Falling for You

by Travis, Stacy

  I wasn’t sure I wanted his ‘no assumptions,’ but I’d deal with that later. “Yes. Thank you. I don’t know why I’m so skittish.”

  “I do. The baby you’ve been growing and tending for years is under attack, and you don’t know how to defend it. You just got out of a relationship and you probably have some soul-searching to do. I have rebound written all over me—do you think I’m not aware of that?”

  “And you’re okay with it?”

  He shrugged. “Mostly. Maybe. Not sure. So that’s why we should just hang out and talk shop. It’s neutral territory for both of us, and no decisions have to be made right here on Dolores Street.”

  I had to look up at the sign to even realize we were on Dolores. “Weren’t we on Guerrero a second ago?”

  “No. We turned off Guerrero a while back. See, I knew you were off in the clouds.”

  I leaned on a planter outside of a hardware store. “Sorry. It’s like I’m an animal who’s been removed from her customary habitat. I always work at the bakery on Sundays. I’m a little freaked out to be roaming free in the world.”

  The expression on his face turned horribly guilty. “Then you should go back. I don’t want you to be freaked out.” He turned in the opposite direction, fully prepared to walk me back to work.

  I put a hand out to stop him. “No, are you kidding? Look at this gorgeous day. I’m glad to be out on a Sunday. Really. I just need a little time to adjust, that’s all.”

  He looked to me for reassurance, his expression still wary. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. But can we stop and get some really good coffee on the way because the stuff I make for the employees is crap.”

  “Hey, that’s the stuff you feed me every day.”

  “I know. I’d have thought you’d stop coming by now, but it seems I can’t get rid of you.”

  “Guess I’m just stubborn that way. Were you really trying to get rid of me?”

  I batted my eyes with a flirty smile. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Oh, you’re in trouble now,” he said right before he poked me in the ribs which tickled like crazy. He scooted to get away from my efforts to swat him.

  I lunged for him, but he was quick, jogging backward down the street until I caught up with him. Then he turned and raced away. Of course I chased him to no avail—never been a sprinter and I know when I’m outclassed.

  When I came around expecting to see him up the block, he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me in to where he stood hiding. I squealed in his arms, so he held me tighter and kissed my neck. Then my cheek. Then my lips.

  Pulling away, he said, “What’s your poison, a latte or a flat white?”

  It took a second for my brain to catch up to what he was saying when I was all about his lips. Then I looked up.

  He’d led me right to a coffee place.

  * * *

  When we got to Owen’s apartment, there was a package waiting on his doorstep in a manila envelope. He scooped it off the straw doormat that said, “hope you brought wine.”

  “Is this a souvenir from your ‘business trip’ as well?” I asked.

  “Yes, and why the air quotes?” He shuttled me inside and I took in a series of black and white photographs of city buildings at night. Most were of the San Francisco skyline.

  “I’m just feeling like you had an awful lot of time for souvenir shopping and I’m wondering if it was a boondoggle.”

  “It was a real business trip, but I’m always up for a boondoggle. I told you, we should go. You’ll like it. And we could consider it ‘research’ for your new locations. Maybe you’ll open a Victorine up there.”

  “I don’t even want to know what those air quotes mean.”

  He grinned, still holding the envelope as he ushered me to a round zinc-topped table by a huge bay window with a perfect view of the water.

  “I got some information for you,” he said, opening the envelope and handing me the papers, which turned out to be corporate filings showing that Flour Artisan was a cute-sounding artisanal bread label that would soon be unveiled by the huge baking company Centinela Bread.

  I was grateful for the information.

  But also shocked. And terrified.

  “Centinela Bread is trying to put me out of business?” I deflated at the thought. It was like one tiny ant holding a breadcrumb against a national wheat field Goliath.

  Centinela Bread had loaves in every supermarket in the country and even though the company had started as one Los Angeles-based bread company, it had quickly sold out and gone corporate, raking in a huge payday. I’d been told more than a few times I could do the same thing if I ever wanted to, but the quality would be instantly compromised and I could never imagine compromising the integrity of what we made by hand.

  “Who gave you this?” I asked, praying it hadn’t been dropped on his doorstep by the mob.

  “My lawyer messengered it over. Nothing against physicists, but they don’t typically carry the big guns that Silicon Valley lawyers do, and my guys are ruthless. Like I said, I’ve had to fend off big corporate types, and these assholes get the job done. I hope you don’t mind that I called in a favor.”

  I’d never had anyone call in a favor for me and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. “I’m not used to it, but I don’t think I mind.”

  Did I mind? Did he believe I was so outclassed that I couldn’t fight my own battles?

  Was I so outclassed I didn’t even know it?

  He reached for my hand which sat on the table. “Hey. I apologize for overstepping. In no way did I do it because I thought you couldn’t take care of things yourself. I was just trying to be helpful, and I’ll call these guys off right now if I’ve offended you in any way.”

  He held up his phone, like he was ready to tell the lawyers to cease and desist.

  I shook my head. “No, no. I really do appreciate it. It’s just hard for me not to see it as a failing on my part. I rarely use lawyers. I have boilerplate contracts that have always worked for me and there’s never been a need for anything more, but maybe I should call them.”

  “Maybe. Or you could use my guys. Like I said, they’re ruthless when they need to be.”

  “I think I need ruthless.”

  “Great. Done.” A couple texts later, his guys offered to meet with me that week.

  No sooner did I exhale than my phone started ringing. It was Tom.

  “Do you need to get that?” Owen asked.

  “No. I’m good.” I don’t know why I didn’t tell him it was Tom, but after all the kissing we’d done, it felt like a betrayal to be communicating with my ex, even if Owen and I were just friends.

  Besides, I didn’t want to answer the phone. Tom and I were over, and I knew he understood that. I couldn’t have been clearer when I told him to go to hell.

  The first time he called on Friday, I ignored it and let it go to voicemail. He left his usual gruff message, “Hello Isla, it’s Tom. Please return when you’re able. Take care.”

  When we’d first started dating, his tone struck me as odd. Later, it felt charming in a stiff, corporate sort of way. I didn’t respond to his message, which led to him leaving three more. I ignored those, just as I planned to delete whatever he said this time.

  I was no longer charmed.

  * * *

  An hour later, I stared at a collection of maps of the Bay Area, which Owen had marked up with red circles, yellow squares, and green triangles. I felt like I was back in preschool, and I was as confused as a toddler who just wants the red ball and is forced to look at numbers instead.

  Owen and I had gone through all my expansion plans and he’d summarily rejected half of what I thought were good locations. Those were the red circles.

  He’d added new ones that made no sense. Those were green. Some were near other bakeries, and others were in places I’d never heard of. I had a moment of panic that maybe he was crazy.

  “I’m not sure what you’re seeing that I’m not,” I said
.

  “Not yet, but you will.” He seemed so certain and I had no idea why.

  We were sitting in his living room—on separate couches, as promised—and he was standing in front of me holding a dry erase pen. I was distracted, looking at his furniture instead. I liked the way he’d decorated using all vintage pieces that would have been at home in this San Francisco walkup a hundred years earlier.

  He had a purple velvet settee and twin grey high-backed chairs flanking an oval French wood coffee table. One wall had tall casement windows with a phenomenal view of the bay, and another wall had two large abstract paintings in gilt frames.

  None of the furnishings or décor seemed like the taste a guy in his thirties would have, unless he’d traveled the world and shipped back antiques from flea markets and cool period finds from tiny shops.

  The other rooms that he’d toured me through—the kitchen and a study—also had vintage touches. There wasn’t a sterile piece of what I’d come to think of as “guy modern” furniture in sight. Tom’s house was the exact opposite. Everything had been chosen by his designer to resemble a Dwell magazine spread and he took up residence there like a guest who didn’t want to disturb anything.

  I could tell that Owen lived in his place. The books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves had creases in their spines from being read. A large mirror mounted above the fireplace reflected the light coming through the window. Everything had a purpose and was arranged with thought.

  Who is this guy?

  Apparently, he was the kind of guy who’d roll a whiteboard—yup, a freaking whiteboard—in from his office so he could draw on a hanging map of California. We spent the next half hour drinking the remains of our coffee while Owen tried to convince me to look away from the locations I’d selected so carefully.

  “So you’re telling me I didn’t pick good places?”

  “Not at all. I’m asking you why you picked these particular locations to expand your business, and you haven’t given me a good answer,” he said, tapping the whiteboard like an impatient teacher. He reminded me of Sarah.

  I had better answers than what I’d told him. I’d done research. This wasn’t some willy-nilly decision made by a flighty baker who didn’t know anything about the local markets. It was a well-thought-out plan.

  I’d only recently become flighty in the face of a man I couldn’t stop picturing naked, and now I couldn’t remember anything about my original business idea.

  Think, Isla. Focus.

  “I picked the locations because I studied the map and looked at where existing bakeries are and tried to make sure there was no competition nearby.”

  He nodded. “That’s smart. It’s the beginning. But . . . it’s like that grocery store near your shop. Their bread can’t touch yours, so who cares if they’re nearby? If anything, by being in the neighborhood, together you start to create a food hub and other places follow. Like the cheese shop next to the coffee place on Dolores. Then the customers see the area as a destination. So that’s one strategy, and that gives you a lot more locations because who cares if there are other bakeries around? Your stuff’s better.”

  “I think you’re biased, but I get what you’re saying. What about the ones that look like they’re in the back alley of an industrial area?”

  “Don’t dockworkers at the Port of Oakland deserve a top-quality café and bakery? There’s nothing within miles, and there are tons of union-salaried workers who’d like a good lunch and bread to take home to their families. The area isn’t cute or fancy, but that’s how DUMBO started in Brooklyn and now it’s trendy.”

  I nodded. He didn’t sound crazy. He sounded like he had a degree in something I knew nothing about and I felt embarrassed.

  “You’re right. This all makes sense. I should be thinking this way.”

  “Or you should be working with better people. Who did your business plan?”

  I pointed to myself. “Me. And Sarah ran the numbers. I know, my physicist accountant and the fermentation queen. But we make a good team. We do our homework.”

  He was shaking his head, and I felt like he was judging me for being some kind of neophyte who didn’t belong in the business world.

  But that’s not what his eyes said. They were filled with respect and a little bit of . . . wonder?

  “You’re telling me you did your whole expansion business plan yourself? You and your sister. You didn’t hire out?”

  I shrugged. “I know these markets intimately. I’ve been selling to restaurants all over the area for years. I grew up in Oakland. If I can’t figure this out, there’s something wrong with me.”

  I hadn’t meant to say it like that. But I believed it, even if it didn’t sound flattering.

  As I was trying to backpedal and figure out how to say it differently so I didn’t sound so self-critical, Owen dropped his marker on the floor and pulled me into his arms. His lips were on mine in seconds, his tongue working against mine in soft, sultry strokes.

  I let the conversation go, intoxicated by how he made me feel.

  The heat consumed me, and his hands moved up my arms and over my shoulders to where they cupped my face. Owen stared into my eyes, melding my feral desire with his own.

  My brains scrambled. I couldn’t be calm and collected around him. Not when I was forgetting to breathe.

  So I wrapped my arms around his waist and ran my hands up his back, feeling the planes of his taut muscles. I wanted to run my fingers over every ridge and valley, then lick his skin until I knew every secret seductive spot.

  “Isla…” he murmured against my lips.

  He pulled me in harder and his lips met mine with more fire and intensity. This was not a junior varsity kiss. This was an A-game kiss that made me sigh and sink against his body, wanting more of him, needing all of him.

  He drew back and studied my face, his eyes placid like the blue summer skies they reminded me of.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you. Not a single goddamned thing. You can’t say things like that about yourself. Even if you’ve made a mistake here or there—it’s just part of it. You are so talented.” He kissed my nose. “And gifted.” He kissed my cheek. “And insanely gorgeous . . .”

  He kissed the sensitive skin below my ear and continued with a row of kisses across my neck.

  His hot dusting of breath made me shiver and yearn for more.

  Heat crawled over my skin and I pressed harder against him, needing more contact, wanting to erase any space between us.

  “I need you closer…” I whispered.

  I suddenly didn’t care about my business plan or how many bakeries I opened before the end of the year. The only goal was getting more of Owen’s skin against mine, even though I could already tell it wouldn’t be enough.

  He tried to ease my rushed pace, running his hand through my hair.

  Luxuriously, he kissed my neck and gently sucked a spot above my collarbone. It felt so good, so perfect—this, whatever he wanted to give.

  “C’mere.” Owen lifted me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist, ducking my head to kiss the side of his neck.

  His skin smelled like the woods and lemons and I couldn’t stop myself from licking a trail to his jaw and biting the delicious stubble.

  Then I couldn’t stop myself from moaning as I moved to press his erection hard against my center and circle slowly.

  “No other woman could get me so hot talking about business plans,” he said, nuzzling my neck. Laughing, I let my head drop back and closed my eyes.

  He took advantage of my exposed neck to plant a row of kisses under my jaw and down toward my collarbone where he nipped at the skin.

  “Oh, you’re gonna make me come, just like that,” I moaned.

  “Ah, love, we’re just getting started.”

  How had I watched him sit at his table for over a year and not realized that this—this—was waiting for me if I’d just stopped my normal morning routine for a minute and noticed him, talked to him, begged him to bring
me back to his house and do this?

  When I leaned back a few inches to drown myself in the blue of his eyes again, he smiled and tilted his head, observing me with a smirk.

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m getting us off track and we have work to do . . .”

  “Never apologize for distracting me that,” I said, surprised at how breathless I sounded.

  “Never?”

  I shook my head and found his lips again. It was madness how much I wanted his mouth on every inch of my skin. As long as we were both on the same page about our fling status, nothing was off limits.

  That’s clearly what it was, right? That’s why it felt so good and I felt so free.

  If I felt like we were in the tentative new days of a potential relationship, I’d be more self-conscious of every beat, every kiss, deciphering its meaning.

  Was he the right guy to be dating at almost thirty-five?

  Would my next relationship be the forever one?

  Of course I knew that was too much pressure to put on the early days of dating. But I always thought about it a little. Maybe that’s why nothing had ever worked out before.

  But right now . . . who the hell cared?

  I was caught up in feeling. I was going on adrenaline and lust and sensation and it was better than anything I’d ever experienced in my life.

  He didn’t waste any more time near the whiteboard. Keeping his arms around me and my legs around him, he walked us down the hall toward his bedroom.

  The hardwood floor creaked under his feet and he was careful to guard me from bumping into the walls of the narrow hallway, where I noticed another row of framed black and white photographs but didn’t register any of the images inside the frames.

  When he turned to go through the first doorway, I looked over my shoulder at the fluffy white duvet cover over the king-sized bed before he flopped me down on top of it. “You make your bed,” I said. “That’s cute.”

  “It’s cute?” He climbed onto the bed and straddled my legs. “Like baby animals cute?”