I sure as hell would have made a timeline. It was time to start thinking like my adversary.
"The late duke specified that you must be married by midnight of the date one month from the date of his death. In this case, Valentine's Day."
Damn.
"Pacific Standard Time, I hope." I tried to keep calm and match Thorne's demeanor while I plotted a way to escape this fate. "I would hate to be caught by a technicality."
"Exactly so, Pacific Standard Time."
"I'm not even seeing anyone. What does the Dead Duke want me to do? Advertise for a bride?" I laughed. The whole situation was ridiculous.
"Surely, Your Grace, getting a bride shouldn't be a difficulty for Seattle's Second Hottest Bachelor?" He had the traces of a tease in his voice.
Did Thorne actually have a sense of humor?
Damn that magazine article that was sitting open on my table. Thorne must have been able to read upside down.
"Less than a month isn't even enough time for a bride-to-be to get a decent wedding gown, let alone plan a wedding. Assuming there was already a bride-to-be." I shook my head. "The Dead Duke wants me to snap up just any bride?"
I snorted, losing my amusement at the situation. There were adventures. And there were disasters. This was shaping up to be the latter. "He's not as discriminating as I would have expected about the mother of his future heirs!
"Isn't a year more traditional and a more reasonable amount of time to find a wife? If there's ever a timeline stipulated in stories and movies, it's always a year. What's the damn hurry?" I was hoping to buy some time.
"I'm a young man," I argued. "I need more than a damn month to find the right girl and fall in love." Not that that seemed likely. "Even a matchmaking service will need more than that."
Thorne nodded. "I appreciate your concerns. The late duke was a cautious man. Because you are the last male Feldhem, there is no time. If something should happen to you…"
He let the unsaid hang in the air a moment. "Being in love has never been a prerequisite for aristocratic British marriages. Lineage, breeding, family name, and money are much more important."
I sighed, heavily, wondering how I could outwit him.
"Once again, you underestimate the late duke," Thorne said. "He was supremely concerned about the mother of his continuing line. Before his death, he, in essence, picked out your bride."
"What the hell!"
Thorne ignored my outburst. "The late duke wants his bloodline to merge with his American first wife's, as he believes it should have in the first place. His will stipulates you must marry a single, childbearing woman from her line." He paused. "There is only one woman left who meets the requirements."
Of course there is. Fantastic. An arranged marriage. What's next?
"So who is this woman?" I said, hoping she would be as against marrying a stranger as I was. And not a complete mess.
Haley Hamilton
I needed a hero. But I wasn't likely to find one inside The Blackberry Bakery. I'd worked here a full year already and none had come charging in. Or even sauntered in. I would take sauntering. Sure.
Our customers leaned toward mostly female. A lot of the trendy crowd of girls who worked at Flashionista just a few blocks away. They were all gorgeous, thin, and dressed to kill any aspirations I had of landing one of the few hetero guys who came through our doors. Or frequented the local happy hour at the bar down the street.
Since the big tech boom in Seattle, we'd had an influx of nerdy, techie guys who earned good money. Supposedly guys now outnumbered available girls in Seattle. Desperate guys eager to impress the girls. For all the good it did me. They were all congregated in a section of Seattle ten blocks east. In my area of town, men were still scarce.
It wasn't my finest hour. I was barefaced. My hair was in a loose bun and net. I was covered in flour. My forearm had a raised, blistered welt from a hot tray of muffins that got a little too close as it came out of the oven. My finger was bandaged—too exuberant with a paring knife while slicing apples for the apple tarts. And I was sweaty and exhausted.
At one point I had loved baking, right? Who had talked me into ditching my business degree and pursuing baking as anything more than a hobby?
Oh, right. That would be me. Baking had been so much fun before pastry school. Back in the days I'd baked with lots of love for friends and family. And experimented with my own creativity.
But doing anything for a job sucked the fun out of it. Work was called work for a reason. Commercial baking required early hours that went against my constitution, and demanded physical strength. After my first month on the job, I'd canceled my gym membership. I'd lifted so much weight at the bakery that I was in danger of looking like one of those female bodybuilders, all brawn and veiny muscles.
Okay, that was a slight exaggeration. But not much. I could make a muscle that at least a few guys would envy. My usually scrawny thighs had definition and were getting almost too large for my skinny jeans. And yesterday someone had called me "mister."
And now I'd been reduced to wanting a hero for nothing more than the mundane task of all this heavy lifting. I'd been up since two a.m. I was dead on my feet. Where was my knight on a fiery steed riding in to take me away from all this?
The lunch rush was lasting later than usual.
Sally, the owner, hustled into the kitchen. "I hate flu season! Hate it! Another one of the girls called in sick." She glanced around the bakery desperately.
I ducked. I knew what she was after. Poof! She wanted to turn a baker into a waitress. I'd put myself through college waitressing. I hated it. I would rather sling fifty-pound bags of flour and heavy trays of baked goods, even if it meant another pan burn. The office world was looking better and better. I turned my back to Sally a fraction of a second too late.
"Haley!"
"Tag! You're it." My fellow baker Cody sniggered and nudged me with his elbow.
Cody was like six feet and two-fifty, a former lineman. He could lift trays all day long.
"Shut your ugly mug," I said, completely devoid of affection.
He laughed outright.
Sally tossed me a waitress apron with the Blackberry logo. "You'll have to do."
Carrying heavy trays of food was no more fun or less physical work than working in the kitchen. Sally didn't know that next to Mary, who was fifty if she was a day, I was probably the most experienced waitress in her employ. I hadn't helped with the impression. Had I intentionally done a mediocre job the few times I'd been called on to fill in?
I wouldn't go that far. But I hadn't exactly tried to excel, either. Do a job badly enough and you won't be called on to do it again. But I didn't want to get fired, either. It was a delicate balance.
I rushed to the bathroom and changed out of my baker's whites.
When Mary saw me coming, she grimaced. "You have flour on your nose." She shook her head. "Wipe it off and work the counter."
I wiped the tip of my nose with the back of my hand. "Better?"
She rolled her eyes. "You could take a little trouble with your appearance."
At two a.m. Was she kidding? To work in the back in the middle of hot ovens? All the bakers did the same thing. Rolled out of bed and into their whites. Put their hair in a net, grabbed a cup of coffee, and ran out the door. What masochist bothered with makeup that would only melt off in the heat?
Working the counter was the grunt work job out front in customer land. You got a lot of work and no tips to augment your meager wage.
The Blackberry Bakery was part bakery and part café. It was open from six a.m. to three p.m. daily. We served sandwiches, soup, coffee, tea, and baked goods made fresh in the back. Customers lined up in front of a long glass bakery case, picked their pastry, ordered their other food, and wound around the L-shaped counter to the register to pay. They took their pastry, found a table, and waited for their order to be delivered. Not the most elegant system, but it worked.
The Blackberry was one of the
top bakeries in the city, known particularly for its pastries and breads. It provided baked goods to many of the top Seattle restaurants. But it also made custom cakes for special occasions and weddings. None of the prestige of the bakery made working the counter any more fun or exciting. Hungry people were grumps. And people on limited lunch hours or coffee breaks, even testier.
The line was long and filled with fashionable Flashionistas. Girls who'd taken the time to apply makeup and do their hair for work. I was taking and filling orders from the pastry case so fast, the line became a blur and a cloud of perfume. I no longer saw individual faces.
The bakery was loud with voices, laughter, and the clinking of ceramic plates and flatware.
"Welcome to the Blackberry. What can I get you?" I said to the next person in line without looking up.
"A flat white."
At the sound of the deep, almost melodic male voice, I looked up into the dark brown smiling eyes of Riggins Feldhem and time stood still. Like literally stood still.
It was an earth-shattering moment. One of those you feel only once in a lifetime. Our eyes met. And held. His were searching and intimate and crinkled at the edges as he smiled. He studied me so intently, it took my breath away. My heart raced. The timeline of my life had somehow shifted. I felt it.
It was one of those moments I dreamed about. A chance meeting with a billionaire. A tall, dark, hot billionaire who occasionally came into the bakery. Making the dream not all that farfetched. The kind of moment that made me almost automatically reach up to pat my hair like an old lady from the fifties. And here I was without even a touch of clear lip gloss on.
"And one of those delicious chocolate mint brownies." His eyes danced as he studied me.
Riggins always looked like the world amused him. Which intrigued me. Today there was the slightest edge to him, as if he was looking at me with some purpose in mind. With real interest in who I was. Like he was really trying to see me, the real me. To say it was flattering was an understatement. Being looked at like that by a man was what women dreamed of.
"If they're any good today," he said, bringing me back to the moment.
I felt ridiculously happy. And nervous. Flustered.
"They're delicious. The best. I made them myself."
Too braggy? I hoped not. I was nervous as I smiled back at him, trying to look flirty without being obvious enough to catch Sally's attention. I was in an apron. How does one look flirty in a work apron?
"Confident," he said. "I like that. You take pride in your work."
"Why not? I was top of my class in pastry school." Bragging again. Why did I keep bragging?
"You've convinced me. One chocolate mint brownie made by"—he glanced at my nametag—"Haley, with confidence."
And love. Or maybe it was only a deep crush on him. I knew he loved chocolate mint brownies. He sent his admin in for them on a regular basis. I always baked them with him in mind.
His grin spread into a full smile. He turned to an older guy next to him. "What will you have, Thorne?"
I hadn't noticed the other guy before.
"The brownies are delicious." Riggins winked at me.
"Tea and one of those biscuits will do." The older guy pointed to a tray of cookies in the case. He had a delightful British accent.
I didn't want to let them go. But I was tongue-tied and the line was growing behind them, buzzing with impatience. I couldn't think of any way to hold them.
Riggins Feldhem had winked at me. I felt way too happy about that.
I got the British guy the best "biscuit" I could find. And served Riggins the perfect brownie right from the center of the pan. And reluctantly passed them off to the cashier.
If my life had been a fairytale, Riggins would have asked me out. But it wasn't. Instead, he paid and took a table by the window. I had to force myself to concentrate on my work and not stare at his table all the time.
I looked up once later to catch my breath and saw Riggins and the older guy still sitting, heads bent close in conversation, glancing at the pastry counter when they thought I wasn't looking.
Riggins was a celebrity. And single. Sally had given us strict instructions to treat him like a normal person. That included keeping the customers from gawking at him as much as possible. And absolutely no flirting with him. Or asking him for pictures. No selfies with him in the background "photo-bombing" the shot. Anyone who violated her rules was subject to immediate firing.
I sometimes wondered if Riggins had paid her off for the protection. She had the same rules for all the Flash execs who came in. But Riggins was the only one who made my pulse race. I usually only caught glimpses of him from the kitchen.
He was a semi-regular on weekdays. I had never gotten to serve him before. More often than not, though, he sent his OA, Jennifer, in to do his bidding and pick up his favorite sandwich and pastry. I knew all his favorites. I took extra care making the chocolate mint brownies and blackberry muffins because I knew those were his favorites.
He was sipping his flat white and staring at me.
Wait? Staring at me? I almost looked around to see who was standing next to me. He couldn't be staring at me. That had to be my imagination. Riggins Feldhem was consistently on Seattle's Hottest Bachelors list. He might have qualified as a hero in my opinion, if I'd ever thought I had even the faintest prayer of catching his attention. But why would he notice me?
Although, he had winked at me.
He was totally hot. Always dressed in the latest fashions. And he was probably ten years older than I was. There was nothing about me that would attract a guy like him. Certainly not compared to the sea of gorgeous Flashionista girls around him all day long at the office, and currently at nearby tables here.
Despite all that, he flustered me. I felt myself blush as he studied me. Did I still have flour on my nose? I wiped it again to make sure.
I turned my attention back to the line of customers, still feeling his gaze on me. Every time I looked up, some combination of Riggins and the older guy he was with was watching me. With curiosity. I didn't understand any of it.
Quitting time couldn't come soon enough.
The older guy got a call and got up to take it outside, where it was quieter. The steady line of customers began to slow. I felt almost like I could breathe again as I bent down to get the last brownie out the case for an old couple who wanted two forks so they could share. I turned behind me to grab the forks from the silverware tray.
Sally came out of the kitchen with two plates of food. She looked harried. She thrust the plates into my hands. "Take these to table four."
"That couple needs their forks," I said, nodding behind me.
"I'll get them." She gave me a gentle shove toward the dining area.
Table four was right next to Riggins. It was tight between tables, especially when they were all filled and the customers had moved chairs around. Four chatting Flashionistas had pulled chairs around a two-person table in my path. None of the other routes to table four looked any better.
I went for it, figuring I could shoot the gap. I was halfway through when one of the girls slid back, right into me. Upsetting the delicate balance of the plates. And me.
The plates tipped forward. The soup sloshed. The sandwiches slid forward. I overcorrected, trying to keep from dumping the lunches I was carrying on an unsuspecting Flashionista, or worse, Riggins. And caught the toe of my tennis shoe in the metal scrollwork of the foot of a chair. The soup bowls slid off and hit the floor with a crash of breaking ceramics. Followed by the sandwiches, the plates, and me.
I landed on my knees and palms in the middle of a puddle of chicken soup. Right at that moment, it wasn't curing my ills.
My pants were soaked. My blouse was splattered. My hair was coming out of my bun. I blew my bangs out of my face, blushing to the roots of my colorful hair.
The room went quiet. Someone stifled a laugh. Someone else tittered, giving everyone else permission to laugh at my mishap. I blushed.
I just hoped no one had caught my fall on their phone and was in the middle of submitting it to America's Funniest Home Videos. From deep in my embarrassment, I heard the scrape of a chair scooting back.
I looked up to see a long-fingered hand reaching down to me. A strong, masculine hand cuffed in a finally tailored dress shirt that peeked beneath a gray suit.
"Take my hand. Let me help you up." Riggins Feldhem smiled down at me.
His smile encouraged me. His grip was firm. His hand was almost scorching as he pulled me to my feet. My heart raced. I was so embarrassed. And thrilled at the same time.
He handed me his cloth napkin and looked around for help. "We need a mop over here." He motioned to Mary, who was frowning.
He turned back to me. "It wasn't your fault, Haley. You were accidentally tripped as a chair scooted out."
Up close, he smelled incredible. Who needed a fiery steed when a hero like Riggins had helped me up?
"I can take you away from all this." Riggins Feldhem grinned at me, his dark, sexy eyes snapping.
Chapter 3
Riggins
This girl with chicken soup on her knees and no makeup was incredibly cute, even if it was hard at this moment to imagine she was the girl from the impeccable bloodline. The next Duchess of Witham. There was something touching about her fresh-faced innocence and the way she blushed. Something that reminded me of the first girl I'd ever loved, before she became more jaded about love than I was.
I was grateful that the Dead Duke hadn't sent me off to England to woo a British noblewoman, one who knew how a duke was supposed to act. Who wouldn't have given me that hero-worship look simply because I'd offered her a hand up from an embarrassing situation. I was much more comfortable with an American girl.
Pragmatically, it would have been better for at least one of us to have had some training in how to behave in British society. Been raised by a proper British nanny and sent to an exclusive public school. Someone who traveled in the right circles and knew the right high-society people. Someone who grew up living the life.
The Billionaire Duke (The Billionaire Duke #1) Page 3