Jack (7 Brides for 7 Soldiers Book 5)

by Julia London

  A random guy was nice enough to hold the door open for her so she could wheel her cooler inside. The thing now looked like a monstrosity, taking up as much space as a chair. The same helpful guy darted in front of her to get in line, having done his good deed for the day. Unfortunately, he had the look of one of those office workers dispatched to bring back a half dozen frozen coffee drinks to the team meeting.

  As it was, the line to the counter was to the damn door. Whitney inched along, nudging her cooler in front of her as if it were a child. She texted her sister Taylor to pass the time, but that made things worse, because Taylor told her their father was planning to come to Seattle. She clicked off her phone and shoved it into her jacket pocket. The last thing she needed was for Dad to show up and do the old I-told-you-so business.

  “Hey,” said a girl behind her. “Your turn.”

  Whitney pushed her cooler forward to the counter. The clerk at the register wore a head covering and a gold nose ring. “Hi, Farida,” Whitney said. “What’s up?”

  “The usual. What’s up with you?” Farida asked.

  “I’ve got cakes, that’s what. Is Ben around?” Whitney asked, referring to the manager.

  “Yep. I’ll let him know you’re here. Do you want something to drink?”

  Whitney waved her off and stepped to the side as Farida disappeared through a door. She returned a moment later. “He’s on the phone and said to hang a minute.”

  Whitney maneuvered around two men waiting for their coffees and squeezed past the display case. Someone was standing in the corner near the hallway to the bathroom, shoved up against the wall as if he were hiding. He had his back to her, but Whitney recognized that back. She stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey!”

  Jack jerked around with such force that his coffee went flying, spilling onto the side of the display case, his jacket, the floor, and onto the purse Whitney carried on her shoulder. “Shit,” he hissed.

  “God, I’m so sorry.” Whitney looked down at the spill spreading on the floor. “I scared you.”

  “I wasn’t scared,” he said quickly.

  “I mean, I startled you.” Scared, startled—she’d definitely given him a fright. She grabbed a stack of napkins off the condiments bar, threw several onto the floor to stop the spill from spreading any more, then pressed a few up against his chest.

  Jack gasped and recoiled.

  “What?” Whitney demanded, slightly annoyed. “You’re dripping coffee.”

  Jack glanced down. “Right,” he said. “Right, right.” He covered her hand with his to take the napkins from her.

  In certain circumstances, Whitney was prone to reading too much into a simple gesture or a quick look. But for a teeny moment, she felt a charge shock through her when Jack’s hand covered hers. He must have felt it, too, because he didn’t move his hand or take the napkins—they were both frozen. When he realized he was holding her hand, he moved quickly to snatch the napkins.

  Whitney grabbed more napkins from the condiment bar and soaked up the bit of coffee on her purse.

  “I’m really sorry.” He squatted down to mop up the spill.

  “It’s okay! Accidents happen.”

  He nodded, stood, and dumped the wad of napkins into the trash. She noticed a bead of perspiration sliding down his temple. He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead as if the act of wiping up the mess had been strenuous.

  “Would you like another coffee?” Whitney asked.

  Jack glanced at the line and swallowed. “Ah…no. There are a lot of people in here.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Yes, but I have connections.” She leaned across the display case. “Hey, Farida? Can you get this guy another drink? I made him spill his coffee.” She glanced back at Jack. “What do you want?”

  Jack stared at her. Then he stared at Farida.

  “Coffee, right?” Farida said. “Black?”

  Jack nodded.

  Farida poured him another coffee, but when she attempted to hand it to him, he just stared at the cup. What was wrong with him? Was he having a seizure? Whitney quickly intervened and took the coffee. “Thanks, I owe you,” she said to Farida. She turned around to hand the coffee to Jack.

  He looked at Whitney.

  “It’s coffee,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  He finally lifted his hand, and when he did, she noticed the slight tremble in it. A million things ran through her mind, but drugs and alcohol were at the top of her list. Who else trembled like that? Just great—she’d taken interest in an addict. She slowly lifted her gaze to his.

  “I know, I look like a drunk,” he said bitterly, and took the coffee.

  Was it her imagination, or was he perspiring more now? “A little,” she admitted. “Or like you’re coming down from something. Are you?”

  “No,” he said, and noticing her skepticism, “I swear it, Whitney. It’s just…I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

  She wasn’t convinced. But she reasoned that if he had a drinking problem, she would have seen signs of it. Like lots of empty bottles in the trash. And there was a bottle of wine that had been sitting on his counter for weeks, untouched. Was it drugs? Jesus—she didn’t know anyone who did drugs. “Why can’t you sleep?” she asked curiously.

  “I’m working on an important article. Too much coffee, I guess.” He tried to give her a sheepish smile, but he simply looked miserable.

  She decided then and there that she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. He was terribly awkward, and something didn’t quite add up, but still, she felt sorry for him. “Hey!” she said suddenly. “You ordered a vegetarian kit!”

  He shifted his gaze to his coffee. “I’m going to give it a chance.”

  She laughed. “A chance? While I commend you for walking out on the limb of couscous and chickpeas, you don’t have to enter into a committed relationship with them. Anyway, you’re going to love it.”

  “Whitney?”

  She turned around. Ben, the regional manager, had appeared on the other side of the display case in all his bearded glory. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Hi, Ben!” she said, forgetting about Jack for the moment. “Look what I’ve got for you today.” She opened her insulated tote and removed one of her mini cakes. “It’s four hundred and fifty calories. This one is chocolate. I’ve also got vanilla, caramel, and my personal favorite, strawberry.”

  “Nice.” He nodded approvingly as she held up the cake. “A music box, huh?”

  “Yep.” She slid the cake onto the case, pulled out another one and set it beside the first. “This is just a small sample of what you could expect.”

  “Awesome,” he said. “Well, the team is on board.” He picked up one of the cakes to have a look. “They’ve sold fast and we think they’re fantastic. We’d love to carry them.”

  Whitney gasped with delight. “That’s fantastic!” Coffee Corner had three stores downtown. This was the sort of opportunity she’d been working so hard to achieve.

  “All we need is your health department certificate, a complete list of ingredients and ingredient sources, and a schedule of delivery. Delivery day-of is better than day-before if you can swing it. We can work out quantities.”

  He was talking, but Whitney was stuck on the first thing he’d said. Health department. She could feel her elation leaking out of her like air from a balloon. “Ah,” she said.

  “What?” Ben asked her. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t have the health department certificate just yet,” she said. That was fudging the truth—she couldn’t get the certificate to distribute baked goods commercially without a proper commercial kitchen. No health department inspector would approve the stupid little kitchen in the stupid little studio she’d rented. “I’m working on it.”

  “Oh,” Ben said. “That sucks.” He looked at the cakes. “Afraid my hands are tied—I can’t carry your cakes without the certificate.”

  “Right, right.” She w
aved a hand at him. “I totally get it. I should have it any time now. Government.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Awful,” he agreed. “Well, look, come back when you’ve got it. Want a coffee?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, but no.” She forced a cheerful smile. “I’ve got a job I have to get to. Keep the cakes for the staff, okay?”

  Ben thanked her and took the cakes. She zipped up her cooler, stood up…and looked right into Jack’s eyes. Wonderful. She’d forgotten he was there to witness her failure.

  “Hey,” he said. The coffee was gone, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets again. “Want to get out of here?”

  She smiled with surprise. It seemed a little sudden, but what was he asking her, exactly? Not that, apparently, because he looked as if he were going to choke.

  “I mean…you’re making dinner anyway, so you might as well come up.”

  Ah. So it was that kind of question, the when will my dinner be ready kind of question. “Sure.” She now felt defeated on all possible fronts.

  They went out of the coffee shop, him with his hands shoved so deep in his pockets she thought he might be able to tie his shoes from there, and her dragging her stupid cooler behind her.

  But when they reached the door to his apartment building, he inadvertently put his hand to the small of her back and got the door, and she not-so-inadvertently brushed against him, and he felt hard and lean and sort of soft at the same time, and Whitney all at once forgot the health department.

  Nine

  For a few moments in that coffee shop, Jack forgot about all the potential danger because he was taken aback by how dejected Whitney had looked. He didn’t know anything about the ins and outs of the bakery business, but he knew something was wrong.

  She was in his kitchen now, puttering around without her usual energy, seemingly distracted. She didn’t seem to realize he was here, leaning against the wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest. She was wearing a white button-up blouse, a plaid skirt, some black tights, and military boots. She couldn’t have looked any cuter if she’d tried, and Jack was trying not to let his mind go down the path of seeing those clothes peel off her, one by one. He tried to think of something to say that didn’t sound ridiculously out of touch—or worse, stupid.

  He watched her mix ingredients in a large mixing bowl.

  She glanced at his kitchen clock. “I’m a little early,” she said. “I’ll bake it, and you can keep it in the oven to stay warm until you’re ready.”

  Jack nodded.

  She sighed, as if his lack of response had disappointed her. Well, he couldn’t say anything—his thoughts and tongue were all tied up in how to ask her to have dinner with him. Such a simple question! How hard could it be? How badly could he screw it up?

  “Any big plans for the weekend?” She sounded almost morose about it.

  “No.” Speak, idiot! Tell her something! Like what? That I’ll probably be curled up in a corner somewhere because someone honked a horn?

  The door suddenly swung open and in bounded Buster, panting loudly. He was wet, his feet muddy.

  “Hey, hey!” Rain said after him. “He wouldn’t let me wipe off his feet, man!” He held up a towel.

  “I’ve got it.” Jack took the towel from Rain. He squatted down to greet his dog and wipe off his feet.

  “Hey, Whitney!” Rain said as he passed through the kitchen to return Buster’s leash to the laundry room.

  “Oh, hi, Rain.”

  At the sound of her voice, Buster wiggled free of Jack and raced into the kitchen, colliding with an open cabinet door in his haste. Whitney laughed. God, but Jack loved the sound of her laugh. It made all the difference in the somber mood that had pervaded his house just moments ago. “Did you miss me? I know what you want, you little chow hound.” She reached across the bar into her bag. She tossed Buster a treat and laughed when he caught it and all but swallowed it whole.

  Rain reappeared and propped his elbows on the bar. “Girl. I gotta tell you—that was one unbelievable cupcake.”

  “Thanks!” she said.

  “I mean, it was perfect, man. You should, like, totally set up shop downstairs and sell them.”

  “Yep, I should,” she said. “Here, have a mini cake.” She dipped down into the big rolling cooler and handed him one of her music box cakes.

  “Seriously?” Rain said. “You sure?”

  “I’ve never been more sure. Enjoy.” She fluttered the fingers of both hands at him before she turned back to her bowl.

  “Awesome,” Rain said. “Thanks!” He held it up like a trophy to Jack. “I’ll see you Sunday, all right, Buster?”

  Buster responded by melting down onto the kitchen floor.

  Rain walked past Jack, grinning. “Cake, man.”

  “Cake,” Jack agreed, and watched Rain go out. He stepped up to the bar and said, “So…this health department thing.”

  “Yep, it’s a problem,” she said. “Not an impossible problem, but a pretty damn big one for me right now. I can’t sell anything without the permit. But I can’t get the permit without the commercial kitchen. And I can’t get a commercial kitchen until I find a place I can afford.” She sighed again. “Maybe my dad was right.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Oh,” she said, and waved a hand at him. “Don’t let me get started. It’s just that my dad wanted me to be a lawyer. He thinks it’s a much better career path, and by the look of things, he’s right.”

  “Yeah, but there’s the whole thing about having to go to law school,” Jack pointed out.

  “I did that.”

  “You did what?”

  “I went to law school.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” he asked, confused.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I graduated from law school, but I didn’t take the bar exam.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because I was miserable. I’d been miserable for three years of law school, and the four years of pre-law as an undergraduate, and there I was, twenty-eight years old, hating what I’d set my life up to be.” She paused in her mixing to look at him. “Can you even imagine what that’s like?”

  Yeah, he could imagine what it was like to be something you hated.

  “Anyway, I was studying for the bar and I woke up one day and had this epiphany. I told my parents I hated law, I have always hated it, and I was going to be a baker. A real baker, like one who could get a show on the Food Network, you know?”

  Well no, he didn’t know, but he’d go with it.

  “So, over the objections of my entire family—my parents, my sister, who is already practicing law in my dad’s firm, and my brother, a heart doctor, and various aunts and uncles—I took the money I inherited from my grandmother and moved to Seattle to start this fabulous bakery. But I can’t seem to find a place that I can renovate and afford. Dammit.” She cracked the spoon against the bowl. “Sorry,” she added sheepishly, and began to stir the contents of the bowl with a vengeance.

  Jack tried to think of something to say. He ran several things through his head, but they all sounded like tired clichés. Just keep trying, or Never say never. He watched her pour the casserole into a pan.

  “Do you want me to put this in the oven?” she asked.

  “What?” He was exasperated by his inability to say something meaningful to her.

  “The casserole.” She frowned a little, probably exasperated with his inability, too. “Do you want me to put it in the oven,” she said again, articulating clearly. “I can bake it now if you like, but it’s only four.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll warm it later.”

  Her brows dipped. “I’m not supposed to go off without baking and plating your dish.”

  “I seem to recall this conversation from two days ago,” he said.

  “They haven’t changed the rules in the last two days.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I can turn on an oven and I pr
omise I won’t report you.”

  She gave him a very pretty, very wry little smile. “You promise?” She took off her apron. “Well then, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  She began to pack up her things. Jack stood there at the bar like a mannequin. He was desperate to ask her to stay. He tried to make his tongue work, but it suddenly felt as if he had swallowed a wad of cotton. Even Buster lifted his head and gave him a plaintive look. What are you doing? Why is this so hard?

  Whitney quickly had her things together and picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you next week. Hope you like the couscous and your taste buds aren’t ruined.” She smiled again, then started toward the door, rolling the cooler behind her.

  Buster leaped up and trotted after her.

  She was about to walk out the door. She was about to leave and he couldn’t ask her the simplest question.

  “Whitney!” Jesus, did he actually just shout her name? He must have, because she sort of whipped around. Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. Come on, come on…

  “Yes?”

  “I, ah… I’m…” He tried to swallow the cottony thing in his throat. He must look like an imbecile to her.

  “You’re what?” she asked impatiently.

  “Will you eat with me.” Regrettably, he did not present it as a question. It was a rushed, practiced statement that sounded so bizarre it was a wonder she didn’t bolt through the door.

  Her brows dipped, and she stared at him, clearly trying to work it out.

  He released a big breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, annoyed by how much energy it took to ask an attractive woman to dinner. “Dinner,” he croaked. “I mean, if you want to. You don’t have to. You probably have stuff to do. Friends, or baking, something, I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry I said anything. I shouldn’t have asked. My bad.”