Touch Me (Promise Me Book 2)

by Viragh, Brea

  “I’m not going to pretend anymore,” I stated flatly. The determination there surprised even me.

  “You don’t have to pretend. Continue your friendship with Duncan on your own terms.” August stood, setting his empty glass down on the table. “We can go back to our normal day-to-day dealings, the way we always have.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You are being too calm about the whole thing.”

  August put it simply. “The woman I love is here. We speak every day, and she turns to me when she needs someone to talk to. There’s love there. She’s starting to see it. What more can I ask?”

  Great. Things were progressing in his favor. I wondered if the good luck would somehow amoeba toward me and stick.

  August left me alone in the house and returned to work, the ever-present call of orders to be shipped dragging him away. Welcome to stay as long as I pleased, I leaned into the couch cushions with feet propped up on the arm. It was a good space, open and inviting with a mishmash of furniture old and new. Somewhere along the line August had refinished the floors and stained the old knotty pine. It was a place to relax.

  Hard as I tried, my thoughts refused to let me go and I stayed wound.

  Duncan Whitaker. I admired him, his ability to remain collected in the face of chaos, as well as his kindness, inherent goodness, and the way he made me feel safe. Each component a giant part of the total package, and on that subject, inner romantic and I were on the same wavelength.

  It was all too much, I raged, running my fingers through my hair again and again. Finding love was supposed to be the hard part. Connecting with a man on a soul-deep level, learning his intricacies and loving what was on the inside as well as the outside. Dating was the devil’s plaything, and at the end of the day, most women I knew were left crying alone instead of in a meaningful relationship. Here I was, with an amazing man and effortless conversation, but he had pledged himself to someone else.

  Falling in love was easy, I knew. And, in the end, left you shattered.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was time for me to get out of my own way. Easier to think about than actually do, but I was determined to get my mind in a better place. To stop fussing over the things I couldn’t change, namely Duncan and my feelings, and focus on what I could.

  Who knew love would be such a sticky issue?

  “Head in the game, Leda. The cupcake game.” I fluffed my hair and stared at my reflection in the mirror. “The you-are-doing-fine game.”

  In the hushed hours of the morning, when I reconsidered everything August said and found nuance among the lines, I decided it was time for me to focus on my future. My small bakery business had waited too long to be freed from my head and I shouldn’t take a chance on waiting for Essie. Experience aside, I knew the opportunities passed by in a flash if you weren’t willing to take action.

  Those wee hours saw me rising from the bed and sitting down with the computer to do the legwork I’d needed in order to tighten my plans. The spreadsheet grew and expanded, a realistic and working outline to show I was ready to soar. There was no sense in stalling while someone else followed through. Today I would be the eagle instead of the mouse.

  Were my finances in the best place? They could always be better, but I wasn’t about to delay anymore. A loan would get me started down a concrete path.

  I dressed in a power suit in a rich cream to better bring out my coloring. I knew how to dress for the best first impression, and I needed all the help I could get to deal with the bank. Nerves sizzled under my skin to turn my every cell into a lightning rod. Poised to erupt in a shower of sparks.

  There is no reason for you to be worried, my reflection condoled. Just go to the bank with your plan in hand and convince them you deserve a loan. What could go wrong?

  I now had a complete and detailed portfolio for my budding business. Seeing the graphs made it real. Something tangible I could put my hands on.

  Forget all about your lack of sleep. Forget about August, and Isabel, and Duncan. You got this in the bag.

  If I kept procrastinating, I’d be eighty and still saying I wanted to bake cupcakes for a living. Once I’d gone down this road, I could sprint past the initial planning phase. Too much to do and so little time.

  Without a second look in the mirror, I squared my shoulders and drove to town.

  Walking through the bank’s double doors into an air-conditioned hush, I peeked around at the other patrons though no one glanced up. Most of the clerks behind the counter were people I knew, and several had frequented my salon chair. I waved hello to a squat older lady before zooming toward the open desk of the loan officer. I smelled citrus cleaner, a bittersweet smell that reminded me of Deborah.

  The size of the town meant each bank had a single person in charge of loans. My loan officer was a certain Archie Fishman, a thin, balding man whom moments after meeting I recognized as an unfocused sort. Normal people always had some part of their body moving, twitching with unrestrained energy. A foot tapping, a knee bobbing, or fingers fiddling with rings and other jewelry. Archie remained completely still, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had some hint of Asperger’s Syndrome.

  I soon understood it was something else entirely.

  Heels clicked along the marble floor as I approached the desk. “Do you have a moment free to speak to me about a business loan?” I asked before losing my bravery.

  Archie, seated behind the desk, blinked owlishly without moving and glanced up from a stack of papers. “Come again?”

  I flashed him a brilliant smile to keep my hands from twisting around the handle of the small briefcase I carried. My fingers trembled with the strain though I kept my face serene. And pleased.

  “I’d like to speak to you about a small business loan.”

  “Have a seat.” Mr. Fishman stood and indicated the two open chairs before him.

  My success or failure entwined with each thread of the woven seat cushion. I stared at the winding colors, wondering if I picked a thread and pulled, would it give me a better outcome? Or worse? At once my heart constricted and bumps rose on my skin when those lightning rods inside me activated.

  “Thank you.” I sat, my briefcase clutched on my lap and lungs pumping like a swimmer on the last leg of an Olympics race. Immediately I remembered my manners and, self-chastised, said, “How are you today? Doing well?”

  Archie Fishman continued to blink through the bottle-cap lenses of his prescription glasses. I wondered if he’d spent time practicing the maneuver, only his eyes moving while the rest of him remained immobile. “Fine, thank you.”

  “I appreciate your taking the time out of your busy day to speak to me,” I continued.

  If there was one thing I knew, it was how kindness paved more roads than anything else. Mr. Fishman now had a responding grin on his face. Step one, completed.

  “It’s no trouble at all, young lady.”

  “Leda Cox.” I held my hand out as we made the round of introductions, and did my best to smother the bouncing in my gut. The pressing weight in my chest. This was it.

  Archie linked his fingers on the desk. “Miss Cox? Tell me what you’re considering for a loan. What kind of proposal do you have?”

  I took a deep breath before continuing. “I would like to focus my business on specialty cupcakes for any occasion. Decadent and devilish flavors to entice the taste buds.”

  “You are aware the town already boasts a sweet shop?” Archie cleared his throat. “It’s doing quite well, from what I hear. Haven’t been in there myself, but you seem to want the same thing.”

  What, the town can’t handle competition? There are about five art galleries and they are all puttering along fine. And what about the three banks?

  I kept my internal jibber jabber to myself. “Yes, I know. As a small business owner already, I’m aware of the competition. My products will be different. I’d like to implement a farm-to-table approach, using locally sourced ingredients. We would cater to the masses in general, s
ince most of the casual everyday clientele would come from tourism. Those who are looking for a healthy local alternative to the usual sweet fare. My goal is to, with time, branch into catering and perhaps a cupcake food truck for touring and festivals.” I knew I was jabbering. My mouth had a mind of its own and refused to stop.

  After a few more inquiries, Archie asked me to continue, typing my information into his computer. “As the owner, what sort of things will you contribute to running your business?”

  I had to give it to the man—he may look out of place, but when it came to his job, he was on the ball. Score one for Archie. I hadn’t been expecting the question. At once I realized how unprepared I was for the interview. Not everything can be solved by looking pretty. I answered as best I could, pleased when Archie nodded.

  “I see you’ve brought papers,” he said. “I need to see your plan, projected statement of profit and loss, your balance sheet, and recent tax returns.”

  I stilled and reluctantly handed over the pack of papers from my briefcase. “I have everything here. You can see I’ve saved up quite a bit of money from cutting hair, and custom cupcake orders for my customers as well. I’m prepared to use it all as operating capital.”

  Archie clenched the folder, dragging it over and adjusting the set of his glasses. “Let’s see what we have.”

  Refraining from biting my lip, I kept my hands clenched on my lap while he inspected each paper. “I’ve worked up an extensive proposal,” I said when he failed to comment. “I’m prepared for early losses, but allow for growth and future expansion.”

  Archie made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat and continued to peruse the papers. “Who is your accountant?”

  “I don’t have one,” I admitted. “I handle my own finances from home. Have done it for years.” Why had I even come here today, I wondered. It was better to leave now and walk back to the car, get in and take a drive somewhere. Anywhere to escape my oncoming black mood. “I have a list of vendors to contact who are willing to work with me once I receive my business loan. Several local farmers who like the ideas I’ve proposed to them.”

  “What did you pitch them?”

  “I pitched a prearranged fee per month, similar to a farm share. I pay in a certain amount per month and they give me a round of produce.” The idea had seemed smart at the time.

  The sound of agreement did not sound again. Archie came to the last paper before turning back to his computer. A few more clicks on the keyboard and I received my answer.

  “A loan is a risk, Miss Cox.” Those large eyes came around to regard me. Now they were slightly sad yet professional. “The bank must stake its reputation on lending money to a business. This is where good records and personal resources come into play. We must ask about the ability to repay the loan, banking on the investee’s success. Do you understand?”

  He may have a good thirty years on me, but I was no dummy. Despite the hair color. “Yes, I understand.”

  “The computer indicates your credit rating is such that you do not have the means or capability to repay your loan. Good credit, yes, but sometimes good credit is not enough.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mr. Fishman, I know my proposed business will be a success. I’ve already achieved success on a small scale, but to grow, I need more money to invest in the venture, to invest in equipment and location. I’ve run the figures and I believe I’ll have the means to repay each month, including the interest at ten percent.” I pointed to the paperwork, surprised when my hands remained firm. “Run your program again. There must be a mistake.”

  Archie steepled his fingers in front of him. “I’m afraid the answer is no, Miss Cox.” He wasn’t in the game to crush dreams. Logically I knew this, but the rest of me wanted to get up from the chair and slap him for his denial.

  And for the way he studied me from head to toe, determining my worth.

  “You need to understand lenders’ restraints,” he told me. “Many lenders will try to vary the types of loans they offer as well as the businesses they lend to. These lenders want to diversify their portfolios, and Heartwood already boasting a bakery works against you in this case. I want to be up front with you, Miss Cox, and tell you why we are choosing not to do business with you.”

  “Look.” I leaned forward, serious. “I have been working since I was ten. I know what it takes to make a business work and I have the skills and determination to accomplish my goals. Not to mention a killer work ethic. I need a simple twenty-five-thousand-dollar loan to find the building and purchase the equipment. Trust me, the product is worth the investment, and I am also putting everything I’ve saved into it. I’m taking a risk here too.” I reached into my briefcase to retrieve a second folder. “You’ll find a handful of testimonial statements from satisfied locals—”

  He cut off my stream of chatter with a hand. “I’m sorry, but we can’t take your work ethic or testimonial statements into account.” Archie removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses with a cloth from his drawer. The lenses magnified his eyes and now I saw their true size. “That aside, I should also tell you my daughter-in-law...”

  “What about her?”

  “I’m not sure you’re aware, but she works at the Country Store.” Archie shifted in front of me but remained patient. “I believe you’re acquainted with her friend, Miss Isabel Cook.”

  A dull roar echoed in my ears, blotting out the sounds of the room. Something seemed wrong as I acknowledged the silence, no voices rumbling in distant chatter. I heard the cleaving sound of wind even when Archie’s gaze crawled over me. His mouth moved and I caught the echo of words.

  Isabel is a kind girl. Getting married soon too, Kelly tells me. To a real nice man from California.

  Oh. God.

  Friendly advice? Keep on the path you’re going and no one in the state of Virginia will want to lend you money.

  My head caught somewhere between a nod and a roll, the gesture unclear. I fought to process the ramifications of the afternoon. Adrenaline branded the minute, the second, the instant I was turned down for a loan, because Nell had been right. This was a small town, and gossip traveled.

  I took a deep breath and tried to let the constriction in my chest ease. A sudden metallic taste filled my mouth but was gone in another instant. Trying to remain steady, I had an almost overwhelming sense of coming undone and flying out in every direction.

  Archie Fishman turned me down for a loan for no other reason than my connections. My favor to August. He could tell me it was bank policy until he died of old age.

  We both knew better.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I’d never been much for embarrassed, red-faced flushes. Instead, I walked away and kept an even stride when I exited the bank building. Waved to those I knew on the street. The mask stayed in place until I reached my car and, wrenching the front door open, I slid into the desert-like interior with sweat bursting to life beneath my arms.

  “Why?” I groaned. My head dropped to the steering wheel, heated plastic burning a line into my skin. I didn’t care. Too wrapped up in my own sorrows to realize what was happening around me. I’d been more concerned with running from my feelings and hadn’t realized—I risked my integrity. “Stupid woman. You need a kick in the ass. Better yet, a slap on the head.”

  How had I missed connecting the dots? I’d forgotten the interconnectedness of the town. A few bad encounters, some salacious rumors, and it was my head. My future.

  Daughter-in-law. What a harmless term to have such a brutal blow. I knew I should have spoken to Archie, given him some kind of response or threatened to speak to a manager. But I kept silent instead.

  No, that’s not exactly true. Inside, where no one could hear, I was screaming. On the outside, I’d said nothing. I had little constructive speech to offer as a goodbye. Through it all wound the ghost of Nell’s warning.

  “I’ll do better next time,” I muttered in a sort of last ditch effort to keep my spirits high.
There was no other option.

  My father had instilled a firm sense of optimism in me. I knew to keep a clear vision of the future and go toward it with everything I possessed. One day I would have my bakery and sell the best damn cupcakes Mr. Fishman and all the rest at Heartwood United Bank had ever eaten.

  The desire for a good cry reared up and I was ready to head home. Then someone knocked on the window.

  I screeched and practically jumped through the roof, knocking my head on the felted ceiling. Wincing, I grabbed my skull.

  Duncan leaned down, his features shaded, and pressed a hand against the glass. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t been locked in the car and were suffocating. It’s my neighborly duty.”

  Running fingers over my now-rippled skin, with a delightful imprint of the steering wheel molded across my forehead, I turned my grimace in his direction. “It’s self-inflicted, so you should let me suffocate.” I opened the door and a breeze came in, still heated but a relief from the car. Glancing up and up, Duncan and I locked eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I’d been trying to escape him. Not have him see me at my most vulnerable. A swoosh of wooziness came over me.

  Duncan was here.

  “You’re parked across the street from my building.” He pointed over the hood toward the brick one-story. “Do you expect me to ignore you sitting out here alone?”

  He looked too delicious for his own good. In my weakness, I wanted to throw myself on him and lap at the exposed skin. Despite the heat, Duncan wore his habitual suit, in a light dove-gray with a funky tie. Every starched inch stayed in place while I felt like a wilted flower. Depressed and close to tears.

  I rubbed my cheek with the back of my hand. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. You’re too nice to leave me here without stopping by to check on me.” Inner romantic received a glower and harsh words about her subconscious maneuvering. She held up her hands with an “It wasn’t me.”