“Is anything missing?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No…I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I need my phone.”
Monica sprinted through the apartment, down the stairs, and into the bakery. Her cell phone sat on the desk in the office. She touched the screen, and the phone came to life.
“Are you calling the police?”
Monica stared at her phone, scrolling through her contacts. “No, I’m calling Jonah. He gave me his number today.”
“You think the kid was up in the apartment?”
She held the cell phone to her ear. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I just want to make sure he pulled the door closed.”
Gabe didn’t know the teen well, but in the course of his culinary career, he’d hired dozens of young kids. Line cooks, runners, dishwashers. He’d gotten good at weeding out the bad apples. He could sense the ones who were hungry to learn, eager to do anything that got them one step closer to hitting the rank of chef. Nothing inside him made him think Jonah was the type to go rifle through someone’s private things. In fact, it was the opposite. Jonah was the kind of kid he would have hired in a heartbeat.
He glanced at the desk. Agent Glenn’s card was propped up against a stapler. Instantly, his mind went back to their meeting, and thoughts of the elusive Black Bird hacker kicked up his pulse. He left the office and walked the perimeter of the bakery. Nothing was out of place. Jonah had cleaned up and done a good job. He’d never seen the work table look so immaculate. He opened the register and was met with trays of ones, fives, tens, and twenties. They weren’t robbed. He’d check it later and make sure the count matched up, but he had the sense that it would. He also highly doubted that international cybercriminals were interested in ripping off a bakery.
The rise and fall of Monica’s voice drifted through the bakery. He went back into the office and leaned against the desk as Monica said goodbye and ended the call.
“Did Jonah see anything strange?”
Monica shook her head. “He said he was sure he pulled the door shut. He even tried to open it again to make sure it was locked.”
“Okay, was anybody hanging around? Did he have a friend stop in?”
“I asked him that. He said the only time he opened the front door was when some guy came by and knocked.”
“Who was it?”
Monica drummed her fingers on the desk. “He didn’t know. The guy just asked him when we opened in the morning.”
“It’s kind of late to be stopping by a bakery.”
Monica crossed her arms. “That still doesn’t answer how the charm bracelet got moved.”
He frowned. “Did Jonah let the guy come inside?”
She let out a shaky breath, and her gaze went to the FBI agent’s card. “No, he said he talked with him at the door. You don’t think…”
He didn’t know what to think, but he didn’t want Monica upset. He took her into his arms. “No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. Maybe I moved your bracelet in the night. Maybe I moved it this morning, and I just can’t remember. It’s been a crazy couple of days.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s probably it. It has been a whirlwind.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “That bracelet isn’t some bad omen, Mon.”
She looked up at him. “I know it’s not. But seeing it reminds me of the day I left.”
“Then we’ll have to make up for lost time and fill it up.”
“Paris?” she said, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
He held her gaze. “I still owe you a picnic next to the Eiffel Tower.”
“You do,” she answered through a sweet yawn.
He lifted her into his arms. “Come on, sleepyhead."
“What’s this?” she asked, legs dangling.
He started up the stairs. “This is practice.”
“For what?”
He got to the top of the stairs and paused at the threshold. “For what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.”
20
Monica hummed to herself and cracked another egg into a glass bowl while a pat of butter popped and sizzled in the omelet pan heating up on the stove. After the disconcerting bracelet incident, she’d been keyed up—worried the events of her night in the Portola Valley had something to do with it. But as days grew into weeks, and with no other strange occurrences, she and Gabe had fallen into an easy rhythm over the last month. Before they would even step foot inside the bakery, they’d started their day at the crack of dawn making breakfast in the apartment’s cozy kitchen. She glanced at the counter where his knife roll sat at the ready. A place that once housed only a baker and her granddaughter now showed the signs of a chef in residence.
Gabe usually made breakfast. She’d feasted on vegetable frittatas, banana and almond pancakes, and homemade cinnamon-spiced granola served with fresh cream. But today, she wanted to surprise him. She had his cookbook propped against the toaster opened to the recipe for omelets. She’d just started to whisk the eggs when two strong, warm hands settled on her hips.
“What’s all this?” Gabe asked in his sexy, rumbling morning voice.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m making you eggs, an omelet to be exact.”
“Are you?”
She continued whisking the eggs and gestured with her chin toward the cookbook. “We’ll see if whoever wrote this thing knows what he’s talking about.”
He chuckled and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “Do you know who Jacques Pépin is?”
“Sure, he’s that famous French chef who was on a cooking show with Julia Child.”
Gabe nodded. “He says you can tell how good a cook is by the way they prepare an omelet.”
She swayed and brushed against him.“How am I doing so far?”
He tightened his grip, and his cock hardened against her buttocks. “Let’s see,” he whispered next to her ear, sending hot tingles down her spine. “Looks like the eggs are well stirred. Are you making a classic omelet or French country?”
“French country,” she answered, rubbing tiny circles with her hips.
“My favorite,” he breathed.
He was only wearing a pair of boxers. His chest pressed into her back as he slipped his hands inside her tank top. They grazed her ribs before finding her breasts. Her breathing became shallow as heat spread between her thighs.
He flicked her earlobe with his tongue. “What’s next?”
“A little salt and pepper,” she gasped.
“How’s the butter?”
She closed her eyes. “The what?”
“You want to let the butter brown for a country omelet.”
His warm hands set her body on fire as he kissed her neck and slowly massaged her breasts, allowing his thumbs to pass over her tightened nipples. She blinked her eyes open and glanced down at the omelet pan. The butter was browned, bubbly and perfect, but she wasn’t hungry for eggs anymore, and from the press of his cock, she could tell Gabe wasn’t either.
She fumbled for the knob, turned off the stove, then reached up behind her and threaded her fingers into his dark, messy hair.
“Are you abandoning your position, chef? You know the omelet station is a place of prestige,” he teased.
“I guess you’ll have to pull me off the line. I can’t seem to work with all the distractions. I have misplaced my mise en place.”
That got her a sexy chuckle. He shifted behind her. “I’ll show you some fucking mise en place.”
Monica couldn’t get enough of his take-charge attitude. He’d started cooking a few nights a week at Park Tavern. She would come in about an hour into the dinner service and say she was there to chat with Sam or Zoe about Oktoberfest, which they did most of the time. But she wasn’t really there for the food or event planning. Gabe running a kitchen had her body tingling the moment he put on his chef’s coat. His commanding voice. His quick, sharp orders and his hands. Holy Mary, those hands! Watching h
im put together a dish was mesmerizing. His precision, his focus, his attention to detail. All these things made her ache for his touch, and pretending she wasn’t on fire for him added a naughty, scintillating charge to the air.
He slid his hands down her body. “You should make breakfast more often.”
She gripped the countertop as Gabe pulled down her pajama shorts and thrust inside her. He wrapped a hand around her waist while the other moved to her shoulder. Excluding Oma’s room, they had pretty much done it on or against every flat surface in the apartment. One night, after she’d pretended not to watch him prepare plate after plate of wild salmon with a ginger-lime marinade, they hadn’t even made it back to the apartment. She’d straddled him on the stairs, and then he fucked her hard against the wall.
“You feel so damn good,” he said on a tight, low exhale.
His hand left her shoulder and skimmed down her body. He thrust harder as his fingers rhythmically worked her sweet bud. She bent forward, breasts skimming the countertop, and allowed Gabe to deepen the angle of penetration. He released a primal groan, half man, half beast, as the sweet scent of sex and sweat enveloped them in a lusty haze. Within seconds, the kitchen disappeared. All that existed was this man and his glorious cock. She flew over the edge, soaring with each brush of his hand and each pump of his hard length. He was with her, fingertips clenched around her hips, owning her, claiming her, giving her every last drop of his release.
Breathless, she straightened up and leaned against him, resting her head against his chest.
“You can make me breakfast any morning,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.
She blinked. Her body was coming down from the endorphin rush of her release. “I don’t know. My station isn’t very orderly.”
The bowl containing the eggs had tipped. Gooey yellow streaks ran down the side of the lower cabinets. Pepper was sprinkled everywhere. At least she’d remembered to turn off the gas burner.
Down below, the back door to the bakery opened and closed.
“What time is it?” he asked.
She glanced at the clock. “A little after five.”
“It’s just me,” Jonah called. There was no door between the stairs and the apartment. A faint glow came from the staircase as Jonah flicked on the lights over the work table.
Gabe had gone through Oma’s books, negotiated better prices with suppliers and, thanks in part to his celebrity status, had gotten the bakery several weekly standing orders. This allowed them to hire on a few part-timers, and that included Jonah. He was there every morning before school and even a few days a week after school. He worked hard and was the only part-timer who could bake. The others helped with customers—which was important—but finding Jonah was a godsend.
“Hey, Jonah! I’ll be right down,” Monica called out.
Gabe brushed her bangs to the side and trailed his index finger along her collarbone. “Right down?” he asked, twisting his finger into the strap of her tank top.
“Yes, we’ll be right down. This is a big day. We’ve got that demonstration at the Senior Living Center this afternoon with the press which means—”
“We have a shit-ton of cupcakes and strudels to make this morning before we go,” he answered, finishing her sentence.
She nodded.
Something mischievous sparked in his eyes. “We should probably shower together. It would be quicker.”
She eyed the aftermath all over the counter. “Sorry, Chef. No more hanky-panky. I’ve got a shower reservation for one, and you’re on cleanup duty.”
He pulled her in close. “Are you ready for another day to pretend to hate me?”
There was something exciting about keeping their relationship hidden. It made each touch, each stolen moment more intoxicating, more titillating.
She palmed his cock and glared playfully. “I’ll do my best.”
“Wow!” Monica said, sharing a look with her grandmother as the local news shot footage and Zoe recorded audio for Kansas Public Radio. “The residents of the Langley Park Senior Living Center don’t mess around when it comes to a cookbook signing.”
She and Gabe had made strudels with the residents. Jonah had tagged along to help with the prep and set up, and Gabe had agreed, reluctantly, to do an impromptu cookbook signing. Oma was doing well enough to join them, but she hung back during the demonstration. The weeks of rest and physical therapy had brought the color back to her cheeks. And while she didn’t have a spring to her step yet, she was getting around quite well with the aid of a cane.
“There’s something about a man who can cook,” Oma said, keeping her face neutral.
Monica bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
Yes, there was.
Gabe glanced at her. Two women, well north of eighty years old, had flanked him, one on each side with a copy of his book. They were smiling for a picture, but just as the camera clicked, one of the women squeezed his butt. Gabe froze, a nervous smile pasted across his face. Monica held his gaze for a beat before the woman released his ass and thanked him demurely for the autograph and photo.
“Miss Brandt?” Jonah asked. His arms were filled with baking supplies. “I was going to pick up all the baking stuff we brought.”
“Thanks, Jonah. Do you mind loading it into the van?”
“Sure thing.” He gave Oma a nervous glance.
“You are baking now, Jonah?” Oma said. Her tone contained her usual sternness, but Monica sensed something softer in her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” He shook his head. “Yes, Oma.”
“How is your mother?”
Jonah’s nervousness dialed back a notch. “She’s good. She’s working a lot of hours, but we have our own place now.”
Oma nodded. “And puff pastry?”
The teen grinned. “It doesn’t come from the frozen aisle.”
He stood there a moment, arms full.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Those baking sheets won’t load themselves,” Oma said.
Monica winked at Jonah, and the boy headed toward the exit.
“How are things with Gabriel?” Oma asked.
Monica felt a blush heat her cheeks. She wasn’t expecting that. “He’s been… helpful.”
“Helpful? After all these weeks, that’s all you can say?”
Gabe glanced at her again and absentmindedly patted the M hidden below his shirt.
“Sure,” she began, keeping her tone neutral. “You know how much he’s done to get the bakery on track. Between me, Zoe, Sam, and Gabe, we’ve got everything squared away for Oktoberfest.”
Gabe caught her eye again. This time he was standing with the members of the quilting club. He held open a lovely blue quilt with nine bright yellow sunflowers while the ladies huddled around him with their cookbooks for a group shot.
“They seem to love him here,” Monica said.
“It’s very kind of him to do this. They all may love him, but he only loves you. He can’t stop looking over.”
As if her grandmother controlled the universe, Gabe glanced at her again.
“I guess I have you to thank for that, Oma.”
Surprise flickered in the woman’s eyes. “Gabriel told you?”
Monica nodded.
Oma lifted her chin. “Sometimes, you must add yeast to make the bread. You must set the reaction into motion to get the desired effect.”
“Did you just compare Gabe and me to a loaf of bread? And that reaction you set into motion back when we were teenagers could have sent him to jail.”
“I would have never let that happen, enkelin.”
“But—”
“But nothing! I wanted you to have someone who looked at you the same way your father looked at your mother and the same way your opa looked at me. Monica, Gabriel has loved you since he was just a boy delivering our morning newspaper. Please, don’t try to deny this. I know he’s been staying in the apartment with you.”
Monica looked away from her grandmoth
er. It was one thing to concede she and Gabe cared for each other. It was a whole different ball of wax to explain their living situation. “That’s just because there is so much work to do. And, of course, he’s on the couch.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Monica. I know why you both are hiding your feelings.”
“You do?”
“For me. For the festival.”
A wave of relief washed over her. “Oma, I want to do this for you. I want it to be perfect. We were worried that with Gabe’s celebrity status, any hint of him dating would overshadow the event.”
Her grandmother’s expression softened. “Enkelin, it will be perfect because you’re here. Even though you were gone for all those years, I knew, one day, you would come home. The bakery is just as much yours as it is mine. I hoped a Langley Park Oktoberfest would breathe new life into the business.”
Monica blinked back tears. “Who is this new, sappy, Senior Living Campus Oma?”
“I’m not getting sappy.” A sly grin pulled at the corners of Oma’s lips. “You and Gabriel were terrible about hiding your feelings for each other back when you were teenagers. You’re no better now. Did you think I didn’t hear him coming for you every night that summer? The two of you whispering and talking on the roof! I almost starting banging on the ceiling with the broom handle.”
“Oma, I wish you would have said something.”
Her grandmother chuckled. “When you’re young, you don’t want your grandmother picking your boyfriend. Remember, I was once a teenager, too. What do you think your opa and I did every night during Oktoberfest?”
“Oma!” Her pink blush grew scarlet. The last thing she wanted to know about was Oma’s sex life. She started to protest but promptly stopped when Mr. Collier joined them.
“Gerda,” Mr. Collier said. “I thought you’d be here. You left your shawl at my cottage.” He smiled warmly at Monica as he wrapped the garment gently over Oma’s shoulders. “It can get chilly inside these buildings. Last night, when your grandmother and I were having dinner, I spoke to one of the maintenance people about it.”
“Dinner?” Monica said, eyeing her grandmother.
The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5) Page 100
