“Okay. Works for me. I don’t feel awkward at all.” It was sarcasm but she didn’t react.
“I’m happy for you,” she said, putting a hand on her hip. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for myself.”
“Why do you feel awkward?”
“Really? You have to ask that?”
“Um, unfortunately, yes. I do.”
It was awkward because she was making it awkward.
We had banter. We had chemistry, I was certain of that. I’d offered to help her with work, and she seemed to have forgotten all about that plan.
She hesitated, and I prepared myself for whatever wrath was about to spew forth. Whatever it was, I probably deserved it, given that I was still clueless about what insensitive thing I’d done to piss her off.
Isla blinked slowly and looked at the sky as though my very existence was trying her patience.
“Okay, I feel awkward because I’ve been thinking about you since I saw you on Friday,” she said with an expression that looked like she’d just admitted to having the plague. Or worrying that I had the plague. Either way, it didn’t look hopeful.
“Is that . . . I take it that’s a bad thing, where you’re concerned? Because I’ve been thinking about you too—constantly, in fact—I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve been waiting until this morning so I could come in just so I could look at you again. You’re more beautiful than I remembered, if that’s possible. Anyway, I’d really like to ask you out on a real date if that’s something you think you might like to do, and then maybe all the awkwardness will be replaced by something really, really good.”
She looked at me with a disappointed expression that soon turned to confusion and finally settled on disappointment. She shook her head.
“The reason I’ve been thinking about you is that I really could use your help in figuring out how to save my business, which I’m embarrassed to admit is a bit of a disaster right now. After being good at what I do for the last seven years, I’m losing my grip. I missed all the signs. I’m out of my depth and it doesn’t feel good.”
Oh.
She was right.
This was awkward.
Chapter 14
Isla
I knew I was hurling a knife into Owen’s main artery with my words, and the worst part was that they weren’t even true.
Sure, I’d been thinking about what he’d said about my business. But when I’d thought of his words, they came with a very vivid picture of other things that I wanted from him and none of them involved bakery advice.
As I stood there, I fought an internal battle because a huge part of me wanted to relent and sink into the warmth of Owen’s chest. Oh, that magnificent chest that clearly didn’t come from working at a computer and ordering hotel supplies. His job seemed to leave him ample time for the gym.
Or rugby practice. Or water polo.
I wanted to kiss him.
A brief scenario went through my mind where I let the bakers and Kim hold down the fort at the shop for a few hours—hell, why not the whole day?—and I took Owen back to my house and we finished what we started the other night.
He felt safe and comforting when suddenly my baking haven felt like it was under attack. But it wasn’t fair to make him the rebound guy. Tom was still leaving me phone messages saying we needed to talk. I didn’t intend to speak to him again ever, but he was far from gone from my life.
I still felt entangled.
“Okay, is there any chance you weren’t listening before when I said what I did?” he asked. He was smiling but I could see it was a stiff cover for what was probably embarrassment.
“Owen . . . I’m sorry, I—”
He held up his hands. “No, no. You have no reason to apologize. I’m the one who got the wrong impression. And you’re right. This is your place of business. It’s your career. I really don’t want this to be weird, although I’m afraid the ship may have sailed there, so I’ll tell you what—I’ll take a little break from coming by the shop, which should stop the blood flow from this gash wound of awkward I’ve just opened up.”
“But that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I know you’re not. Because you’re a kind person and you’re nice to your customers. And that’s what I am—a customer. So why don’t you give me a week or a month or six to get my bread fix someplace else and you can focus on your business, which, by the way, I don’t believe is a disaster. It just needs tweaking and I’m sure you can figure out how to do that if you don’t have the distraction of some dude who lurks at a table every day and says awkward—”
I grabbed his face and kissed him. It was the only way to stop his torrent of self-deprecating words, which were making me feel worse about lying to him.
Plus, I’d been dying to kiss him for ten minutes.
His lips were stiff at first, probably because I’d surprised him, but he caught on rather quickly. His mouth softened against mine and he moved with certainty, reaching for my hand that was hanging by my side and intertwining our fingers.
His other hand came to my cheek, which he lightly caressed while his lips gently took over the kiss. It didn’t take long before I was dizzy with his woodsy, citrusy scent, and the impossibility that kissing him could feel this good.
He pulled back a couple inches and looked at me.
“But you said—”
“I lied,” I said breathlessly.
“Okay. I love that.” He cupped my face with both hands and moved them from my jaw to the sides of my face and slid them into my hair. We were still standing a few doors down from the bakery, which was probably open for business by now, but I didn’t care. My entire staff could be standing on the sidewalk watching us and I’d just give them raises and tell them to throw out all the bread.
We turned until my back was against the closed door of some retail store that sold only wool children’s hats for a reason I’d never understood.
But I loved the place now because they wouldn’t be open for hours, and the cool of the glass door felt nice against my back because the rest of me was on fire.
It was early morning, and I couldn’t blame the beer or the romance of a night out for how much I wanted this man. He pressed harder against me and I could feel the stiffness in his pants, which made me pull him in closer.
I was not a PDA kind of person, but I finally understood the mentality of people who were—I wanted to kiss Owen and grind against him more than I cared what people around might think. And my eyes were closed, so I couldn’t see anyone anyway.
Owen’s lips moved down my neck and across my throat, licking and sucking lightly while my hands roamed his back and moved to where I knew his abs were enticingly within reach under his shirt.
“We should probably . . . go someplace else.” His voice was a low growl near my ear and it just made me want him with more insane lust.
I moaned at the feel of his breath against my ear and ran my hands under his shirt. Ah, the abs, the chest . . . but no, he was pulling away, backing out of my reach, straightening his pants.
My head spun, still breathless with desire and I couldn’t focus on what he was saying, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it if it meant we had to stop.
Then I started to become aware of my other senses—the sounds of people chatting as they walked past us on the sidewalk, the smell of the machine brewing espresso at the bakery, the depth of Owen’s eyes as he looked at me.
“Hmm? I didn’t hear what you said,” I looked down and realized he was holding both of my hands, probably to keep them from ripping his shirt off his body. Smart man.
“Not that I’m at all against continuing in this vein, but maybe we should go up to that office upstairs. Or my house. Because I’m not about to grope you in front of your place of business.”
“No?”
“Hard no.”
“Okay. Good that you have standards,” I said.
Clearly, I didn’t when it came to him.
But that wa
sn’t reason enough to make bad decisions like blowing off work and leaving my team to handle the place at a moment’s notice. Things were already feeling precarious at work.
What if the ovens broke or the dough didn’t rise or the thermostat went on the fritz and the place was too hot to keep the lemon squares and fruit tarts from melting?
What if I trusted my staff to take care of the place in my absence and they succeeded?
What if Flour Artisan chose this moment when I’d lost myself in lust to make a full court press?
Then again, it was Sunday and my staff had it handled. It was what they’d done yesterday and every other time when it was my day off. It was what I’d trained them to do, and they did it well.
So really, there was no reason I couldn’t tell them I’d be back after the lunch rush and spend some time sorting through what Owen and I were doing—after what would surely be mind-altering sex. However . . .
I felt nervous.
Am I afraid of liking him when he’s clearly a friend distracting me from a breakup? Um, yes.
I’d basically lost my mind just standing in his presence on a city street. Who knew what I was capable of if we were alone in the office upstairs? Someone needed to make the smart decisions and I didn’t trust my emotions to do the job.
My rational side had to work overtime.
“How far away do you live?” I asked because the rational brain had left the building.
He pointed in a few directions like he was drawing a map with his finger. “Hayes Valley.”
“You live in Hayes Valley? That’s like a thirty-minute walk from here. I thought you said this was your neighborhood bakery.”
“It is.”
“But there’s a Mandala Bakery right on Hayes.”
He leveled me with a stare. “Really? Mandala? You think so little of me that you imagine I’d eat their bread? You make the best bread in the neighborhood. You make the best bread in any neighborhood.”
I couldn’t help smiling at that. “I do make the best bread in the neighborhood,” I said. And I liked that he expanded the neighborhood to include Hayes Valley. “Hey, we’re practically neighbors, by the way. I live on Steiner near the park.”
“No. You live in one of the Painted Ladies? Tell me it’s true.” The Painted Ladies were a historic row of Victorians painted in different colors with balconies, porches and pitched roofs. They were a popular spot for tourist photos, but I never skipped an opportunity to walk past them.
“No, but I live near them. For a hot minute I thought I might have been able to buy one, but it didn’t happen. I’ll tell you that story later.”
Somehow I realized we were walking in the direction of our neighborhoods and had already left the vicinity of the bakery. I quickly fired off a couple texts to Camille and my head baker, letting them know I’d be back in a few hours.
They responded immediately, telling me they had everything under control.
I was kind of in shock.
“What’s up?” Owen asked. I’d stopped walking and was staring at my phone.
“I’ve never done that before, walked out and just . . . left everything in the hands of other people on a day when I’d planned to be there.”
“Competent people?”
“Very competent.”
“That’s great. Why have you never done it before?” We started walking again and Owen grabbed my hand. The gesture shot a blaze of heat over my skin. It struck me how natural it felt to walk with him hand in hand.
“I . . . don’t know. It’s not like I don’t have days off or hours when I leave for meetings. They’re in charge when I’m not there, but it’s always scheduled, and everyone knows ahead of time what’s happening.”
“But you’re okay with this.” There was a reason I sometimes spoke in statements instead of questions. I had analyzed it and I found that it got people to agree with me more often.
She hesitated answering while she thought. “I guess I am. Wow. Who knew?”
He brought my hand to his chest and covered it with his other hand. “I think it’s good. From what I can see, you work your ass off. You have skilled people who can do their jobs if you let them. Part of the job of a good manager is to let your employees rise to the challenge of taking on more responsibility. They can’t do that if you’re always there watching out for them. Besides, you’re going to need to let them take over when you open your new locations.”
“True. If there are new locations.” I was enjoying the temporary reprieve from thinking about how to save my expansion plans, but there was no escaping it.
We rounded the bend and came smack into a line of people outside the new epicurean grocery store I’d been hating on since it arrived. I jumped back like it was a cockroach, fearing the bad juju would rub off.
“Ew.”
“Have you been in here?” Owen asked.
I sneered. “Are you kidding? You’re the one who comes in and throws their bread in the trash every day.”
“I was doing that to make a point. But their produce is good, and their cheese selection is actually one of the better ones I’ve found.” He was edging closer to the line of people, his expression optimistic.
I backed away warily. “You’re not suggesting we go in, are you?” It felt like I’d be crossing a line, entering enemy territory.
He gently guided me to the back of the line. “For research purposes only. I want you to see what they do well and where they fail. Owners who know their brand like they have a degree in it—they have it nailed. Frozen baked goods—fail!”
“Ah, so this is the beginning of the Owen Miller business boot camp? Tell me, sensei, what is their brand?”
“It will all become clear, grasshopper, when we enter the magic realm.”
I reluctantly took a step closer to him, which meant I was closer to the front door. The line was moving quickly and soon we were inside. “Okay,” I said, my back practically plastered to the wall while I took in the way the interior was organized into food stalls.
I couldn’t say I hated it.
Owen laughed and pulled me gently away from the wall and we walked around the store, while he pointed out where he thought they’d cut corners. “They shouldn’t be selling flowers here. Not their core competency and there’s nothing different about what they’re doing. Same with desserts. They’re taking some generic cake and trying to fancy it up with a little glitter and vanilla beans. Better to partner with a really good patisserie and offer a boutique experience.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but in that case, they’d just be a collection of imports from other shops.”
“Ding, ding, ding. Exactly. That’s their brand. That’s what they should do. Offer the best chocolate mousse and lava cake in the city from Bern’s. Offer the best bread in the city from your bakery.”
I blushed. “Come on.” I’d worked hard at my reputation in San Francisco but it was really nice to hear someone else acknowledge it, especially someone who seemed to spend a lot of time thinking about food.
“Stop. You know it is. You should approach them and offer to sell to them. They carry your bread, your brand gets exposure to these hipsters who can’t walk the two blocks to your shop, everybody wins.” He gestured around at the patrons with a sneer, which turned into a smile when he looked at me.
“But I’m right down the street. If people want my bread, they’ll come to my shop.”
“Not if they’re in a hurry and can only go to one place and they also need tomatoes and . . .” He picked up a carton of something white. “Coconut milk yogurt.” He made a face. “Don’t be afraid of being near other bread sellers. Just be better.”
“You’re making it sound easier than I think it is.”
“No, you’re making it sound hard. Stop. It. I can help you. Later.” He leaned in and kissed me. “Now before I take you on top of their perfect grapefruit display, let’s buy some perfect produce and a few ingredients and go back to whoever’s house is closest so I
can kiss you for real.”
And as if to prove how different that might be from regular kissing, he pulled me in and claimed my mouth with his. A couple dizzying moments later, he let me go. “And after that, I’m going to make you breakfast. Good?”
I nodded because I was incapable of forming words.
So good.
Chapter 15
Isla
After a few blocks, I’d worked myself into a full panic. I’d never played hooky from work, and now I felt guilty. I was also nervous because I’d basically just agreed to go back to Owen’s house where we would kiss.
And make out. And have sex, probably more than once.
Did I want that?
Hell yeah.
Was it a good idea?
Absolutely not. Plus, the fact that we’d pretty much agreed on that plan back when we were kissing in front of the bakery made it even more awkward, like a booty call in broad daylight followed by a mile-long walk to analyze all the fun out of everything.
I was good at that.
“What’s wrong?” Owen asked after we’d walked a few blocks in silence.
“Nothing. Why?” I wasn’t going to tell him that my brain was on fire.
“Because you haven’t said anything in ten minutes. And you look like you’re walking to your execution. Are you having second thoughts?” he asked.
“No, of course not. I’m good.” I smiled stiffly in an effort to show I was really mellow and cheerful, but he wasn’t biting.
“Liar.” He punched me lightly on the arm and I grudgingly stopped and looked at him. The easy blue of his eyes was focused on me, and it was hard not to relax. “I completely respect your need to take things slow, all evidence to the contrary. And I know we’re just friends. This isn’t a date, despite what I might be tempted to call it.”
“Owen—"
He tented his fingers and rested his chin on top. “I want to help you figure out your growth avenues, if you’ll let me, so let’s go hang out in my living room—on separate couches—and do that. And I’ll cook you breakfast as promised. No assumptions about anything else happening beyond that. Okay?”
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