by Emery Cross
I set the pieces down in a corner of the living room and dropped onto the couch. I’d assemble them later.
Besides replacing the pedal, the kit was the same one I’d practiced on all those years ago. Violet had let me buy it at a very discounted rate.
As a kid with nowhere to go most afternoons, I’d finally found a place to hangout. A garage where three girls got together to play punk music. They didn't seem to mind having a devoted fan even if I was much younger than they were.
Violet, their drummer, switched to the bass guitar and so the drum kit just sat there gathering dust. I bought myself some drumsticks and taught myself to drum using piles of books, or pillows, or whatever was handy.
One day while they were playing, I worked up the nerve to sit down behind the drums and start banging away. I still remembered the stunned look on their faces.
When they started to get gigs in the eighteen and over clubs, they insisted I get a fake ID and then tried to hide my youth beneath loads of eyeliner and false eyelashes and ridiculously large decal tattoos which they plastered on my arms. And it worked, or more likely club managers knew they were being hoodwinked and didn't much care, an all girl punk band brought in males.
Eventually we lined up a steady Friday night gig. The club had a separate room with a DJ and a bar for those of legal age, but they were lax at carding, so it wasn't unusual to see eighteen and nineteen year olds with beer bottles in their hands.
My built-in Rowley Ford radar had alerted me the moment he'd strode into that club. He was three beers in before he noticed me, but when he did he hauled himself up onto the stage right in the middle of a set. He didn't give me the option of leaving in a dignified manner, instead he just plucked me off my stool and slung me over his shoulder.
I pulled in a tight breath. All my memories of him were coming back in vivid color. This was a huge mistake. I needed to get out of here before he got home. And then my practical side asserted itself. I needed a place to stay to catch my breath. Now if I could just neutralize my extreme attraction to Rowley. Ha, I thought, that would take a miracle.
CHAPTER 2
HARPER
I WOKE UP TO MY PHONE alarm. I'd been sweating; my cheek was stuck to the cushion. I peeled myself off the leather sofa. I'd been too tired to put sheets on the bed. And I'd fallen asleep with damp hair. It was a tangled mess that smelled of chlorine.
Morning was far from my finest part of the day. I stumbled into the kitchen hoping I could scrounge up some coffee.
I opened every cupboard. The only items I found were an iron frying pan and an ancient glass blender with inch thick walls that probably took as much electricity to run as the small air-conditioning unit which was fitted into one of the living room windows.
I cupped water from the tap and drank. Then I took a quick survey of the house in the daylight. My initial assessment was correct. It was really cute, with wood floors, and built-in bookshelves, and a stained glass lamp hanging over the kitchen table.
I took a quick shower, leaning against the tiles with my eyes half-closed. I turned off the water and pushed back the curtain. I'd forgotten to bring in a towel.
I swiped off as much water as I could with my hands and then went in search of a towel. By the time I found my only bath sheet in one of my hastily packed boxes, I was nearly dry.
Thankfully, I'd discovered the pieces of my uniform during my search. My bakery outfit consisted of a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with the bakery's logo screen-printed on the pocket.
I combed the snarls out of my hair, put a coat of mascara on, and was out the door.
When I'd taken this job I wasn't expecting to stick around long, well, long for me, at any rate. I'd been there for six months, which was a record. For once, I'd found something I actually enjoyed doing.
I made a quick stop at the convenience store for coffee.
Stuart glanced up from the giant mixer as I entered the bakery through the back door. His eyes were bleary. "You're late."
I checked my phone. It was dead. "By a minute. Two at the most," I guessed. The only clock was hanging beside the cash register in the front of the shop.
He turned the speed up on the mixer. I wanted to tell him it probably wasn't safe to operate that machine when fifty percent of his blood was probably made up of vodka, but I knew better. He would chew me out for an hour if I dared.
Stuart was a bear to work for, but he was also a talented baker. When he'd first hired me on I'd expected to be filling pink boxes with cupcakes and cookies and taking the customers' money, but instead Stuart had insisted I get my hands doughy.
When he offered me full time hours, I used it as an excuse to drop out of college.
Stuart switched the mixer off. "Lunch break," he said and removed his apron. "You'll need to pour this into the cake pans. I've already greased and floured them."
Stuart always took an early lunch at the same place, the bar and grill around the corner. On the way out the door, he stopped and checked his image in the brass-bottomed frying pan hanging from the ceiling. He smoothed his hair and mustache. I wondered if there was a waitress he was trying to impress, or maybe he just liked looking good while drinking his vodka and tonics.
I hurried to pour the cake batter into the pans and stick the pans into the oven. I was going to take advantage of Stuart's absence and try my hand at the cheesecake bites he insisted he was only capable of making.
I combined sugar, melted butter, and graham cracker crumbs and then began pressing the mixture into the mini muffin tins.
Tracy, the perky blonde Stuart had hired to man the counter, pushed aside the curtain that separated the work area from the front of the shop. "That guy is here again." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
“Okay. Thanks.” Jon Clayton was a frequent customer, but he only bought coffee. I was never sure why. Stuart just bought whatever coffee was on sale.
Last week, Jon had mentioned he’d be losing his pastry chef soon and that I should consider taking the job. I figured he was just flirting, or teasing.
I pulled off the food prep gloves and discarded them and then slipped off my apron. I removed the hairnet and tucked it into my jeans pocket before going out to the counter. I took a deep breath and tried to tamp down my hopes.
Jon always seemed to be wearing his shades. I recalled seeing his eyes once before. They were deep set and a little mean looking. He must have realized he looked handsomer with sunglasses.
"Hey, Harper, you know that position we were talking about? Can you start like yesterday?"
Keep cool. Don’t seem too desperate. "I'd need to give Stuart notice, but I can manage both jobs for two weeks."
"Okay," he said, but he looked a little unsure.
It just didn't feel right to leave my mentor in the lurch even if he was an obnoxious guy.
"Pick you up tonight and we can do a walk through, give you a feel for the kitchen. Then we'll stop at that new joint in the village. They have a creative pastry menu. Not saying I want to go that way, with all those experimental desserts, but it wouldn’t hurt to add a few more choices.”
I hesitated for a moment. I didn't know how to read the offer. Why all the one on one time and why at night? I shrugged inwardly. If it turned out he was expecting perks by giving me the job I would just call for an Uber.
I wrote down my new address on the back of an order card.
"See you around eight," he said.
On the way home from work, I stopped at the mall and purchased a simple black dress. He'd called it a joint, but the Blue Forest Lodge was a fairly exclusive restaurant. It seemed an odd place to take me. The menu had nothing in common with Jon's restaurant. He served gourmet burgers and over-sized diner desserts; mile-high meringue pies and quadruple layered cakes.
The driveway was empty when I pulled up in front of the guesthouse. I wondered how long Rowley's shift ran for. Did he sleep at the station? Of course, it was entirely possible that he was doing something other than fire
fighting. Maybe he and Kat were already back together again.
Just thinking about Kat made my stomach do a flip flop. I had a fleeting image of myself in that ridiculous prom dress she'd so generously bestowed upon me, standing at the window and watching for Rowley to roll up in a stretch limo.
I quickly shut down that memory of that silly, gullible girl. If Kat was a fixture again in Rowley's life, I was just going to have to get used to seeing her around.
I grabbed the pink box I'd brought from the bakery and the bag with my dress and hurried inside. I plugged in my dead phone. There were texts from a couple of my bandmates about the upcoming show, and three from Rowley. All big brother types of things.
I rummaged in my boxes for my shower and makeup sundries. I would go understated, opting for just mascara and a touch of rose lipstick, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, and stud earrings. Just so there was no confusion, I wanted the look to say that this was a business meeting.
After dressing, I puttered around the house, finally getting around to putting sheets on the bed so I wouldn't have to wake up glued to the leather couch again.
I heard Rowley's truck coming up the driveway and the garage door opening. I waited a bit before grabbing up the pink box and heading down to the big house.
I knocked on the screen and then chewed my lip nervously as I waited for him to answer. He appeared in a pair of worn jeans and a thin, over-washed t-shirt that hugged his amazing chest.
No easy, sexy smile at the sight of me. He looked tense. Was he regretting his generous offer already?
He pushed the screen open.
"Do you still love apple pie?" I asked as I offered the box to him.
He took it from my hands. "Why didn't you answer my texts?"
"I only just read them. My phone battery ran out and I didn't have my charger with me," I said. "I hope having me here doesn't make you feel responsible for me? I don't want to become a hassle for you."
He frowned. "Just charge your phone next time, okay?"
He lifted the box slightly. "You bake this?"
"Yup," I said.
"Are you going to have a piece with me?"
"I can't. My new boss is picking me up to take me to dinner."
His eyes narrowed.
"It’s not a date. He wants to take me to dinner to check out the competition. Well, not really the competition. Very different menus, really." Jeez, stop rambling, I told myself, but that skeptical look he was giving me just made me talk faster. "The other restaurant has a daring pastry chef. He does that experimental stuff. Flavored bubbles and aromatic smoke and wisps of sugar, and such. And, well, Jon, that's my new boss, wanted to check out his desserts. I guess he wants to up his game in the dessert depart—"
I glanced over my shoulder as a car pulled into the driveway. "That's him," I said, glad for the excuse to leave the stoop. "Hope you enjoy the pie."
I pivoted on the top step, ready to hustle to the car in my sensible black pumps when Rowley reached out and grabbed my arm.
"Come inside, Harper. He can make that short walk to the door."
I did as he asked, but it didn't stop me from complaining about it. "Why? So you can interrogate him?"
He chose not to answer.
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. "If you'd been my actual brother I would never have gone on a single date."
He frowned. "You said it wasn't a date."
"It's not. But you know what I mean."
I stood back a little from the screen door. I could see Jon step out of the car and put on his blazer. No sunglasses at night, it seemed.
He was a fastidious dresser. Everything about his look seemed studied, vain somehow. He wore his hair slicked back and just long enough to brush the top of his collar. And I'd never seen him without stubble, but it was always the same thickness and length, so that level of scruffiness was obviously a choice. I imagined a lot of women would find him attractive, but he was not my type. My type was hovering behind me.
Jon buttoned his jacket as he approached.
Rowley made a point of being the one to open the screen door to him.
"Hi, Jon," I said, trying to squeeze into Jon's frame of vision. "Meet Rowley Ford. My landlord."
Rowley side-eyed me.
"You always take your new employees out?" was the first thing out of his mouth.
I stifled a gasp.
Jon's eyes widened for a second, and then he threw me an accusatory look as if this were my fault. "Th-this is a fact-finding mission to see what's on offer at a rival restaurant." Rowley had him stuttering.
I slipped around Rowley and skirted around Jon on the stoop and started heading down the driveway toward the car, sure that Jon would follow.
"Hey, babe," Rowley called after me. "You aren't going without your phone."
Trying to escape Rowley's embarrassing inquisition had me leaving empty-handed, without even my purse or keys.
"I'll be right back," I told Jon and strode purposefully toward the back house to gather my things.
I half-expected Rowley to still be looming in his doorway when I headed back down the driveway, but thankfully he'd gone inside. But I was still so flustered I smacked my shin on the door jamb climbing into the car.
"What the hell. That's your landlord?" Jon asked as I shut the car door.
I rubbed my leg. "My brother's best friend, actually. He's letting me stay in his guesthouse."
"Southern boy," Jon said with a sneer. "Surprised he's not sitting on the front porch with a shotgun."
He was being rude, but I had to admit there was some truth to what he was saying. I recalled the first time I'd seen Rowley. He was playing basketball in the park by himself. He was new to the area, new to the state actually. Rowley's gentlemanly, southern charm, had made him an instant hit with the girls, and his down-home ruggedness had won over the boys.
Within hours a crowd of boys had joined him on the basketball court, and the girls were giggling and cheering him on from the sidelines. But under that appealing exterior beat the heart of a country boy who could be dangerous when tested. I'd witnessed it only once (or heard it to be more accurate), but I knew I would never forget it.
It was the night he'd snatched me off the stage and thrown me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. A couple of drunks were trying to prevent him from leaving. One of them grabbed at me. He yanked on my boot and then my arm, trying to pull me off Rowley's shoulder.
The bar was deathly silent, the band hadn't resumed playing, and I was certain I heard a bone break just before the man squealed and released me. I could hear the shouts of the man's friend coming to his rescue. Rowley refused to put me down and used a single hand to clear his path. I couldn't see what was happening from my angle, but I heard the sickening fist on flesh sounds.
Jon's voice, nasal and high, cut through my memory.
"So what has that old guy been teaching you at the bakery?"
I'd gone over this with him many times before. I patiently listed all of the pastries I was fairly skilled at baking and then inflated my resume a little by including two items, which I hadn't quite perfected; cake pops and the cheesecake bites I'd made for the first time that day.
"Only a few of those skills will translate," he said. "Margo will have to show you the ropes."
Jon seemed restless; he fiddled with the radio, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, and kept plucking at his seatbelt as if it were too tight. I had a feeling Rowley had something to do with his agitation.
One thing for sure, Jon’s brief meeting with my self-appointed guardian had not made for an auspicious beginning. Jon drove right past his restaurant. I guessed the walk through wasn't happening.
The so-called competitor's restaurant took up a quarter of a block in the quaint downtown village. Not that long ago it had been a smokehouse grill. The new owners had kept most of the iconic decor, the heavy tables, the red leather seating, the wood paneling, but they'd tricked it up some. Actually, it loo
ked like pranksters had decorated it. They'd installed a glass-fronted bar with glass shelving and filled it with lava lamps in a rainbow of colors. Someone had put a red clown nose on the deer head and draped its antlers with leis. The rustic wood paneling had been stenciled with a strange mix of quotes from comedians and famous intellectuals. The restaurant was the strangest mishmash of elements. I couldn't understand its popularity.
The hostess walked us back to a corner booth. It was a little snug, and Jon sat closer than seemed necessary.
The menu was eclectic as well. They still offered barbecued ribs, but mostly there were exotic meats and seafood dishes. I cringed as Jon snapped his fingers to get the waiter's attention and then ordered a martini and, without asking me, one of the candied house specialties.
Jon inspected the wine and dessert menu, entering notes on his smartphone. Our drinks arrived. Jon's was a classic martini with three olives on a toothpick. Mine, on the other hand, looked like a drink from hell. It was bright blue. I took a reluctant sip. It tasted worse than it looked, like burnt marshmallows, sour candies, and gin.
After Jon downed a second martini, he started loosening his tie. He was definitely looking less rattled. He gestured toward my blue cocktail.
"You're not drinking."
I stirred the straw through the sickly liquid and then took a dutiful sip. I suffered through a couple more swallows before giving up.
I discreetly pushed the glass away. "It's a little sweet."
"Impossible, a baker who finds something too sweet," he said with a laugh.
He snapped his fingers imperiously again.
"What can I get you, sir," the waiter asked, clearly peeved.
"A glass of white wine, and you can take this blue mess away." Jon gestured arrogantly in the direction of my drink.
Thank God, we were only there for the dessert. I couldn't imagine sitting through a whole meal with the man.
The dessert menu had a split personality, half the dishes were conventional, pies and cakes and sundaes, and half sounded like lab experiments. Jon selected from both menus.