Just One Kiss

by Isabel Sharpe

  Tom.

  What was he doing here?

  He looked good. He’d lost weight, had color, probably from a vacation with what’s-er-name in St. Thomas, his favorite destination. Had he made love to her out on the warm sand at sundown? Watched the stars come out, more than Angela had ever seen before? Had the cooling air washed over their naked bodies? Did he tell her she was and always would be the only woman for him?

  Angela wanted to cry. And she wanted to find a large blunt object to brain him with.

  Divorce was so peaceful.

  “Hi, Ange.”

  There was nothing she hated more than the sound of that nickname on his lips. “Hi, Tom. I’m surprised to see you.”

  “Yeah, well.” He looked around, dark eyes taking in her shop, the tables and chairs she’d bought secondhand and painted black and burgundy herself, the counter and stools, the display cases of pastry, cakes and cookies, the racks of bread and rolls. Angela found herself holding her breath, awaiting his judgment, and told herself to grow a pair. What did she care what he thought?

  Too much. Much too much. She could not wait for the day when he no longer mattered, when his opinion was so much blah-blah-blah fouling the air. Three years since they divorced. How much longer would she have to wait?

  “Nice place.” He nodded, hands perching on his hips. “You’ve done well.”

  Ah, there it was, the royal seal of approval. She hated herself for even the small swell of pleasure. “Thanks. Did you want something?”

  “I came to talk to you. But while I’m here…” He stepped closer to the case, examining the neatly arranged goods, which Angela was satisfied to note had been healthily depleted by a solid Saturday morning of business.

  She walked a few steps to her left and gestured proudly to the assortment of international pastries. Here was someone who’d definitely appreciate what she’d done. “Would you like to try an éclair? These are filled with chocolate lavender pastry cream. Those there with hazelnut coffee cream and cocoa nubs. Or I have black-pepper fruit tarts, passion-fruit—”

  “I’ll try an éclair. Chocolate lavender. And a chocolate chunk cookie.” He reached for his wallet and she waved him off.

  “My treat. You want a box?”

  “I’ll eat them now.” He patted his stomach. “Annabel and I are training for a triathlon this summer. I can manage the calories.”

  Triathlon. Of course. The Princess was in perfect shape, too. Angela would rather walk on live coals.

  “You look great.” She picked out the prettiest éclair and put it on an extra round of waxed paper and a napkin before handing it to him. Tom had a horror of getting his hands sticky.

  “Thanks. I don’t have you around to tempt me with bakery stuff anymore. It’s been easy keeping the weight down.”

  Ah, there it was. His weight problem had been her fault. “Annabel isn’t a cook?”

  “We go out most of the time.”

  “Nice.” He loved going out. Some evenings Angela had practically begged him to stay in. What kind of married couple ignored life at home?

  It was good he found someone who fit him better.

  There. That was about as charitable as she could be right now. Someday she’d do better.

  “Not bad.” He was chewing his first bite of éclair. “Interesting taste.”

  Interesting. That wasn’t quite the rapturous response she’d hoped for. “Did you come for something other than calories?”

  “Yeah.” He wiped his fingers on the napkin. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”

  “We’re not talking now?” They were alone in the shop. Scott wasn’t due for another half hour. Alice was back in the kitchen finishing a batch of baguette dough. Angela didn’t want Tom in the tiny intimacy of her office.

  “Okay.” He took another huge bite of éclair. When he ate like that, as if he’d been starving for weeks, it meant he was nervous. Whatever Tom had to say, he didn’t think she’d like hearing it. She didn’t, either.

  “You know Annabel and I have been dating for a while…”

  “You’re getting married.” Pain shot through her. She-succeeded-where-I-failed pain, which was infuriatingly irrational. Not like Angela would ever want Tom back.

  “Yes.” He wolfed the rest of the éclair, wiped his fingers again and picked up the cookie while he was still chewing. “We’re having a fall wedding.”

  “Congratulations, Tom. I’m happy for you.” She was happy for him. And also still wanted that blunt object.

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. But I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  She nodded, managing to keep her gaze calm and steady. “That was nice of you, Tom.”

  It was nice. And nice to be reminded that there was a good person inside somewhere, and that she hadn’t been a total idiot marrying him.

  Only three-quarters of one.

  “Good. Well…” He bit into the cookie. She could feel his relief having gotten through that errand of mercy without having to endure a scene, and could feel his need to flee as soon as possible, having gotten through it. Fine by her.

  “Thanks for coming by, Tom. I really—”

  “Mmm.” He held up the cookie, nearly halved by the size of the bite he’d taken. “This is where you should be focusing. This is your business’s future. Leave the fancy stuff to someone who can really manage it, someone who really lives there. That’s not you.”

  Somehow she kept the smile that had invited itself onto her features during his praise of the cookie. “I don’t think—”

  “Are you doing sales calls? Lots of them? Every day?”

  Immediately she felt defensive. She hated sales calls, and while she knew they were important for growing her business, she tended to avoid them. Which he’d know, because he knew her, and because she wasn’t answering his question right away. “I’ve done enough for me. I have a few restaur—”

  “With these?” He held up the cookie.

  “Right now I’m concentrating on the international pastry side of the bus—”

  “Mistake. You’re all-American and should stay in this country. Don’t reach beyond yourself, Angie. You’ve always done that. You’re doing it with this bakery, you did it by…” He stopped, looking trapped.

  “Marrying you?”

  “No. No, of course not.” He shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth, chewed furiously. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “No.” He swallowed and sighed. “I don’t think you do. We never could communicate. That was our problem.”

  Yeah, they had trouble communicating. He told her what she should be like, and if she protested, he’d roll his eyes as if he’d been saddled with defective merchandise. When she did try to change, he’d cut down her every effort, exactly as he’d just done, with the result that she felt hopelessly inadequate through their relationship and short marriage. And was still working to get out from under the weight of his disapproval, damn him. And her.

  “Well, I guess it’s better we’re not together anymore.” She spoke flatly, struggling with anger and regret. “I hope Annabel will make you happy.”

  “Thanks, Ange.” His features softened, he took a few steps toward her.

  No, no hugging. Go away. “’Bye Tom! Have a great wedding!”

  He took the hint, gave an awkward wave and left the shop.

  Relief. More than relief—sudden satisfaction—because as she stared at his retreating figure, Angela noticed a hairless circle on the back of his head, perfectly natural, but something Tom had dreaded with near terror. Imagine that! Something in the world not obeying Tom Hulfish’s wishes.

  Angela managed a giggle and the giggle lightened her mood some. This was good. Recovery this soon after seeing him was a big step forward. Last time she’d bawled like a baby the minute his back was turned. This time she was only slightly shaky.

  Progress.

  She bent to pick up a dropped napkin; her doorbell sang
out. A group of college kids, probably just awake, looking for breakfast at lunchtime. She served them, happy for further distraction. By the time they left, she was practically herself again—until she glanced out her door into the hallway beyond and for the second time that morning, did a double take.

  The bike guy. Back. Striding into her shop. Looking severe.

  Uh-oh. Was he going to yell at her about the chocolate cupcake? Tell her she’d ruined the perfect surprise he’d planned for a special lady?

  That would suck.

  She put on her usual welcoming smile, nerves making her mouth stretch with the effort, while the rest of her noted that he was still the hottest man she’d seen in a long, long time.

  The hottest man she’d seen in a long, long time did something completely unexpected then. He smiled back.

  Oh. My. The lingering emotions over the encounter with Tom were gone. Smashed. Obliterated.

  In fact…Tom who?

  The grin turned Bike Guy into a different person. Friendly. Boyish. Vital. And so sexy she practically had to grab for the counter to stay upright. Wind-tousled hair, light blue eyes, sexy indentations at the corners of his mouth, good strong chin with just the barest hint of a cleft…

  “Hi, Angela.”

  “Hello…” She trailed pointedly, cuing him for his name.

  “I got my cupcakes home last night. But…” He looked comically perplexed. “Apparently there was a mistake. I ordered six white-on-white and I got seven.”

  “Seven!?” She was all sweet innocence. Well, no, not all innocence. Just the parts he could see. “That is terrible.”

  “It gets worse. The seventh cupcake was chocolate.”

  “Chocolate.” She faked astonishment, then frowned. “That’s not like me, to get an order wrong. I’m pretty sure you’re mistaken.”

  “No, mistake. Six white, one chocolate.”

  “I really don’t think…” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, what proof do you have? Pictures? A notarized statement? Crumbs?”

  He put his hands to his hips, drawing attention—her attention anyway—to his broad chest. “The evidence has been tampered with. Destroyed. In fact, eaten.”

  “No evidence, case dismissed.” She mimicked a gavel banging, then tipped her head to one side and realized with a thrill that he was fun as well as hot, and that she was flirting with him, which felt really, really good. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, good.” She gave a nod of satisfaction. “That’s what you were supposed to do.”

  “Aha.” He took a step toward the counter, blue eyes fixed on her. “You admit it.”

  She made herself look sweetly blank. “Admit what?”

  Oh, it had been way, way too long since she’d done this. Her flirt muscles were unfurling, stretching, shaking off the dust. This was totally fun. Now she had to get Bonnie out flirting with her. Someone other than Seth.

  “I came back to thank you.” He pulled restlessly at the zipper on his bike shirt. “You were right. I’m a chocolate guy.”

  “I knew it.” She smiled, wishing rather carnally that he’d yank the zipper all the way down, contenting herself instead with taking in the lean physique, displayed so beautifully in skin-tight, black, red and blue material. Tom might have lost weight, but next to this graceful Titan, his stocky build looked stunted.

  “So how did the birthday boy, or—” she mixed a meaningful pause with a sidelong glance “—girl, like the white cupcakes?”

  His face shut down again. “It was a celebration in absentia.”

  “Oh, I see.” No, she didn’t see at all. Someone was away? Gone? Dead? Was it a family member? Friend? Girlfriend or ex-girlfriend? Wife or ex-wife? She’d ask, but he was looking miserable again, and she wanted the sexy smiling guy back.

  “What’s your name?”

  He brought his eyes back to hers. Somehow she managed not to pass out. Or giggle. Or shriek and clutch her chest. God he was gorgeous.

  “Sorry. I’m Daniel.” He stepped forward and extended his hand across the case. “Daniel Flynn.”

  Daniel. Good name. She loved when people didn’t shorten good names to one-syllable nicknames. Christopher. Benjamin. Alexander. And Daniel …

  She took his hand, warm and strong with nice long fingers. Men’s hands turned her on. And men’s shoulders. And biceps. And butts. Chests were nice, too, and there was nothing wrong with strong thighs or decently shaped feet.

  From where she was standing it looked as if Daniel might have it all.

  “It’s nice to see you again. I’m glad you liked the chocolate cupcake. Anything I can get for you today?”

  A long, naked back rub?

  “Oh.” He glanced around the cases. “I wasn’t really planning…”

  “Greek pastry? Italian? French?”

  His eyes wandered to her bread shelf. “Maybe a loaf of something.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Oatmeal.”

  “Mine, too.” She glanced quickly at the loaves. “I’m out here, but I have more in the back, can you wait a second?”

  “Sure.”

  Angela started to turn, when an idea occurred to her. If she got the bread, came back and sold it to him, he’d have run out of reasons to be there. Which would give them maybe five more minutes to talk before he left her with no idea when or if she’d see him again. She needed more time to work around to asking if he was involved with anyone. Maybe not the greatest move—asking out a customer—but Daniel had finally woken her long-dormant interest in dating, and well…here he was. She didn’t know any other guys she’d want to date. Jack and Seth were both sexy, but Seth belonged with Bonnie, though he was too dense to figure it out, and Jack wasn’t her type, nor she his. Besides, going after either of them would be like trying to date one of her brothers.

  She turned back to find Daniel studying her curiously. Not surprising since she’d taken one step toward retrieving his bread and then had frozen as if she’d gone into a coma.

  “Would you like to come back and see what goes on in a bakery kitchen?” She gave an awkward laugh. Oof. The invitation came out sounding even lamer than it was. A bakery kitchen? Like she was offering him a glimpse of the Holy Grail?

  “Sure.” He walked around the counter and joined her without hesitation.

  Oh, my. Oh, gosh. He smelled really, really good, and given that she worked among some of the best smells in the world, that was really saying something. She wanted to touch him pretty much everywhere, but mostly she wanted to run her hands down his arms, shoulder to wrist, to see if they were as rock hard as they looked. Not since Tom had she had such a strong physical reaction to a man. And if that weren’t a huge red flag right there, she didn’t know what would be.

  Except this time, she was just going to enjoy the attraction as the primal sexual response it was. This time she was not going to start dressing up simple lust with emotions it didn’t deserve, not assign to basic animal reaction any happy-ever-after importance or expectations of True Love. Fool her once, shame on her, fool her twice, she was a total moron.

  She led him into her kitchen, feeling a swell of pride, hoping he could see its beauty the way she did. Sacks of flour stacked two and three feet high. Bags of seeds, sugars, specialty flours and containers of nuts and dried fruits. Her fifty-kilo dough mixer, which Alice would be bent over later in the day; the gleaming metal work table where José shaped loaves; her triple-deck oven; tall metal cooling racks where Frank did the baking—all secondhand, but working perfectly.

  “This is great.” He stood in the center of the room, tall, vividly dressed, masculine, looking foreign. Angela had gotten so used to seeing everyone in flour-dusted aprons and jeans. “How does it all work?”

  “I have a great staff.” She counted on her fingers. “Alice mixes the doughs, José shapes them, Frank bakes and Scott comes here and there to do random cleaning and help man the counter when he’s not in school.”

  He t
urned from perusing the bags of specialty flours. “And you slack off all day.”

  “I do. But when I’m not doing that, I develop new recipes, do most of the pastry baking, make up the schedule, balance the books, maintain inventory, try to get new accounts, put out fires…” She knocked wood. “Figuratively speaking.”

  “Is this what you always wanted to do?”

  “I’ve always loved baking. But it wasn’t until my honeymoon…” She practically choked on the words, then noticed his glance flicking to her left hand and realized what that sounded like. “I mean my ex-honeymoon. I mean my honeymoon with my ex.”

  Smooth, Angela.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve moved on.” Though from the sound of her voice she was still bitter, a sound she needed to change if she were going to do this dating thing again.

  “So you decided to be a baker during your honeymoon…”

  “I was always a baker. Always had a dream of owning my own place. But in Europe I became really obsessed. I couldn’t go to enough of the shops over there. When we got home, I got a job at a bakery and learned the business. When Jack came to the rest of us with the idea of buying a building together, I jumped at it.”

  “Jack? Rest of who?”

  Angela made herself slow down. “Jack Shea has the photography studio down the hall. All the business owners at Come to Your Senses went to the U of Washington Seattle and graduated four years ago. We live in the apartments upstairs.”

  “Okay, I get it now.” He ran his hand along the edge of her work table. Such great hands. “Must be nice to have friends around. Starting a business is tough.”

  “Yes, it’s a huge plus.” She gave a little laugh. “I guess that makes us friends with benefits.”

  This attempt at a joke fell as flat as her first croissant. Now he probably thought they were all sleeping together. So much for trying to let him know she was available. “How about you? What do you do? Oh, here, try this.”

  She handed him a piece of her chocolate-orange pistachio baklava, a new recipe she had high hopes for.