Sugar and Spice: 3 Contemporary Romances

by Jenny Jacobs

  But of course there had been delay after delay in completing the project, so Greta found herself putting the final touches in the dining room half an hour before the party was scheduled to start. She’d just sent the electrician on his way and now the lights were working. She wasn’t going to take bets on how long that would last, but she’d laid in a supply of candles and matches.

  She glanced at her watch. The movers still hadn’t turned up with the last bench for the dining room table, but they’d called and promised they were en route. She’d made a frantic phone call to Michael earlier, who had promised that while he had hurried to finish the bench, he had not rushed the job and it would not collapse in the middle of the meal. Her subsequent calls to him had gone directly to voice mail, which was annoying but also very sensible of him.

  Goodness, she was nervous, as if it were her dinner party, the first she’d ever thrown.

  The caterers were already in the kitchen. The living room, which had been ready for a week, looked lovely. But of course it was a dinner party, so it was the dining room that would be on display, and the dining room wasn’t finished yet. And she wasn’t ready either. She took a deep breath. She’d brought her dress, knowing she’d be cutting it fine and that she probably wouldn’t have time to go home and change, then come all the way back across town. It would only take a moment to change. It would all work out fine, and if it didn’t she would blame the failure on Ian.

  Finally the doorbell rang. The movers had arrived with the final piece. She showed them how to arrange it, took a step back to make sure everything was in place, shooed them off, then scooted upstairs to change. She pulled on the black cocktail dress that set off her coloring so well, then touched up her makeup and fixed her hair. She checked her look in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Ian had not understood the point of the mirror, but she was glad she’d overruled him. She squinted at her reflection. The skirt was too short. She tugged at the hem. She’d told Tess at the time they bought it but Tess hadn’t listened. Tess had insisted it was perfect. Now Greta could see it was definitely too short. It was too late to do anything about it. At least she’d been working out and had the legs for it. She slipped into her pumps and darted back downstairs.

  Glancing into the dining room, she snapped her fingers. She’d found a hammered copper fire pit for the center of the table. It was still out in her car. Requisitioning one of the catering staff, she instructed him to haul it in and set it in the center of the monstrosity. The catering assistant did as she asked, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Appetizers and cocktails were to be served in the living room, dinner in here. She’d told Ian not to have the table set. She wanted the full visual impact of the room to hit the guests as they sat down. The caterer would plate in the kitchen and the waiters would bring the utensils and filled glasses of water and wine at the same time as the food. It would be impressive, a real conversation piece, which was exactly what Ian wanted.

  She fretted with the fire pit until it was positioned perfectly, then went into the kitchen to borrow matches. She lit the fire. She stepped back. Perfect. Primal, masculine, earthy. Maybe not the most relaxing place to have at a meal but you certainly wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. She reached forward to make another adjustment to the fire pit.

  “Wow,” a husky voice said from the doorway.

  She started, so absorbed in her task that she’d forgotten Ian was wandering around, supervising. So far he’d had the excellent sense to stay out of her way. She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. The room was dim but she could see him moving toward her like a big cat on the prowl.

  “Wow?” she said, her tone a query.

  “Wow,” he said again, and he wasn’t talking about the effect of the finally finished dining room. She was suddenly aware of the shortness of the cocktail dress and wished she’d opted for an ankle-length evening gown instead.

  As he strolled closer to her, she backed into the table, clutching the edge with her fingers. Was he going to kiss her? She wanted him to — but she didn’t want him to. “Ian,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t — I can’t — ”

  “Greta. Look at me.”

  Reluctantly, she lifted her chin and looked at him.

  “I know you trust me,” he said.

  She nodded. She trusted him. He’d never given her a reason not to.

  “So it must be you that you don’t trust.”

  She sucked a startled breath in. Horrified, she felt tears welling in her eyes. She didn’t want to be wrong again. She didn’t want to choose poorly again. But how would she ever know?

  “You trust me to stop,” he said. “That’s all that matters between us. You trust me not to hurt you. So you don’t have to worry, right? Because I won’t hurt you. And I won’t let you hurt you. Okay?”

  For an argument it was not the most logical she had ever heard. But that didn’t matter at the moment. For a moment, it seemed possible that he was right, and —

  “I think — ” Ian began, but she never got to hear what he thought because the doorbell rang.

  “Guests, guests,” she said, and ran out of the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  His eyes never stopped following her around the room. He kept standing by her, touching her, as if to stake his claim. She tried to cover her discomfort with polite smiles. His guests were polite and interesting but she didn’t really remember much about them. She was too aware of Ian’s eyes watching her every move. He had made it clear he thought they belonged together, and she hadn’t told him no, and now he was jealous of her. Was he going to criticize how she’d talked too much to Geoffrey, his single colleague? Had he decided he disapproved of the too-short cocktail dress after all?

  This wasn’t going to work. She couldn’t live like that again. When the party was over, she’d tell him so, and she would never have to see him again or talk to him again. Her job here was finished.

  Somehow, the hours passed and no one seemed to notice her upset or how she picked at her meal because of her roiling stomach.

  When the last of the guests had gone, Ian put a hand on her arm and said, “Please stay.” She knew they might as well have it out, so she nodded and wished wholeheartedly that Tess and Michael had come.

  Finally, the caterer bid him goodnight, and she heard Ian shut and lock the front door. She rubbed her arms with her hands, moving towards the fireplace. He came back into the room and she lifted her head. A cold lump of misery started in her chest. This was going to be hard — and awful.

  Ian walked across the room and dropped a kiss on her cheek. She flinched but didn’t turn to look at him.

  “Greta, I — ”

  “Don’t start,” she said bitterly.

  “Start what?” he asked.

  “I saw you looking at me,” she said. “Every time I talked to a man, you were there, staring at me across the room. No, I wasn’t flirting with any of them. No, I’m not going to — ”

  “Greta, you can flirt with the whole neighborhood if you want,” he said.

  “I — what?” she said, swinging around to face him.

  “Well, maybe not the whole neighborhood. The dogs and kids, you’d probably need to leave them out.”

  “I — you don’t — I don’t understand. I thought you wanted us to — ?”

  “Sure.”

  Understanding dawned and her breath came easily for the first time all evening. “You’re not jealous.”

  “Of what? If you don’t want to be with me, then what good does thumping my chest about it do? You’re not the kind of woman who’ll cheat on a man she makes a commitment to.” He shrugged as if that said it all.

  She stared at him. It couldn’t possibly be that simple, could it? Did he really believe that? It was true, of course, but that didn’t mean he beli
eved it.

  “I just — you kept watching me,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “And you kept creeping up behind me like you were trying to catch me doing or saying something I shouldn’t. Or to show that I was with you and everyone needed to keep their hands off.”

  “Creeping up behind you?” Ian raised a brow. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were taking it that way.” He shrugged again. “I like being near you, Greta. That’s all. I’m not your first husband.”

  “My only husband,” Greta said. “Fortunately now my ex-husband.”

  Ian grinned. “I referred to him as your first husband because I plan on being your second one.”

  Greta’s jaw dropped.

  “Right. Insufferable, arrogant, taking a lot for granted,” he said, even though she hadn’t responded. “We can discuss the wedding date later.”

  “We can, can we?” Greta asked icily, though she couldn’t help the glow of warmth that started in the pit of her stomach.

  “Sure. Found the woman I want finally, so I think it’s time I settled down.”

  “It is, is it?” she said.

  His slipped his arms around her waist. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him. His gray eyes approved of her; they always had. This was Ian, not the figure she had made up out of fear and doubt. This Ian would never let her down.

  “Look, Greta. I love you. I trust that you’ll do the right thing — for yourself and for us.” He smiled and said, “I was staring at you all night because you’re beautiful and I love you. You have any idea how those two facts can focus a man’s attention on a woman?”

  “That’s it? You’ve been staring at me and breathing down my neck all night because you love me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You gave me a Barcalounger. And you’re surprised I want to marry you?”

  “I haven’t said yes yet,” she reminded him.

  “You will. You know you love me.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “You let me keep the Barcalounger,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her.

  About the Author

  Jenny Jacobs, a writer living in the Midwest, is still kissing frogs, but likes to write about people finding their happily ever after — even if they have to go through some difficulties to get there. Her previous titles for Crimson Romance include The Winter Promise and Sadie’s Story. Find out more about her at www.jennyjacobsbooks.com.

  The Matchmaker Meets Her Match

  Jenny Jacobs,

  author of Enlisted by Love and The Winter Promise

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Jenny Jacobs.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6417-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6417-8

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6418-3

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6418-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 1

  Rilka Árpád — who had always been convinced her grandmother had stolen her last name from a Hungarian ruling dynasty rather than coming by it in any of the traditional ways — looked at the fidgeting woman seated across the table from her and restrained herself from saying, “Relax!”

  All of her years of experience had taught her that no one relaxed upon being commanded to do so. Still, the fidgeting would make it hard for the interview to run smoothly. Not that the interviews ever ran smoothly. Rilka used to blame it on the clients but by now she was pretty sure it was her fault, or, to be charitable, it was the fault of the conditions that brought people here in the first place.

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked, rising from her chair and walking to the stove in the corner where a teakettle simmered. She always met clients in the kitchen, because it was a cheerful, homey place, and she wanted to put them at ease. We’re just having a chat, the kitchen said, or was supposed to say. Today the gray skies outside had overwhelmed the cheerful red-checked curtains and even the vase of perky yellow daffodils on the table. A Midwestern thunderstorm was in the offing and not even the power of daffodils could stop it. The gray day matched Rilka’s mood. The rain would come. The rain would stay. The end.

  Stop that, she told herself.

  “No, thank you,” the client said. She had crossed her legs and was jiggling her foot but at least she wasn’t tapping the tabletop impatiently.

  Rilka had to concentrate a moment to remember what she’d asked that had been declined. Oh, right. Tea. “Soda?” she persisted, putting a tea bag in a mug for herself and adding the hot water. “Milk? Juice?” Valium? Vodka? She wasn’t sure if that was for her or for the client.

  “Water is fine, please.”

  That had not been one of the offers but it was simple enough to provide so Rilka did not demur. A moment later, she was back at the lace-covered table, handing a tumbler of water to her guest and setting the mug of tea at her own place.

  “Now,” she said, glancing casually at the planner open on the table. Today’s nine o’clock was Julia Fulks. Right. Now she could quit thinking of her as the client and start thinking of her as Julia. The notecard clipped to the planner page gave Julia’s age and occupation and a few terse descriptions in neat bullets under the heading “requirements.” Rilka was organized, you could say that about her.

  “Julia. Tell me what’s going on.” Rilka had tried many different ways to approach the question, from “Why do you have trouble getting dates?” to “What seems to be the problem?” and had settled on “Tell me what’s going on” as being innocuous and nonthreatening while at the same time issuing a clear invitation to talk. She had found that, more than anything, her clients just needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen. Well, and who would tell them flat-out lies, like there’s someone for everyone and nothing ventured, nothing gained. Lately Rilka hadn’t been able to get the lies past her throat.

  She glanced up from the note card and raised an inquiring brow at Julia.

  “I’m fat,” Julia said bluntly.

  It was true. Rilka had noted that from the moment she’d clapped eyes on Julia at the front door. That had been — she took a discreet look at the daisy clock on the wall — seven minutes ago. Seemed longer.

  Julia was beautiful, no doubt. But big. No way to disguise or camouflage her bigness. Not statuesque, not diva-esque. Big. She wore beautifully tailored clothes, and had her light brown hair expensively highlighted and cut in an attractive blunt style. Her well-cared-for hands had been done in a French manicure. She wore a gentle but distinctive scent that probably cost five hundred bucks an ounce. The overall impact was of a woman who took good care of herself and had the money to do it. But she was fat. No getting around that.

  “And?” Rilka asked with an encouraging smile.

  Julie made an impatient sound, as if Rilka should have been able to figure this out on her own. “No one wants to date a fat girl,” Julia said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her very large chest. “And yes, I know I need
to lose weight. But I’ve tried. And it’s not like I’m trying to pick up Brad Pitt. I’m okay with someone, you know, like me. It’s just — I’m discouraged.”

  “Well,” said Rilka, sipping her tea. If we were all supermodels, we’d still manage to screw it up. That did not seem a helpful path for a matchmaker to travel down, so she said, “Let’s dispose of one belief you have that isn’t true.” Immediately she felt Julia should probably sue her for practicing psychiatry without a license.

  “Which is?” Julia sounded scornful, but willing to believe.

  I need to charge these people more and retire to Tahiti. Before they find out I’m just selling something, too.

  “Your false belief is that men don’t date fat women.” Rilka winced at her own sentence. Maybe she could have found a gentler way to put it. Men date women of all types might have worked. Some men only require that the woman have a pulse. No. Stick with men date women of all types. She cleared her throat. “Men date women of all types.”

  Julia didn’t look convinced, so Rilka got up from her chair again and walked over to the bookshelf-lined breakfast nook. She ran her fingers along the series of leather-bound albums housed on the middle shelf until she found the one she wanted.

  “Here we go,” she said, bringing the book back to the table. She pulled her chair around so she could sit next to Julia. She flipped open the photo album and tapped a picture. “There. That’s Sarah. Look how happy she is. That’s a pretty wedding gown, isn’t it?”

  Julie nodded reluctantly, her lips flattening in a tight line. Rilka knew what she was thinking. She was thinking Sarah had snagged the only man in the country who would date a fat woman. But that wasn’t true.

  Rilka scraped her chair back for the third time in ten minutes. Now she hunted in the desk under the window. She withdrew an envelope containing a card and a snapshot and brought them over to the table. She showed the photo to Julia.