“I’m sorry.” Why she apologized, she didn’t know.
He frowned. Was he mad that she’d turned him down?
The weight of the food sent Olivia into motion. “Grandma’s sleeping in the car, so I need to get going. I’ll put this in the kitchen where I did last time, if that’s all right. Unless you don’t plan on eating soon. If not, I can put it in the fridge.”
His gaze pierced her. Not in a threatening manner, but full of intensity. This brooding Blake was not the guy she knew.
He yanked off his work gloves. “Fridge is fine. I’ll get the door.”
Holding her elbow in the slightest of touches, he guided her up the steps and opened the screen door.
Scooby stood from his bed in the corner, tail wagging, nose sniffing in the air.
Olivia tried not to gawk at the Mayflower stove on her way to the fridge, but she failed. The smooth cast iron was begging to be touched.
“Thanks for the food.” Blake stepped to the sink and washed his hands. Olivia couldn’t help but stare at them, whitened with suds. There wasn’t anything extraordinary about them. They were average in length with short, squared nails on each finger. An equal combination of soft skin and callouses. They were capable hands. Capable of hard work and gentle caressing. Capable of fighting off danger or cradling a baby.
Whoa. Where had that come from?
Olivia turned away, mentally slapping herself. She had to get some sleep tonight before she completely lost her faculties. “Uh, you’re welcome. See you around.”
Another mental slap for a squeaky voice. The screen door clapped behind her, followed by the thump of Blake’s boots and another clap.
Scooby waited at the stairs, whining for attention.
Olivia bent to rub his neck before fleeing to the car. The guilt of disappointing Blake ate her alive. Just past the steps, she turned around, continuing her walk backwards. “The mock website is up. You should check it out. If you don’t have Internet, you’re welcome to stop by and use ours.” Her face heated. Why was she tripping all over herself because a guy washed his hands? Stupid.
Blake nodded.
Olivia turned and finished her trek to the car. She didn’t have to look at Blake to know he was watching her. She could feel his eyes on her.
Thrilling.
Disturbing.
She was certifiably crazy. Blake was entitled to a bad mood. Why should a little brooding—even if it was dark and a little sexy—twist her insides? Jet her pulse?
More importantly, what happened to cause Blake to turn inside out and act completely out of character? He wasn’t one of her clients, and they were barely friends. She shouldn’t care. Couldn’t care.
Oh, but care she did.
11
If punctuality was the politeness of kings, Arianne Anderson was a queen.
Olivia looked from her friend to the clock then back again. Every Thursday, like clockwork.
Arianne’s polka-dot rain boots squeaked on the linoleum as she shed her coat, hung it on a hook by the bakery’s entrance, and walked to a barstool. “I’m here for an appointment with Ms. Hudson.”
Olivia smirked. “You’re six hours early.”
“And you look like a dewy flower. What’s up?” Arianne raised her elbows on the counter to see Olivia’s entire outfit.
“A dewy flower. Can’t say I’ve ever been called that before.”
“Looks to me like you purposefully matched your blush and lipstick to your pink blouse. Who’s the bee?” Arianne wiggled her eyebrows.
“I’m confused.”
“You’re the flower, so—”
“Who’s the bee, I gotcha.” Olivia leaned one arm on the counter and propped the other on her hip. “Can’t a girl just feel like dressing up?”
“Of course, but usually, at your age, said feeling is caused by a man.”
“Are you calling me old?”
“Old enough.”
“Pick your poison.”
“Surprise me.” Arianne clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m loving the retro apron, by the way. Very strategic.”
With a playful scowl, Olivia slipped on poly gloves and reached into the display case. The local women’s club was meeting in the back corner. Several members clustered around a woman with a tablet, all dressed in red and purple with large hats and feather boas. They cackled and howled over something on the screen, making Olivia smile. She was glad the locals were using the bakery to fellowship.
Olivia set a plate and fork in front of Arianne. “Lemon-raspberry wedding cake with marzipan frosting.”
“Mmm. You’re the best.”
“I know.” Olivia went for a napkin. “How are things in the world of wedded bliss?”
“Business is good. In my personal life, we had a scare in the emergency room last weekend.” Arianne took a bite. “This is amazing.”
Olivia grabbed a cleaning rag. “What happened?”
“Emma came home from school sick. Pneumococcal pneumonia. She’d been feeling puny for a few days, but we never suspected anything that serious.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Better. She’s on a long-term antibiotic and is only going to school half-days. It’ll be a slow recovery, but she’s a strong girl. I think Huck’s blaming himself.”
Olivia held up a finger and filled a to-go order for a customer. She waited until the woman left before continuing the conversation. “Why would Huck feel responsible?”
Arianne swallowed her bite of cake and pointed to the coffee machine. “I’m a terrible wife who freaked out because this illness is a huge deal for a transplant patient.” She sighed. “And because my downfall is blaming others when unexpected events happen in my life.”
Olivia poured her coffee. “You’re a control freak.”
Arianne sucked in a breath. “I am not.”
Olivia raised the foam cup in the air to emphasize her point.
“OK, maybe I am.”
The women’s club were clustered by the door, grabbing their umbrellas and coats from the hooks.
Olivia raised a hand. “Bye, ladies. Thanks for coming in.”
Fingers wiggled back before they filed out the door, bringing in a rush of cool, damp air.
Olivia leaned her elbows on the counter, grateful they could have this conversation alone. “You’re afraid of falling apart, so you micromanage to bind anxiety.” She smiled at her friend to soften the blow.
Arianne’s forehead knotted. “I don’t like surprises.”
“Not the bad ones anyway.”
“I know I do this, so why do I keep doing it?”
Olivia took a seat next to her friend. “A lot of adult control issues stem from childhood. A chaotic home, early abandonment, a parent who abuses drugs or alcohol.”
“My mom died from leukemia when I was seven. My dad was never the same after that. I became mother hen to my little sister.”
“There you have it.”
“How do I stop?”
“Unfortunately, you’ll probably carry those tendencies the rest of your life. They’re branded on you. It’ll take work, but you’ll have to train yourself to function differently. Start by relinquishing your hold on little things—chores, planning an event, petty arguments. Remind yourself if things don’t go your way, the world will keep spinning. Then work your way up to the big things.” Olivia laid her hand on Arianne’s arm and softened her voice. “Like getting pregnant.”
Arianne inhaled, as if Olivia had punched her in the stomach. She nodded. “Let go, and let God.” She exhaled. “I know He’s in control and His plans are perfect. I hate that I struggle believing it sometimes.”
Olivia turned away before Arianne could see the sheen in her own eyes. She was such a hypocrite.
“What did you do before you moved here? Career wise?”
Olivia froze. “I…kept busy.”
Silence reined for a few moments.
“Like the way you’re keeping busy rearranging the de
sserts in the display case to avoid answering?”
“Maybe.”
“Eat a cookie.”
“That was random.”
“When I eat here, I spill my secrets. Have a cookie.”
Olivia shrugged. “I’m immune to my own charms.”
Arianne stood and perused the case, eyes squinted. “That one right there.” She pointed to a thick cookie the size of her hand. “If I have to walk back there and get it myself, I will. You have no customers besides me at the moment, so take a break, grab a snack, and sit.”
“Control freak.”
Arianne returned to her cake. “So I am. But I know there’s more to you than vanilla frosting, and I have a feeling you’re going at things alone. Talk to me.”
Olivia obeyed. Not because she wanted to confess her life story, but because it had been a really long time since someone had looked at her deep enough to notice her needs. And actually care.
“I’m worn out. Grandma’s been keeping me up most nights. I’m helping on the town project, working long hours…”
“Have you considered live-in help?”
“As much as I hate to, I guess I’m going to have to consider that possibility.” Olivia nibbled the cookie. “That’s good.” She took a bigger bite.
“What kind is it?”
“Chocolate chip coconut.”
“I’ll take two for the road.”
Olivia’s stomach growled. She pressed a hand against it. “I didn’t even realize I was hungry.”
“You’re overworked.” Arianne pointed at her. “Self-inflicted.” She cocked her head. “Are you trying to stay so busy you forget your troubles?”
Olivia twisted her lips.
“Been there. Done that. Now, back to my earlier question. What was your career back in Indiana?”
Rats.
Olivia opened her mouth. Closed it.
Arianne nudged Olivia’s knee with her own.
“I’m a certified mental health therapist.”
“I knew it!” Arianne looked around and lowered her voice. “You’re too good at helping others to be anything else. What brought you here?” Arianne patted the counter. “Wait, let me guess. You…fell in love with one of your patients.”
“Gack.” Olivia chuckled. “Don’t buy into the stigma of the job. That rarely happens.” She took another bite. “I reached a dead end in my life and needed to go another direction. Baking has always been therapeutic for me, and Grandma needed help. Here I am.”
Arianne ate the last of her cake and pushed her plate away. “A dead end street is a great place to turn around.” She caressed Olivia’s arm. “I’m glad you ended up here.”
Emotion rose in Olivia’s chest. “Please don’t share my secret. The customers might stop buying if they think the magic isn’t in my desserts.”
Arianne moved her thumb and pointer finger over her mouth like a zipper. “When life gives you nuts, make trail mix.”
They laughed.
The door to the bakery blew open and a man stepped through, bringing a spray of rain inside with him and interrupting their conversation.
Olivia’s body went on full alert.
The door closed, and Blake swept the hood from his head. “It’s a lot sunnier in here than it is out there.” He stood on the mat and removed his jacket, then hung it on the rack. His dark blue shirt, a muted southwestern pattern, was tucked in, revealing a leather belt.
Olivia squelched the desire to run her fingertips on his sleeve to see if the material was flannel, even if the pattern was not. “Hey.” That was not her breathy voice. Well, it was, but only from the dry cookie. Except her cookies weren’t dry.
He wiped his boots on the rug. “I brought you some samples to look over if you have a minute.”
“Sure.” Olivia popped up off the stool and threw the remaining cookie into the trash.
“Blake?” Arianne stood and slung her purse strap over her shoulder.
“Oh, hey, Arianne.” Blake threw up a hand. “How’s Emma?”
“Doing better. She’s back home.”
Olivia fiddled with her apron strings. “You two know each other?”
Arianne opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. “Blake used to own the building my bridal boutique is in. He gave Huck a good deal on it.”
Of course he did, because Blake had yet to have any flaws. “Whatcha got?” Olivia indicated the small bag in his hands.
Mist clung to the dark hair at his forehead where the wind had blown it under his hood. Even with a foot between them she could feel the heat radiating off his body. And, my goodness, the man smelled better than her kitchen. Heat flushed her insides. Where had this sudden and unwanted attraction come from?
Arianne gave a knowing smirk and took her precious time sliding the cash across the counter.
“You said you wanted the bookshelf to be white.” Blake pulled out three paint sample squares. “You wouldn’t believe how many shades of white there are. Anyway, if you want to keep it simple you can pick from matte, semi-gloss, or glossy.” He handed Olivia the samples.
“Um…” These decisions were too hard with him hovering over her, and a romance-addict analyzing her every move. “Glossy is fine.”
“Great.” He tucked that card in his back pocket. “As for trim,” he dug around in the bag and pulled out several small pieces of wood about two inches long. “This will go at the top and bottom of the bookcase. There’s crown molding,” he lined two strips on the counter, “cove,” one more, “and ornamental.”
Three choices on the ornamental alone. Six in all. And why did Arianne have that goofy grin on her face? “I like this one.” Olivia held up a strip of crown molding. Simple. Easy to clean.
“Renovations?” Arianne dropped her wallet back into her purse and reached for her coat.
Olivia busied herself putting Arianne’s money into the register. “Every business in town is making changes in hopes to draw in tourists. We’re reinventing ourselves. Blake is helping me here.”
“Good move. I hear Blake is very talented with his hands.”
He shrugged. “I enjoy making things.”
Modest. And ignorant to innuendos, thank heavens.
“Aren’t you meeting with a client in twenty minutes?” Olivia handed Arianne a bag with three cookies and widened her eyes in a please-agree-and-leave look.
Arianne glanced at her watch. “Thanks for reminding me. Good to see you, Blake.”
“Bye, Arianne. Take care.”
Arianne slipped her arms into her coat, covered her head with her hood, and stepped halfway out the door. “The roads are slick.” Arianne winked at Olivia. “Bee careful.”
Flowers. Bees. Hilarious.
Blake’s brow knotted.
“Where were we?” Olivia joined him and held her hand out for the bag.
“The sand table. But, now that she’s gone, I need to say something.” Feet shoulder width apart, one hand in his pocket, Blake ran his other hand over the back of his head.
Oh, boy.
“I’m sorry for my gruff behavior Saturday.”
Whew.
“I’d gotten some bad news that, well, put me in a foul mood. I’m sorry.”
Then it wasn’t her rejection of his dinner offer? Good. “I understand. No worries.” She smiled to solidify their truce. And got a little lost in his eyes. What kind of news could’ve rattled such an easy-going guy?
The corner of Blake’s mouth curled. His fingertips brushed her forearm.
“Sand tables.” Olivia jerked away, the spell broken. “Let’s talk sand tables.”
Because that was a much safer topic than where her mind had been heading. Everyone had problems. That didn’t mean she had to fix them. She was a baker now. Not a therapist. And certainly not a relationship expert.
13
Olivia pulled into the garage, peering at the empty black sports car parked next to the house. She didn’t recognize the vehicle and couldn’t make out the license plat
e from this angle. “Were you expecting company?”
Grandma stopped humming and opened her eyes. “We have company.”
Yes, they did. Leery of who would stop by unannounced at dusk, and where they were on the property, Olivia turned off the engine, secured her pepper spray, and readied her cell phone to dial 911. Her measures might be extreme for this remote area, but the habits of a single woman living and working in a big city die hard.
They got out of the car, and Olivia scouted the perimeter of the house. The outdoor lights were on, something Olivia was positive she’d turned off this morning. Whoever was here had to be inside.
A chill ran the length of her spine. Who else would have access to the house?
Pepper spray at the ready, she turned the knob. Unlocked.
“Stay behind me,” Olivia whispered, wedging herself between Grandma and the door.
How would she ever get Grandma to safety if this visitor was a threat? The woman wasn’t physically able to run, and her slow reaction time might cost them precious seconds.
Arm raised in the air, Olivia flung open the door and lunged inside. The sight of the tall, barrel-chested man stopped her cold. “Dad?” She dropped her arm to her side, dreading their visitor for an entirely different reason now.
Dad pointed to her pepper spray. “This is Stone Harbor, Livi, not the inner-city.”
Her father was so good at warm and fuzzy. She dropped the pepper spray back into her purse, closed the front door, and slipped off her shoes.
“Mom.” Dad leaned in to kiss Grandma’s cheek. He assessed her from head to toe. His brows knotted with each pass.
Grandma shrank into herself, keeping close to Olivia. Olivia put her arm around Grandma’s waist. “It’s all right, Grandma. This is my dad. Your son.”
Dad tugged at the beltline of his khakis.
Grandma frowned, deepening the lines around her mouth. “My son?”
“Your son,” Olivia and her dad said in unison.
Grandma cocked her head, and after a moment her eyes glossed over with tears. “Jacob?”
Dad stiffened and backed away, his face like granite. “Jonathan. I’m John.”
How to Stir a Baker's Heart Page 7