by Nina Lindsey
When she returned to the main room, she heard Luke’s voice through an open door. She peeked inside at a massive glass desk topped with a computer. He was pacing back and forth, still on the phone, but he gestured for her to come in.
Polly stopped in front of the desk, which looked like something out of a catalog—a black blotter, an open planner with appointments and notes written in block handwriting, a leather cup of brand-new pencils, and three Mont Blanc pens resting in a neat row.
“Call me back,” Luke ordered whomever he was talking to. Then he tossed the phone onto the desk and looked at Polly. “I’m really sorry. There was a freak storm in Venezuela where—”
He grabbed his ringing phone again and went around to the computer.
“Yeah?” he said into the phone. “Okay, find out if the aid workers are able to reach anyone. No, still nothing from Adam.”
The tension in his voice was like wire. He frowned at his computer screen and hit a few keys on the keyboard.
“What’ve you heard about the airport? I’ve got thousands of food packages coming down from the warehouse.” He listened for a minute and gave a curt, “Okay,” before ending the call again.
He sank into his chair and rubbed his eyes. A pang of sympathy shot through Polly.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked. “We can reschedule for another time.”
“No.” He dragged his hands down his face. “A storm system just hit northern Venezuela. Torrential rains, hurricane-force winds, the whole thing. We source a lot of our beans from family farms in Venezuela, and there’s massive flooding all along the Caribbean coast. I think my brother is down there.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“He was supposed to be there, but he didn’t call and let us know.” Luke frowned at his cell phone and swiped the screen. “We have a disaster response team for situations like this, but the flooding is so bad they can’t even get in yet. So we haven’t been able to make contact with anyone. Not even Adam.”
“Well, if he’s not there, surely he’d call?”
Luke shrugged as his phone buzzed again. In her business classes, Polly had heard about corporate involvement in disaster relief, but she hadn’t known Sugar Rush had a structure in place.
As Luke took the call, she went back to the kitchen. She didn’t know much about taking care of business—which was part of the reason she’d enrolled at Hartford—but she knew a lot about taking care of people.
She opened a few of the kitchen cabinets. They were well-stocked with regular stuff like pasta and odd things like buckwheat honey, bone broth, and tins of actual Portuguese octopus.
Upon closer inspection, she discovered the boxes and cans were also organized according to category and alphabetized. The contents of the refrigerator would have made Julia Child weep with joy—French artisan butter, organic eggs, fresh vegetables, and a whole drawer of gourmet meats and cheeses.
Polly nibbled on her thumbnail as she stared at the fridge. Despite the plethora of goods, she was a little nervous about cooking anything in the immaculate kitchen, not to mention she had no idea if it was okay to actually use any of this.
What if it was all meant for a glamorous dinner party? Not that she’d even know what to do with Portuguese octopus anyway.
Resigning herself, she retrieved her phone and placed a pizza delivery order, hearing Luke still on the phone when the intercom buzzed twenty minutes later. She found pristine white plates in one of the cabinets and loaded one up with three slices of pizza. She poured a glass of carbonated water and carried it into the office.
Luke looked up from his computer, the creases on his brow easing. Polly moved aside a folder and set the plate and glass on his desk.
“I ordered pizza because you still need to eat,” she said. “And I wasn’t sure if I could use anything in your fridge.”
“My brother gets all that stuff,” Luke said. “I don’t eat here much.”
“Well, it’s pizza tonight.” She nodded toward the plate. “There’s more, if you’re still hungry.”
She returned to the kitchen and picked up a slice of pepperoni for herself. Rather than risk spilling tomato sauce on the furnishings, she ate while standing over the gleaming stainless steel sink.
Afterward, she went to get Luke’s empty plate and brought him another bottle of carbonated water. She then found a remote control and pointed it toward the massive TV embedded in the black cabinets.
The fireplace flared on with a whoosh that made her squeak in surprise. She fumbled to turn off the flames and found the button for the TV, switching it to a news channel that was running updates on the Venezuela flooding.
She spent the next hour alternating between watching the news and checking on Luke. He also had a news channel streaming on his computer as he talked endlessly on the phone and texted. Polly brought him water, a sliced apple, and had to restrain herself at least twice from rubbing his shoulders, which looked tight enough to break.
Thinking she might be here awhile longer, she went to get her supply bag from her van. The macramé bag was filled with things she took everywhere “just in case”—books, her music player, cracker snack packs, fixings for homemade tea, yarn and needles for a scarf she was badly knitting.
As she was retrieving the bag, a black Mercedes pulled into the circular driveway. Polly stopped when the glare of the headlights hit her. She shaded her eyes, her heart kicking into gear as two tall men emerged from the car, their postures not exactly threatening, but not warm and welcoming either.
“Hello.” The man on the driver’s side took a few steps toward her. “Are you delivering something?”
“No.” Polly slung the bag over her shoulder and closed the van door. “I’m…I’m a friend of Mr. Stone’s…I mean, Luke’s.”
“Oh.” The man moved into the illumination of the porch lights, and Polly realized that he had to be one of Luke’s brothers. He had the same strong features and thick-lashed dark eyes, except he lacked Luke’s hard, unyielding edge. This guy looked nicer.
He extended a hand to her. “I’m Evan, Luke’s brother.”
“Polly Lockhart.” She shook his hand, glancing warily past him to where the second man approached. Also tall and broad-shouldered, he had thick, silver hair, handsome features, and the distinguished bearing of the Stone patriarch.
“Warren Stone.” He also held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Polly. Is Luke inside?”
“Yes, I was just getting this.” She gestured to her bag. “We, uh, we were supposed to go to dinner but he’s been busy with the flooding situation, so I was just hanging out.”
The two men looked at each other, then at Polly, almost as if they weren’t sure whether or not to believe her. She took a step back toward the van.
“I should probably leave now,” she remarked.
“No, it’s okay.” Evan gestured for her to precede him back into the house. “Luke won’t like it if he finds out you left right when we arrived.”
Polly glanced at Warren Stone, who only nodded in agreement. She returned to the house with them, and they both disappeared into Luke’s office. Their voices filtered through the closed door, their tension and frustration evident in their raised tones and barked orders.
“You’re the one who put Sam in charge of the Fair Trade Foundation,” Evan snapped. “Send him the hell down there or I’ll go myself.”
“I’m not sending him into the fucking flood zone,” Luke retorted. “And you’re not going either.”
“That’s the whole point of the foundation, to protect the local infrastructure and help with recovery efforts. I have ideas for disaster risk intervention and—”
Warren’s deep voice cut in, and Polly went back into the kitchen so she would avoid further eavesdropping. She filled the beautiful teakettle with water, set it to boil, and took three porcelain mugs from the cupboard.
After retrieving cheesecloth teabags and dried flowers from her supply bag, she brewed three cups of tea
and arranged the mugs on a sleek tray made of glass and leather. She carried the tray to the office, balancing it on her hip as she knocked.
The voices inside came to a dead stop before Evan Stone opened the door and looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Polly indicated the tray. “But I made you all some tea.”
Evan blinked, stepping aside to let her in. She put the tray on a table near the door.
“It’s chamomile,” she said. “Very soothing. No caffeine. I make it myself with fresh flowers…”
Her voice trailed off as all three men stared at her in bafflement. Anxiety tightened her chest, along with the sudden realization that men of their status very likely did not drink chamomile tea.
No, these were men who sloshed twenty-five-year-old scotch and bourbon into Baccarat glasses, then drank while discussing stock options, liquid assets, and whether to take the Cessna or the Boeing on their holiday to the French Riviera.
Polly took a step back, suddenly wondering if her former boyfriend Brian had drummed up enough money for a ticket to the San Francisco Comic Con. That, at least, was a more familiar world.
“Okay, so…enjoy.” She smiled weakly and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Lord. At least she didn’t hear them bursting into laughter, but they were probably rolling their eyes at each other.
Time for her to go.
She cleaned the kitchen quickly and put the leftover pizza in the fridge before taking a pen and notepad out of her bag. She scribbled a quick note—Had to run, hope everything turns out all right—and left it on the counter before going back out to her van.
As she put the key in the ignition, she tried to ignore the fact that her heart was sinking a little. Or a lot. Because if she acknowledged her disappointment, she’d be forced to admit that she’d been secretly imagining a fairytale come to life—one involving a bakery girl and the hot, wealthy candy maker who sweeps her off her feet.
Polly groaned. She’d always had her feet firmly planted on the ground. Hannah was the adventurous one, the sister who traveled the world and wrote blog posts about love. Polly was the sensible, practical one who stayed at home and was learning how to be business-minded.
She couldn’t let herself be romantic—at least, not about a situation where romance was not in the cards.
Giving herself a mental kick, she turned the key. The engine whirred and stalled.
“Come on,” Polly muttered, pressing the gas and turning the key again.
The van lurched forward and came to a stop. Two more tries, and she still didn’t find herself heading toward the gate at the bottom of the driveway.
She rested her head against the steering wheel with a sigh.
Yeah. Thanks, universe.
Chapter 7
She was gone. He didn’t want her to be gone.
Luke frowned at the immaculate kitchen, which—aside from the faint smell of pepperoni lingering in the air and her handwritten note—held no evidence that Polly had ever been there.
For whatever reason, he didn’t like that. He’d spent the past three hours mired in phone calls, video conferencing, and arguments with Warren and Evan, but part of his mind had always been aware of Polly just outside the office.
The front door clicked open. Luke turned to find her coming back in, and the relief that washed through him at the sight of her felt like a waterfall.
He shook his head. He was being an idiot. He was wiped out. He needed a shower and sleep, and the only reason he wanted to talk to Polly again was to apologize for screwing up their date. Which wasn’t supposed to have been a real date anyway.
“Oh, hi. Is everything okay?” She put a macramé bag down on the foyer table.
How the hell did he know it was macramé? Oh yeah, last year Aunt Julia had made a big deal of announcing that macramé was making a comeback.
Polly approached him, all brown-eyed concern with those freckles sprinkling her nose like cinnamon and her curly hair that he wanted to sink his hands into so he could tilt her head back and…
“Where did you go?” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended.
She blinked. “Well, nowhere obviously. I was going to leave, but my van won’t start. I’ll call Triple A.”
He frowned. “You will not.”
“Really, with the ordering me around?” Though her expression gentled as she came closer. “You look exhausted. What’s going on with the floods?”
“The rain stopped, at least.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “The farms are all flooded, but the families are safe. As soon as the water drains off, we’ll be able to go in and assess the damage. They got medical supplies, food, and fresh water into Caracas, so the aid workers are doing what they can.”
“What about your brother?”
“He called from Maracay. He’s fine. He’s probably heading to the coast now.”
Even though Warren had explicitly ordered him not to.
“Well, that’s all good news, right?”
Luke looked at her, struck anew by her sweetness. All the other women he knew would have been annoyed by the disruption of their plans, even though they’d have tried to conceal it beneath concern and a remark about his workaholic nature. Then they’d have gone off looking for somewhere else to go so their carefully cultivated beauty wouldn’t be wasted.
They would not have stayed to order pizza and brew chamomile tea.
A restless urge simmered beneath Luke’s exhaustion, like he needed to somehow compensate for a natural disaster that had prevented him from taking Polly out on the town. Because she looked so damned pretty in that black dress that hugged her figure in all the right places.
He took a breath and dragged his gaze back to her face. The office door opened, and his father and brother emerged, both carrying the mugs Polly had brought in.
She flushed a little at the sight of them. Sensing her anxiety, Luke stepped toward her as if his nearness would be any comfort.
Warren tilted his head back to drain the last of the tea, then lifted the mug to Polly in a silent salute.
“Haven’t had chamomile tea since…well, ever.” He put the mug in the sink. “But my wife used to drink it sometimes. Not as bad as I always assumed it would be.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“Ancient Egyptians used to worship chamomile for its healing properties,” Evan remarked.
“Exactly.” Polly smiled. “It was also one of the nine sacred herbs of the Lacnunga, which was an ancient Anglo-Saxon manuscript of medical remedies.”
Luke stepped forward, suddenly annoyed by this ridiculous exchange. He didn’t want Polly charming his father and brother, especially with folklore about the history of tea. He wanted her all to himself.
Telling himself again he was being an idiot, he indicated that Warren and Evan should leave.
“Nice meeting you, Polly.” Evan extended his hand to her again. “Hope we’ll see you again some time.”
“And thanks again for both the tea and the history lesson,” Warren added.
“I’ll call you both later,” Luke told his father and brother as he walked them to the door.
Evan left without a response, his shoulder still stiff with tension over Luke’s refusal to send him to Venezuela. Luke closed the door with a sigh, hating his brother’s resentment while at the same time being irritated that Evan couldn’t see his reasoning. He had to prove Evan’s value to the company in a way that wouldn’t drive a wedge between them.
He locked the door and returned to Polly, who was washing the mugs at the sink.
“You don’t have to do that,” Luke said irritably. “I have a maid.”
She laughed. “For what? To pick nonexistent lint off the furniture?”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s hard to believe you’d ever leave a crumb lying around for anyone to clean up.” She waved a soapy hand toward the rest of the house.
“I mean, this place is as clean as an operating room.”
He tried to be offended by that remark and failed. Because it was the truth.
“This house was designed by the Scandinavian architect Axel Bjork,” he said, feeling the urge to defend it in some way.
“Oh, it’s very…um, architecturally modern,” Polly said. “But I’m guessing the furnishings didn’t come from IKEA.”
Luke had the feeling she was teasing him, which wasn’t an unpleasant feeling at all.
He jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “I’m going to shower and change. Don’t leave.”
“I can’t. My van, remember?” Polly folded the dishtowel into a perfect square. “So if you won’t let me call Triple A, what am I supposed to do?”
“I’ll figure it out.” Though he wasn’t going to try very hard. He didn’t want her to leave him right now. “I’ll be back soon.”
He took a tepid shower that was shorter than he’d intended because he wanted to get back to Polly. Not bothering to shave, he pulled on black drawstring pants and a T-shirt. Feeling marginally more like himself, he returned to where she was sitting at the kitchen counter, checking her phone.
He should take her home. That’s what any gentleman would do. Take her home, then get her van repaired tomorrow and have the mechanic drop it off at her bakery.
A vague question crossed his mind. Why did she apparently only own a bakery delivery van? But the thought disappeared half-formed into his fogged brain.
“You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet,” Polly remarked.
“I’m fine.”
If he slept, she might not be here when he woke. He suspected she’d call a friend to come and get her because she’d be worried she was inconveniencing him by staying.
“Come on.” She slid off the stool and rounded the counter to take his arm. “Lead the way to your bedroom, but rest assured that I’m not going to jump your bones.”
“Well, that’s a damned shame.”
