  “Miss Brandt, I’m agent Wesley Glenn. I work out of the FBI’s field office over in Kansas City, Missouri. I’m sorry for the late hour, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Monica bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from shaking. The pain sent a quick jolt through her body. Gabe must have sensed something. He splayed his hand across her back, and the sensation grounded her.

  This had to be about what happened in Portola Valley.

  She’d play dumb.

  Gabe turned to her. “What is this Monica? Do you want me to call Michael?”

  “Who’s Michael?” Agent Glenn asked. He pulled a notebook out of his satchel.

  “My cousin and an attorney,” Gabe answered.