by R. C. Martin
“I should be asking you that. Where were you last week?” she demands to know, propping her fists against her hips.
Brandon shrugs, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. All of sudden, I want to know where he was last week, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seem him look so out of sorts before.
“It was a rough weekend.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s what all the guys who stand me up say,” she says, tossing me a wink. Brandon notices and looks my way. When our eyes meet, he smiles at me and my skin breaks out in goose pimples.
“Lucy, this is my friend Sarah. Sarah, this is Lucy—Lulu’s daughter.”
“I'm incredibly impressed to meet you,” she says, sticking out her hand. I shake it, deciding already that I like her. She reminds me a little bit of me.
The old me. Pre-Luke-me.
I shake the thought away as I replay what she’s just said. “Impressed?”
“He doesn’t bring the ladies around. Friend or otherwise.” She emphasizes the word friend, nudging Brandon with her elbow. He rolls his eyes and she laughs. “Let me go put in the order for your beignets. I’ll tell mom you’re here, too.” There’s a bounce in her step when she walks away. She doesn’t get too far before she’s stopped by another guest. I watch their quick exchange and notice that it’s similar to the one she had with Brandon.
“She’s spunky,” I comment as he takes the seat next to mine.
“Yeah. She’s fun. She’s also a bit of a troublemaker—don’t listen to everything she says,” he tells me with a chuckle.
“I take it you’ve been friends for a while?”
“Yeah,” he replies with a nod. “She’s been working here for as long as Aunt Row and I have been regulars. Right now, she’s in her last year at CSU, so we won’t have her for much longer.”
I note how he says ‘we won’t have her for much longer,’ and smile. It’s obvious that coming to Lulu’s every week isn’t all about the food, but about the relationships they’ve forged here, too. I like getting to see this part of his life—the side of him that exists outside of the bakery.
“What’s that smile for?” He nudges my knee with his, pulling me from my thoughts.
I shake my head, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Nothing. I’m just glad I came. Thank you for inviting me.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Sunshine.”
“Three today, huh? Oh—and she’s pretty!”
I look away from Brandon and see Lulu. At least, I assume she’s Lulu—Lucy looks exactly like her, only younger. Lulu also speaks with a French accent, but with just as much spunk as her daughter.
Apparently, she inherited more than her mother’s good looks.
“I think so, too,” says Row as she suddenly appears.
My sobriety keeps the pink from my cheeks, but their flattery warrants a blush. When I seek out Brandon, hoping to shake my embarrassment with the growing familiarity and comfort that I get just by looking at him, the expression on his face steals my breath. Then he winks at me and my heart practically bursts with excitement.
You’re falling pretty fast and pretty hard, don’t you think?
My heart ignores me, too enthralled by the handsome man who seems to be quite proud to have brought a pretty addition to Sunday brunch.
“Rowena, darling, it’s good to see you.” Lulu greets Row—apparently short for Rowena—and I’m relieved to look back at them and find that I’m no longer an interesting topic of discussion.
That is, until Row fills the last seat at our table just as our beignets arrive.
“I promise this won’t be like the Spanish Inquisition,” Row begins to say just as Lulu and Lucy head back to work. “I’ll save that for next time, because something tells me there’ll be a next time,” she says, her eyes flicking a quick glance at Brandon before returning their focus to me.
Her irises are green, just a couple shades lighter than Brandon’s, and alight with a welcoming acceptance. She and her nephew have the same color hair, hers cut into a bob that hangs just above her shoulders. She’s tall, maybe five-ten or five-eleven, and the family resemblance makes me think that Brandon must look like his mother.
Most of the questions Row asks are painless. How did you two meet? He lets you bake? Really? Where are you from? He really lets you bake?—I find her disbelief both amusing and complimentary. I like knowing Brandon’s trust in me means a great deal.
What did you study in school?—Yeah, that one stung.
A part of me is afraid it always will.
Brandon must sense the change in my disposition. He jumps in, making a joke about how she promised this wouldn’t be an inquisition. Row laughs before she says, “Yes, alright. Well, Sarah, I’m glad you’re here. You seem like a breath of fresh air. After Olivia, I’m convinced that Brandon could use all the fresh air he can get.”
At the mention of Olivia, Brandon reaches up and scratches the back of his neck—just like he did earlier with Lucy. I wonder who she is—Olivia—and I’m curious to know her history with Brandon.
“Oh,” says Row, catching on to my obliviousness. “She’s a topic yet to be discussed.”
“I wouldn’t mind if we changed the subject,” Brandon replies.
I can feel his discomfort as if it were my own. My head is filling up with questions wishing for answers, but I tuck them away and save them for later. Just as Brandon saved me just a second ago, I’m hoping to return the favor now.
“How about we talk about these beignets?” I reach for another—my third? Or is this my fourth?—and dowse it in powdered sugar. “Like how we’re going to need a lot more.”
Row laughs, which makes me smile. Brandon reaches under the table and squeezes my leg in thanks. That elicits another round of goose pimples.
BRUNCH WAS AMAZING—AND I’m not referring to the food. I barely tasted the food. At this point, I can’t even say for sure what I ate. We always order a few different things and share. This morning was no different. I’d usually regret my lack of enthusiasm for a plate full of Lulu’s breakfast, but the distraction was so worth it. All I remember are the number of beignets Sarah devoured. Seven. It was incredible. Food is something to be experienced and appreciated. I know lots of people who enjoy eating—but it’s more than that. Maybe I think this way because I know what kind of effort goes into creating something delicious. In any case—Sarah knows how to appreciate a good thing when she tastes it.
It’s sexy as fuck.
We stayed for longer than usual, the three of us too wrapped up in conversation to pay attention to the time. When Aunt Row noticed it was after one, she told us she had to leave so she could squeeze in a few errands before it got too late. We said our goodbyes on Lulu’s front porch. Row, Lu, and Lucy—my Sunday crew—were gracious as we parted ways, saying nothing to embarrass Sarah or incriminate me, for which I was grateful.
I think they like her. Then again, it’s hard not to.
“Oh, my god, I’m so full. You really should have cut me off sooner,” Sarah moans, resting her hands against her stomach as we make our way to the car.
“Do you need to walk it off?” I tease.
“Can we?” she asks hopefully. “There’s a park around here somewhere, isn’t there?”
“Yeah, actually, there is.”
“Would you mind?”
I furrow my brow at her as if she’s crazy. She must be to think that I would mind getting the chance to spend more time with her. “Give me your purse,” I insist. Her confusion at my request shows on her face and I reach for the strap, easing it off her shoulder. “I’ll put it in the trunk so you don’t have to carry it.” She relinquishes it and I arch an eyebrow at her when I feel the full weight of it in my hand. “What in the hell do you carry in here, woman?”
She laughs, following me the rest of the way to the car. “Essentials. My Kindle. You know.”
I chuckle as I pop the trunk. “No. I don’t know. And now that I think about it, I’m not sure that I want to k
now.”
“It’s probably against the rules for me to tell you, anyway. A woman never reveals her secrets.”
I lock up her purse and reach for her hand.
I hope that’s not true.
She laces her fingers with mine and then we both start walking.
“Your Aunt Row is wonderful, by the way.”
When I look over at her, she’s smiling up at me. “I’ll tell her you think so.”
“I can tell by her personality that she’s a great journalist. She seems incredibly smart.”
“Incredibly,” I agree.
“What about your mom? What does she do?”
“She’s a realtor. She’s great at what she does, too. Really dedicated,” I add dryly.
Sarah squeezes my hand. “What does that mean? Is that why she doesn’t come to Sunday Brunch?”
“It’s why she doesn’t do a lot of things.” I speak before I think and shake my head, wishing I could take it back. Not necessarily what I’ve said, but the way I’ve said it. “Growing up, she was my provider. For that, I’m grateful. She did the best she could, I suppose. It was hard on her when dad died. I won’t judge her for her coping mechanisms.”
“But a mother and a provider aren’t necessarily the same thing,” she says softly.
I look down at her and find her staring up at me. Her blue eyes are soft with sympathy and I shrug. “I love my mom,” I tell her. “We just aren’t close. Happens to a lot of people.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She pauses and we walk a few paces in silence. “I hope I get to meet her, sometime. Does she ever come into LB?”
Her question takes me back to the grand re-opening of Little Bird, just after the remodel. I was so fucking nervous, I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. I showed up to the shop at three a.m. and started baking. While I was mixing together my first batch of blueberry crumble muffins, I just knew they’d taste like shit. But when I popped them in the oven and they started baking, the sweet, fruity aroma filling the kitchen, I started to relax.
They came out perfectly.
Lori and Daphne were the first to arrive. I hadn’t even opened yet and my first barista was still on her way—but they were too excited to wait. I remember the looks on both of their faces. They were proud of me. They’d been with me through the journey of acquiring the shop from Lori and all the changes that came along with that. Having them there to bear witness seemed to make it all the more real.
Mom and Aunt Row came together. Aunt Row usually has to be into work at the crack of dawn, like me, so I know she took time off to stop in. Knowing mom, I was thankful that she would stop everything for me, just for a while. She seemed impressed, which flattered me; I had done this on my own and it felt great.
Then she eyed the pastry case and I could see it in her face. I could see it the moment she shut down and decided she couldn’t stay any longer.
“I think there’s a lot I don’t know or understand about my mom,” I begin to speak, pulling myself out of the memory—wishing to be free of it. “And there’s a lot of things she doesn’t know or understand about me. There’s so much that we don’t talk about—so much that we never talked about…and we can’t go back, you know?
“The bakery—the love I have for baking and messing around in the kitchen—that came from my dad. It’s like I told you earlier, he inspires me always. It’s not the same for my mom. I don’t think she draws strength from her memory of him. I think she shuts down when she is reminded of him.
“The blueberry crumble muffin? That’s the last recipe that my dad and I perfected together. The one and only time my mom has been to LB, she looked into the display case, saw it sitting there, and couldn’t stay.”
“Oh, Brandon, I’m so sorry.” Sarah tightens her grip around my fingers and brings her free hand up to cling to my arm.
When I look at her, her eyes filled to the brim with compassion, my entire body aches with a longing I’ve never felt before. It’s not just a physical want—it goes deeper than that. It’s as if my soul wishes to be embraced by this woman—this woman who looks at me and makes me feel like I deserve better. Better than my mother. Better than Olivia.
I want to kiss her so damn bad it hurts.
I stop walking and cup my free hand around the side of her face. I pause for just a moment, giving her a second to recognize what I want; giving her the chance to tell me no.
When I lick my lips, she leans in closer, her grip around my arm tightening.
Then my phone starts to ring. It’s the bakery. I know because I programed a different ringtone just for work in the event that I was screening my calls. Like now.
“Don’t answer it,” she whispers.
“Shit,” I murmur, propping my forehead against hers. “I have to. It’s work. They know not to call me on Sundays unless they desperately need me.”
I move my hand from her face and press my lips against her forehead as I reach into my pocket for my phone. Turns out, it’s Joey—and the internet is down, which means the register is offline, which means I have to get over there. When I fill Sarah in on the situation, she murmurs her understanding and we head back to the Camaro.
“I could come with you,” she offers.
A part of me wants to tell her yes, that that’s what I intended all along. The selfish part of me is fighting with the responsible part of me—with the kind part of me.
The gentleman wins.
“No,” I tell her. “It’s your first day off since you started. I’m not letting you come in.”
“But I—”
“Good grief, you have a hard time with the answer no,” I tease.
She laughs. “Only sometimes.”
“Well, I’m putting my foot down. You’re not working today. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow morning. Besides, I’m the one with the car, which means you go where I take you. I’m taking you home.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” she quips.
As soon as I pull into Sarah’s apartment complex, my phone rings again. This time it’s Eryn, calling to make sure I’m on my way. I can tell they’re in straight up panic mode right now. I don’t have time to linger with Sarah, no matter how badly I want to. Nevertheless, I don’t hesitate to walk her inside to her door.
“Hate to drop and run, but I’ve got to go.”
“I know,” she says with a nod.
I scoop her into my arms and she clings to me. Suddenly, I abhor responsibility.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell her, kicking myself for letting her go, knowing all along that it can’t be helped.
“Thank you. For today,” she says sweetly.
Fuck—she’s killing me.
I’ve got to go. Why won’t my feet move?
I can’t kiss her. I have a feeling that once I start, I won’t be able to stop—not until I’ve memorized every facet of her mouth with my tongue. A closed mouth exchange would never do, and I don’t have time…
Dammit. Not here. Not now.
That’s becoming my mantra.
Not here. Not now.
It’s really getting on my last nerves.
“Brandon?” She smiles at me and the butterflies in my stomach are back. That smile. I want to own that smile. “Duty calls. Go save the day.”
I nod, knowing she’s right. I press a quick kiss against her forehead and start backing away. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she echoes in reply.
THE ONLY GOOD THING about watching Brandon leave was that look on his face. I saw it in those hazel eyes. I saw a man being shoved inside of a cage. I saw the fight he was trying desperately to win—his sense of responsibility versus his ravenous recklessness. I saw his desire coupled with his frustration. He didn’t have to say a thing. I saw it all, my gaze locked with his. That look. Good God, that look was a warning of things to come.
No—it was a promise.
I don’t know how long I stay out in the hallway, leaning against the front door, my body still
buzzing with the anticipation of a kiss that didn’t come.
Stupid, stupid, stupid technology!
When I finally scrounge up the will to go inside, I find Millie in the kitchen. She’s shuffling around in a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, making a sandwich. I forgot to look in the parking lot to see if Sage is still here, but it appears as though he’s made his exit.
Wishing to build upon the efforts we both put forth last night, I decide to talk to her instead of avoiding her. “Hey,” I say in greeting.
She looks over at me and gives me the most pathetic nod. In fact, I’m not even sure it can be called that. I don’t hold it against her; she looks like she’s nursing a hell of a hangover.
“So. You and Sage,” I continue, undeterred by her less than enthusiastic greeting.
“Mm-mm,” she mutters, shaking her head ever so slightly. “We’re not doing this now. We’re not talking about it.”
O-kay, I think to myself as I slowly back my way out of the kitchen. Maybe an afternoon chat with the roomie is not on the books for today.
I swear, I can’t figure that girl out to save my life. However, just now, I couldn’t care less. After the morning I’ve had, avoiding roomie drama is at the top of my priority list. I close myself into my room, still feeling entirely too full, and stretch out across my bed. I’m too wired to take a nap, my day with Brandon having left me elated. I need something to help pass the time, though, so I pull out my Kindle and get lost in my current novel.
Four hours later, after I’ve completely wrinkled my dress from changing positions every twenty minutes, I’ve reached another happily-ever-after. I’m in the middle of trying to decide if I want to pick another book and keep reading, or if I want to make myself something small to eat for dinner, when my phone rings. I don’t know why I think it’s Brandon, but I scramble for the device with the hope that I’m right. I’m extraordinarily disappointed when I find out I’m not.
Then I feel like a shitty friend for being disappointed. That’s not exactly what you’re supposed to feel when your best friend is trying to reach you.