by Sara Whitney
“What in the…?” She zoomed in closer and forgot all about her earlier agitation. Instead of entering Jeb’s Tap, she leaned against the brick wall near the door and selected a number from her contacts.
“What did you do?” she demanded.
She felt the sigh Erik heaved all the way across the line and pictured those huge shoulders rising and falling in exasperation. “You sure like talking on the phone.”
“I sure do!” she chirped, only because he so obviously hated it and rattling his chain was fun. “But seriously, did you send Richard and Byron cake samples at the hospital?” Her amazed question was met with silence, so she snapped her fingers near the speaker. “Hello? Tall, blond, and beautiful, are you still with me?”
She heard rustling and a sharp creak on the other end of the line before he spoke again. “Yeah.”
His unexpected thoughtfulness pricked her heart like a needle. “That was so sweet of you.”
“I’m not sweet.” He sounded a little alarmed by the suggestion, so she amended it.
“Fine, then it was crafty of you to track them down.” She tipped her head back against the still-warm wall of the pub and looked up at the sky, which was streaked with the pink of the setting sun above the tops of the brick buildings lining the street.
“Not that either,” he said. “I had a name and a hospital, and they needed to finalize the flavors.”
Good grief, it must’ve taken so much work to verify the location, make and package the samples, and see them mailed safely, and here he was downplaying it. He might grump and grumble and act all uninterested, but underneath it, he was turning out be a bit of a softy.
“Well, they loved it. Richard had to feed Byron because he’s still pretty immobile with his injuries. Isn’t that romantic?”
He grunted. “I thought they should enjoy the only fun part of wedding planning.”
And there it was. Long live the grump. Still, talking with Erik was helping ease the pressure that had built up in her chest from her professional disappointment and the image of Finn and Tom wrapped together in a shared happiness she’d never experienced. But she’d bet her favorite Coach bag that if she came even close to explaining all that to him, he’d hang up without a word, so she kept her reply light. “You’re awesome. But do you know what’s not awesome?”
Silence from his end. She sighed. “Since you asked, it’s not awesome that my roommate’s boyfriend ate the last of the peach cake. I was saving that for breakfast.” She shifted down the brick wall to make extra room for a cluster of boisterous men who came pouring out of Jeb’s, jostling and shouting from a very happy hour by the looks of it. She plugged her finger in her ear in time to hear Erik cluck his tongue like a disapproving grandmother.
“Cake isn’t for breakfast.”
“Cake isn’t for…” She gasped and held her hand over her heart, too outraged to finish the thought. “You’re a baker! You should be drowning in cake! You should be gorging on your own exquisite creations morning, noon, and night!”
Silence on his end, which she was only able to hear because the gaggle of men had staggered off down the street, bellowing a Journey song as they went.
“No,” she groaned. “You’re not one of those bakers who doesn’t eat his own product, are you?” A horrible thought struck her. “You’re not… anti-dessert?”
Another creak from his end, this time accompanied by the ghost of a chuckle that sent a thrill down her spine. Getting this guy to laugh was turning into her favorite challenge.
“I like dessert fine. In moderation.”
Oh, he was too much. She’d never last a day with as much stoic self-denial as he seemed to carry around with him. “Bah. Moderation, schmoderation. I’m currently loitering outside my neighborhood bar because not only did my roommate’s boyfriend eat the last of the cake, but he hauled my roommate off to ravish her, and now I’m going to drink alone because I’m feeling sorry for myself. How’s that for moderation?”
The sky was shifting to a dark velvety blue now, approaching true night, and she willed him to say something, anything, to distract her from the gnawing emptiness in her chest. It was the same reckless feeling that had driven her to pick fight after fight with her mom during her terrible teenage years, the same feeling that pushed her to go home with wholly unsuitable men and to yell at assholes on the L. But today it felt like an itch she didn’t know how to scratch. None of the dudes who’d come boiling out of the bar had caught her eye. Her mom hadn’t concerned herself with a single decision Josie had made since the instant she’d turned eighteen. And she wasn’t about to shout at Finn and Tom for daring to be happy. So what to do with the buzzing that was getting louder in her skull, urging her to move, shout, do something?
Then, almost without her willing it, the itch took over her vocal cords and scratched itself. “What are you doing right now? Want to join me?”
She grimaced as silence vibrated down the line. She barely knew this guy, and she wasn’t even sure he liked her all that much, but as soon as the words crossed her lips, the buzzing noise quieted a fraction, dimming its cry for chaos. Question was, had she just scared him off?
“Come on,” she wheedled. “Do you live near your old bakery? I’m not too far from there. Keep me company. I swear I won’t start any fights while you’re with me tonight.”
Oh, she’d bet he was good in a bar fight. His broad shoulders and thick chest, those legs like concrete pylons, the huge fists at the end of the world’s most perfectly formed arms. All that power and focus, intent on defending her honor. She shivered, her thoughts twisting toward something more intimate, and she had a flash of him turning all that power and focus on her. Those big hands at her waist. Those big thighs under her—
She bit her lip and slammed the door shut on that little scenario. It was Finn and Tom’s fault for getting their sex vibes all over the apartment. But she was suddenly unsure if she wanted this quiet, confounding man to sit next to her at the bar while she tried to shush her demons. Since those demons were whispering for her to try picturing him naked, it might be best to stay far, far away from him tonight.
Then his deep voice cut through her thoughts.
“What the hell. Give me the address.”
Seven
Erik wasn’t sure who was at the wheel anymore. Certainly not his brain; that organ would tell him that securing his next job was his only priority. Not his dick either; as much trouble as that copilot had been over the years, even it would think twice about messing around with Josie Redhead, who shouted more than she whispered, wore shoes that cost more than his first car, and used fifty words when five would do.
Yet here he was, taking the stairs from the L two at a time and heading toward a bar that wasn’t actually that close to his apartment to meet an excitable, unpredictable woman who wasn’t a friend or even a fuck buddy. He was at the precipice of fear and opportunity in his career, and he was going out of his way to intentionally hold his hand over an open flame for fun.
Nevertheless, he lengthened his stride so he’d reach the address she’d given him as quickly as possible, and before he knew it, he was pulling open the door to Jed’s and stepping inside. He tugged out his earbuds and pocketed them, scanning the dim, low-ceilinged room until he spotted the woman he was there for. She was perched on a stool, her elbows resting on the bar and the tips of her toes brushing the brass railing running near the floor. She’d set her purse on the seat next to her, and the sight ignited a flicker of pleasure. When was the last time his arrival had been expected? Anticipated even? Fuck, he’d been alone in this city for too long.
He crossed the boisterous room to claim the seat next to her, and she greeted him with a smile that radiated such ferocity that he cast an assessing glance at the other patrons in the long, narrow space before claiming his seat.
“Looking for someone?” Her brow creased as she followed his gaze around the room.
He turned back to the bar and gestured to the bartender for
another of whatever Josie was drinking. “Wondering who I might have to fight later. You’ve got a look in your eye.”
She threw her head back and laughed, freeing a long spiral of hair to brush against his shoulder. He itched to hold it between his thumb and forefinger to see if it was as hot to the touch as its color promised.
“I told you I’d be on my best behavior.” Her face was the picture of wide-eyed innocence, and he didn’t buy it for a second.
Forcing his tempted fingers away from the red strands, he lifted his chin toward a table in the back. “Just promise you won’t toss a chair at any of them.”
She turned to look at the three leather-clad, chrome-domed biker types plowing through a platter of chicken wings. One glanced up, met Erik’s eye for the briefest moment, and quickly returned his attention to the pile of meat on his plate.
Josie scoffed. “Please. You could take those guys easy.”
Her eyes cut to his chest, then to his face, then darted back down to her drink as the blood pumped harder in his veins. He was aware that his size had its own intimidation factor, and he didn’t particularly enjoy being the cause of someone else’s fear. But Josie had looked at him in appreciation rather than apprehension. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he’d think he’d just been properly ogled.
Another wave of emotion took him by surprise, this one a fair bit sharper than pleasure. For a brief, vain moment, he flexed the muscles that a lifetime of physical labor and a regular workout regimen had given him. Then embarrassment swamped him, and he released the tension he was holding in his body. He shook his head and reached for the glass the bartender set in front of him.
The first sip had him sputtering. “What is this?”
Josie grinned and clinked her glass against his. “A greyhound. Grapefruit juice and gin.” His answering grimace prompted another wild laugh from her. “I take it you’re not a fan?”
He steeled himself and tossed the rest of the drink back, barely controlling a shudder. “Beer,” he told the bartender, who complied with a knowing smirk. Erik probably wasn’t the first guy to choke down something awful to impress a woman, nor would he be the last. Except he wasn’t there to impress Josie. So what, exactly, was he doing at this bar?
She rolled her glass of disgusting drink between her palms and said dreamily, “Greyhounds must be the coldest dogs, don’t you think?”
That. That’s what he was doing here. He forgot about his own shit while he waited for the next geyser of words to spill from her tart mouth.
“Why’s that?”
“Oh my God, you can carry a conversation!” She beamed up at him, and he drank in the amusement playing across her face. “They just always look like they’re freezing, don’t they? All skinny and lean? I always want to dress them in sweaters. Or let them cuddle with a Saint Bernard. Did you have dogs growing up? Do you have one now?”
“Yes. And no.” He sipped his beer and changed the subject. “How’s the wedding planning?”
She groaned and dropped her head to the bar top. “The florist just canceled. Kill me now. How’s the job hunt?”
He resisted the urge to mimic her action and settled for lifting his beer in a salute instead. “Nobody’s hiring. Kill me now.”
She smiled wanly at him, and they drank in unison.
“I know a florist who might help.” The offer was out of his mouth almost before he realized he was making it, and when Josie looked up at him, the assessing look in her eye gave him pause.
She straightened and turned on her stool so she was facing him fully. “I have a proposal.”
Nope. He didn’t care for that. As a preemptive defense against her words, he reached behind his head and yanked out the band holding back his hair, sliding his fingers through the mess of it and shaking it forward until it obscured his features. Natural camouflage, Gina had once called it, and he’d liked the idea of having a shield against the world when necessary.
The abnormal silence from the stool next to him drew his attention, and when he turned his head, he found Josie staring avidly at the hair falling across his cheek. He froze under her transfixed gaze until she jolted out of her stupor and cut her eyes back to her wretched drink, at which point he hastily bundled up his hair again. Christ, talk about epic camouflage fail.
A trio of middle-aged women crowded up next to Josie at the bar, forcing her to lean closer until her knee pressed against this thigh. “So, uh. My proposal.” She downed a slug of her drink as he struggled to ignore that single point of contact. “Wedding planning sucks. Job hunting sucks. Let’s join forces, Man Bun.”
He shifted to put some distance between them. “Pass.”
“Pass? Just like that?”
Did she sound a tiny bit hurt? Unlikely; it would take more than a single word to wound someone as bulletproof as she was. “Just like that,” he said. “And my name’s Erik.” He didn’t even stop to consider the pros and cons. Some things were an easy no, and he didn’t need… all this in his life.
She huffed. “Oh my God, Erik, your wolf-pack-of-one attitude is exhausting. Look, I could use somebody who’s been around the wedding biz more than I have to give suggestions and keep me company.”
“I’m lousy company.” True, although it didn’t feel good to say it out loud.
“Says you. I think you’re fun.”
“Fun.” He repeated the word flatly, and she bit her lip and nodded. She thought he was fun? She had to be messing with him. Still, he was curious how far she’d take the joke. He leaned an elbow on the bar. “What do I get out of it?”
She mimicked his posture, crossing one denim-clad leg over the other and propping herself on her own elbow. “What do you want?”
The question burrowed into his brain. What did he want?
A secure workplace.
A predictable future.
A drama-free life.
“Stability,” he finally said.
Her eyes didn’t move from his face for a long moment before she returned to her drink. “Nah. You want to take a risk.”
He laughed. “I promise you, I don’t.” And it was true. His early childhood had been nothing but risk as his mother dragged him from city to city and scheme to scheme, seeking whatever new vision of fame she’d dreamed up that week. He’d spent every moment since then running away from that life. But his heart sped up at Josie’s words anyway.
The white-wine-spritzer trio had moved on, giving his companion room to lean lazily against the bar and study him. “Blondie Bakes.”
He blinked, concerned that he’d missed a step, and she read the question on his face.
“For your new bakery,” she said. “The new bakery that I’m going to help you open in exchange for your coming along to pick out wedding flowers with me. You didn’t like Hot Buns, so what about Blondie Bakes?”
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, staring hard at his half-empty glass and ignoring the rush of blood in his ears at the merest suggestion of his own bakery.
“The name or the idea?”
“Both.” The word burst out of him, sharper than he intended, and her tiny flinch made him flinch. He sighed. “It’s impossible. A new business takes way more than baking skills.”
“So let me help.”
“Why would you want to?”
“Because I can.” Her mood shifted in an instant, some unexplained turmoil brewing behind that beautiful face, and he couldn’t pull his eyes away from her savage gaze. She was burning, and the longer she stared at him, that fire threatened to consume him too, trapping the breath in his lungs and making sweat gather at his hairline.
“I can,” she repeated, breaking the spell. Then she planted her feet on the bottom rungs of her stool and leaned forward to rummage behind the bar until she found a stack of napkins, leaving him to glare around the room at anyone who might be tempted to perv on her denim-covered ass while it hovered in the air. Once she was safely seated again, she fished a pen out of her purse and popped the tip of her tongue be
tween her lips. She sketched a flurry of sharp strokes across one of the squares and slapped it in front of him on the scarred wood. He looked down to see the words Blondie Bakes emblazoned on the thin material in bold block letters, accompanied by a rough but recognizable sketch of his profile, his jaw a squared-off block and his hair pulled to the back of his head in a bun. He immediately smacked his hand over the caricature.
“No.” As well executed as it was, over his dead body would his face appear in a logo. He hastily shoved the napkin into his pocket and out of sight.
She ignored his definitive tone and hit him with a challenging gaze. “What’s stopping you?”
What was stopping him? More like what wasn’t stopping him. He ticked off the obstacles on his fingers. “Let’s see… location. Equipment. Staff. Marketing. A customer base.” Each word weighed him down, dragging him farther away from the glimmering dream she was spinning. But she just waved a breezy hand to dismiss his concerns.
“So start small. Put up a website, work out of your kitchen, and build up a clientele. Or let me help you look for a location.”
“What is it that you do again?”
A laugh burst out of her. “Meddle mostly.” She sipped from her glass. “I work for Dynamic Marketing. We’re not massive, so I do a mix of PR, event planning, and advertising.” Her voice turned coaxing. “I do this for a living, and I suddenly have some extra time on my hands. I could make you huge!”
Her hopeful face glowed up at him, and it was impossible not to bask in the warmth of it. Still, his voice was gruff even to his own ears when he asked, “Who said I wanted your help?”
Her smile dimmed, and he immediately wished he could call the words back. But she was making him wish for things he couldn’t have. Business things. Redhead things.