Falling for You

by Travis, Stacy

  “Who the hell knows? All I can say is I think I shamed these guys into honoring their contracts with you, but you’d better watch your back. If someone wants to undercut you and is aggressively going after your business, this probably isn’t the last you’ll hear from them.”

  Intuitively, I knew he was right, but I didn’t like hearing him confirm that fact out loud. “Thanks, Blake.”

  “Sure thing. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  I felt depressed and in over my head, which was a new feeling. Maybe I’d just been lucky not to have been challenged by a serious competitor up until now, but it left me sorely unprepared as to what to do.

  After I hung up with Blake, I immediately called my sister, Sarah. She’d be able to set me straight.

  Sarah had been my unofficial partner in the business for the past few years when I’d expanded from just being a bread shop to having contracts with dozens of restaurants and a few small grocery stores.

  She was a professor at Berkeley in physics with a subspecialty in something obscure that involved welding, but the woman was a genius with accounting and numbers and had whipped my bookkeeping into shape in mere hours when I thought I was going to lose my mind.

  I knew I could afford to lose a few contracts and keep everything I had going. But there was no way to know how aggressive my mysterious competitor planned on being. What if all my restaurant clients bailed? Was someone actually trying to run me out of business?

  Sarah would know whether the trend I was seeing was a blip or a big problem.

  “Hey,” she answered my FaceTime call on the first ring and I could see she was in her office on campus. It was a wood-paneled space with a brown desk. When she first got hired at Berkeley, she joked that the office made her panel crazy, but eventually she stopped noticing.

  It always made me do a double take when I first saw Sarah’s face on my phone because she and I looked so much alike. We were two years apart but there were several years when we were kids that we paraded around together in matching outfits telling people we were twins. Everyone believed it.

  “You busy?” I asked. I could see students walking past her open door. I wasn’t sure if she had office hours.

  “No, just grading papers and using a new computer program to check for plagiarism. Have to stay one step ahead of my students and they’re practically CIA when it comes to stealth. It’s a joy.”

  “Don’t you miss the good old days when the only way to get away with plagiarizing was to steal from a really good book? At least that meant they were reading.”

  “Seriously. So what’s up?”

  “Apparently, I’ve got a ruthless competitor who’s going after my restaurant contracts. So far it just looks like I’ve got real competition over the new ones, but there’s one big Oakland restaurant that hasn’t ordered from me in a couple weeks and it’s a little odd. I’m worried it might be the next one to jump ship.”

  “That sucks. Okay, I’ll run all your numbers and let you know where you’ve got wiggle room and where you’re going into the red.”

  I hated hearing those words, “in the red,” and Sarah knew it. “Please don’t give me a heart attack here. Blake feels pretty confident the restaurants that were thinking about bolting will come back now that he’s talked sense into them, but I’m looking ahead because if I do end up losing restaurant clients, there goes my nest egg that I need for expansion,” I said.

  “Got it. I’ll come up with a few scenarios of how this could look and show you where you need to be more efficient to compensate for any loss of business down the road. Good?”

  “Thank you. You know, if you ever decide physics isn’t your cup of tea, I’ll hire you to be my financial partner.”

  She laughed. She knew I barely understood her job and was kind enough not to make me feel dumb for not being able to keep up with her brain. “I’m good doing both. Don’t worry about any of the financial stuff for now. I’m on it. I’ll see you tonight at dinner and we can have a little sidebar on this if you want.”

  “Nah, numbers don’t mix with wine. We can deal with it later. But hey, would you do me a favor and send out a little preemptive text to the sibs, tell them I don’t want to talk about the whole Tom cheating thing? I don’t feel like group therapy from the fam.”

  “Yes, on it. I gotta run though. I teach in fifteen.”

  “Sure. Run. Go. Thanks, Sar.”

  I couldn’t fathom how she taught particle physics classes at Berkeley, wrote articles for academic journals, and kept my bookkeeping straight, all in a normal week when most people had only one job.

  Actually, I did know. She barely allowed herself time to do anything else.

  I vowed to get her a really nice gift, something that would encourage her to enjoy some free time.

  When I came back downstairs, Camille was cleaning up her station and getting ready to leave. The lucky thing about her job was that all the pastry prep and baking could be done in the early morning and by the time the lunch rush ended, her day was done.

  Unlike bread, there wasn’t a huge need for croissants on the dinner menus at most restaurants. She worked an eight-hour day that ended at noon. Something I was completely unfamiliar with since my twelve-hour day ended at four and I often stayed past then.

  “Bye, mon amie, see you in the morning,” she said, wrapping her scarf around her neck and tucking her motorcycle helmet under her arm.

  “Actually, Camille, can you think of a good gift for someone who works too hard and doesn’t take enough time for herself?” I asked.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of hinting that I should get you a present?”

  “No, it’s not for me. I want to get something for my sister. Something she wouldn’t get herself.”

  She thought about it for a moment, her mouth rounding into a pout. Then she snapped her fingers. “Ah, yes, it’s perfect,” she said, her accent making her sound like Inspector Clouseau. “Get her a male escort.”

  Unfortunately, I’d just picked up a bottle of Perrier and taken a swig when she said it because the spray ended up all over her scarf. But I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Oh my gosh, I was thinking about a nice candle or a necklace or something,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  Camille shrugged. “Or you could do that. Your call. Au revoir,” she said, breezing through the kitchen like she hadn’t just suggested I gift my sister with a hooker.

  Sarah was bookish and brilliant but she’d never given me the impression she had much of a wild side. When we were younger, we were all rambunctious teenagers and I remember her having fun back then, but since she’d earned her PhD and started working as a professor, she’d become way too serious and responsible. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her cut loose.

  Maybe a male escort would be a better gift than a candle.

  Chapter 10

  Isla

  I tried not to feel like a stalker while I Googled Owen Miller.

  I’d figured out his last name by going through old credit card receipts at the shop—okay . . . I was officially a stalker. Nonetheless, it made good sense to learn the names of our regular customers, first and last.

  You plan on Googling all the customers or just the ones you kiss?

  Obviously, we weren’t dating, but even if he was just my rebound guy, I still wanted a little basic info that an internet search could provide in minutes.

  Unsure what exactly I was looking for, I typed in his name, expecting to find some social media links or maybe evidence of a donation here or there. Or a nice photo. Instead, the first thing I found was a profile from a business magazine on Owen Miller, boutique hotel owner.

  At first, I acknowledged the possibility that there was a different Owen Miller in the hotel business.

  But . . . really?

  It only took a few more clicks to read the entire text of the article and see a photo of Owen Miller—the one I’d kissed the night before—
standing in the courtyard of a traditional Spanish hacienda which had been turned into a five-star hotel in Santa Barbara.

  So he wasn’t the night manager at a Holiday Inn, which was for some reason what I pictured after he said he worked at a hotel.

  Wasn’t that what he’d said?

  Regardless of the actual words, I was pretty sure that he never told me he owned what turned out to be a collection of seven hotel properties in romantic California travel destinations. And even though we’d talked all about how I’d started Victorine, he’d given me no indication that he’d started his own business and had actual knowledge of how to do it.

  No, that had not been the takeaway.

  Unable to wait until Sunday, I sent him a text, couching it in more bread talk because that seemed like neutral territory.

  Me: Hey, how’s the bread withdrawal going? Asking as a concerned friend.

  He responded almost instantly. I wondered if he kept his phone in his hand at all times.

  Owen: I’m . . . weak. Can’t move. Send carbs . . .

  I laughed.

  Me: Sadly, we don’t deliver.

  Owen: I think I’ve just found the first and only flaw in you. Please come over with bread.

  Me: Can’t right now. I’m stuck at my desk.

  Owen: How’s that going?

  Me: Going alright. So . . . did I miss it when you told me you owned seven hotels?

  I watched the three dots indicate he was typing. Then they disappeared. Then reappeared. It was nerve-wracking. Finally, he responded.

  Owen: No. I didn’t mention that.

  Cute. He was correct, but still . . .

  Me: Why? Were you trying to mislead me?

  I waited. Nothing.

  Why did I text him? The waiting was excruciating. Finally, more dots.

  Owen: Nope.

  That’s it? That’s all I get?

  Me: Didn’t you tell me you worked at a hotel?

  Owen: I believe I said I worked in hotels. I didn’t mean I actually worked behind the desk at a hotel. But you’re right, I didn’t clarify. I’m sorry. Truly.

  Me: Why didn’t you correct me?

  Owen: I didn’t really want to talk about my work. I wanted to talk about yours.

  Me: That’s sweet. But in the future, please tell me all relevant details.

  I got nothing after that for a full minute. No dots.

  Maybe I’d annoyed him by being confrontational. Oh well, if he couldn’t handle being called on it . . .

  The dots were back.

  Owen: You said you hate corporate guys. I didn’t want you to hate me before I could prove my worth as a human.

  He had a point. I might have been wary of him if he’d said he owned a hotel company right after the most recent corporate magnate blew my ego to bits.

  Me: I hate some of them. I don’t hate you. But I will if you make me Google you like a stalker.

  I watched the dots appear and disappear again.

  Damn him.

  Owen: I like having you as a stalker.

  Me: Not the point.

  Owen: Gotta hit a meeting for my super impressive not-corporate hotel chain of which I am the owner. I’m in withdrawal from your bread and from you. See you on Sunday for my fix of both.

  My smile made my cheeks ache.

  I liked this guy. But if I wasn’t careful, I’d ruin a friendship with a seemingly great man by abusing him as my rebound. Even though I hadn’t been happy with Tom for a while, I needed to grieve the end of our relationship at least a little bit before I started up with someone new.

  The next time I saw Owen, I’d make sure I was clear on my boundaries.

  So . . . no more kissing. Sadly.

  I sent a smiley emoji to Owen and went back to reading through the Google results, just to make sure there wasn’t anything else he hadn’t told me. I saw more articles about his boutique hotels—lots of them over the years, too many to read without seriously digging into my work productivity—and lots of information about the hotels themselves.

  But nothing personal. No photos of him with a girlfriend, wife, ex-wife. It was almost like the human side of Owen Miller had been scrubbed from public view. I tried to decide whether that was a good or a bad thing.

  Or maybe he was one of those rare individuals who managed to keep his personal life private. That possibility proved to be the most intriguing of all.

  * * *

  I loved living in San Francisco, but if I ever moved to the East Bay, I’d fight my brother Finn for his house. It looked like it had emerged organically from the hill on which it sat, all wood and tall glass windows with gorgeous native plants and flowers blooming in planter boxes and vertical gardens.

  Its wraparound porches afforded stunning views of the bay and a secret staircase alongside the house tangled through the hills, leading to other hidden staircases and eventually a trail that led up to Grizzly Peak. I’d brought my running shoes on more than one occasion and navigated all the stairways I could find for the quickest route to the top.

  Finn and his fiancée Annie bought the house eight months earlier after moving to the Bay Area from Los Angeles. Finn, an economist with a big brain and a bigger heart, had gotten a tenured position at Berkeley and Annie worked as a white-collar lawyer at a firm in San Francisco.

  They’d been renovating a bit at a time, which meant they never had a huge crew working at any given time, but it also meant there was always something under construction.

  “I’m so mad at you.” My younger sister Cherry started in on me as soon as I walked into the kitchen where Finn was chopping things on a wooden cutting board.

  He spun around to greet me and toppled a jar of olives. Juice went everywhere, but in typical Finn fashion, he cared more about hugging me than getting olive juice on his counters.

  I ignored Cherry for the moment and went over to hug Finn. “How’s it going? Can I help? Or at least clean up your spill?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Annie’s out in the garden and she’s the other half of my team.” He waved a kitchen towel, which said “Team Tamale.”

  “Ooh, are you making tamales?” I asked.

  “No, but I didn’t have a towel that said Team Vegetables.”

  “Got it. Now, why are you mad at me?” I asked Cherry. I glanced around the countertops to see if there were any partially prepared snacks I could help shuttle onto a tray and then eat.

  With nothing in sight, I went to the fridge and grabbed some vegetables and started assembling a little crudité platter. Finn observed and nodded. “Good idea.”

  “I’m mad because you didn’t kick that douche canoe out on his ass while you had the chance.” Cherry was the second-youngest sister and at almost age thirty, she had the energy and appetite of a teenage boy. She was sitting cross-legged on a bench pulled up to Finn’s kitchen table. She’d kicked off her stylish black faux-crocodile booties and was studying the swirling paisley design on her dark red blousy boho top.

  “Yeah, not going to talk about it,” I said, cutting the carrots into sticks with a vengeance. Then I went to the fridge to search out some hummus or other dip so I wouldn’t have to look at my sister.

  But Cherry was not one to be dissuaded. “So tell me about how it all went down. What did Tom say to you?”

  I looked around hoping other siblings would appear and tell her to shut up, but Finn was the only other one in the room. He put his hands up and shrugged.

  “Didn’t Sarah text you all and tell you I didn’t want to talk about it?”

  “Sure, but I didn’t think you meant me. You told me a while ago you didn’t think you and Tom would make it through the year. You can’t deprive me now of the end of the story. That’s like taking someone to a movie and buying them popcorn and not letting them eat it.”

  “It’s nothing like that. Finn, defend me please?”

  Finn wiped his hands on an apron he’d taken to wearing while he cooked. It had a large pig on the front and said, “Every butt deser
ves a good rub.” He went to the refrigerator and took out a fresh bottle of white wine.

  “I’m not getting involved. Here. This oughtta help.” He handed me the wine and pointed to the glass-front cabinets where wine glasses hung from the top shelf.

  “Like I need you to point out where you keep the wine glasses.” I smirked at his avoidance. “What are you cooking? Can I help?” I asked.

  I could avoid conversation too. I just wouldn’t answer Cherry.

  Finn took the lid off a pot and gave it a stir. “It’s a vegetarian chili recipe they gave us in our cooking class.”

  “They gave you the recipe or they taught you to make it?” Cherry asked. I was pleased she seemed distracted enough to leave me alone for now.

  “They gave us the recipe. There’s not really much to making chili. You kind of sauté and mix and stir and cook. But it goes with a bunch of things they did teach us to cook and I’m making all those.”

  “Ooh, like what?” I asked.

  “Charred broccolini, cornbread pudding, and crispy fried garlic. Which I’m pretty certain I’ve royally screwed up. Annie?” He looked helplessly in the direction of the garden.

  It amused me to see how lost he was without her cooking beside him.

  “Yeah,” came a voice from somewhere in the house.

  “Can you come look at the garlic? I’m not sure I did it right.”

  “Be right there,” she called.

  Finn’s eyes roamed around the kitchen and he seemed a little overwhelmed by his menu. I loved it. He was such an accomplished economist—he’d been short-listed for the Nobel Prize this year—that it was nice to see him unsure about how thinly to slice a clove of garlic.

  I poked around looking in the oven at the bread pudding and at the piles of garlic he’d sliced. It all looked okay to me.

  Annie breezed into the kitchen with a fistful of fresh herbs. “Sorry, I wanted to pick these before it was pitch black out there,” she said, gesturing to the greens.