Time to put the brakes on those ideas. His gaze roved over her body, not hiding the fact that he was checking her out. Heat bloomed in her cheeks and she mentally shook her head to clear the fireworks going off in her imagination when she caught sight of deep dimples bracketing either side of his full, smiling lips and even white teeth. Oh good Lord, why’d he have to have dimples?
When his gaze made the journey back to hers, she looked pointedly at her hand, still clasped in his. His look was almost apologetic as he released his grip.
“So, uh, Grant mentioned some changes you and Caro had discussed recently,” Jem ventured, on a fishing expedition to find out how far they’d gone in the plans. “She was nearing retirement, so I’m a bit surprised she was considering it.”
“The renovation started more as just idle talk over coffee than actual plans. You know how proud she was of this place. It was her life, and she wanted it to be the best it could be.”
She folded her arms across her middle and turned a critical eye to the dining area. “There’s no denying it could use updating. Honestly though, I don’t want to waste your time. I’m probably just going to put it on the market. I don’t have time to run a café from the City.”
“Caroline loved this old place. I have to think she’d be unhappy with your decision. She believed leaving it to you was the best way to keep it going.”
Who was this guy? And why had her aunt discussed her plans with him? “What difference does it make who owns it?”
“The Kerrigans had been friends with Caro for years. My brothers and I worked for her in the summer, cooking, waiting tables, running errands…whatever needed to be done. Look past the peeling paint, the battered furniture and scruffy floors. You’ll see why she considered this place her home. The building dates back to when they built them to last against the biggest blows Mother Nature could throw at them.” He led her to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the shop. “Why wouldn’t you want to move here? Just look at this town. It’s been here for hundreds of years. There’s history in every brick.”
“I could say the same about New York City.”
As they stood in the window, the sun peeked out from behind low clouds and streamed into the shop, washing warmth over both of them. Red tones glinted in his dark brown hair. The halo effect fascinated her. Standing this close, she could inhale the hot-guy scent, feel the warmth off his body. The intoxicating blend of sage and wind rushed to her head like a full-bodied cabernet.
She started to step closer, but stopped herself and instead, tuned into the features he pointed out that had made the location of the shop work well for many years. “We’re at the southern end of Granite Pointe. Most of the café’s customers are locals stopping on their way to work in the tourist section on Front Street. It borders the harbor, so Caroline got travelers occasionally. Shop merchants often recommended Caro’s Taste to tourists looking for an authentic New England experience. Even though she was only open for breakfast, there was always a pot of coffee on.”
“I remember.” Warm memories of the summers she’d worked for her aunt surfaced, slicing through the chill she’d had since leaving the cemetery. “She’d pour a to-go cup for lost tourists and direct them to the harbor. Many of those people came back the next morning for breakfast.”
A grin still on her lips, she faced him. His eyes turned a shade of pale blue in the gleam of the sun. He was a poster child for the phrase Black Irish. Luxurious, dark brown hair stubbornly fell forward over his brow. Stubble on his chin and a powerful build added nearly irresistible character and substance. No doubt about it--everything about him was appealing.
Taking a step backward, she stifled her attraction to him. She pulled a picture of Phil up in her mind. Phil, the man she loved and hoped would propose when she returned to New York. Yeah, that guy. Picturing his face hadn’t been this difficult earlier today.
“Well, Mr. Kerrigan, um, Jack, what kind of changes did you and Caro discuss?”
He nodded toward the messenger bag he’d dropped on the floor when he came in. “I have some sketches if you’d like to go through them.” He walked away from her and the sunlight to pull the papers out of the bag.
She joined him as he laid the drawings out on the table, then shrugged his jacket off and draped it over the back of a chair. She studied each one as she went through the stack. His suggestions maximized space in the narrow shop, improving traffic flow and ambiance.
“These are good,” she said, flipping to the next one. “I like the way you reverse the cash wrap to make the flow cleaner. Smaller counters along the back of the shop are a great solution, given the limited space.” She traced a line with her fingertip. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“These are excellent plans. As much as Caro loved this place, I’m surprised she didn’t move forward with them. What happened?”
A frown creased Jack’s forehead. “She seemed excited about making changes. Said she had extra money and wanted to start fixing the place up. A month ago, I brought by estimates for new equipment she wanted for the kitchen. She wasn’t feeling great, so we let it go, thinking she’d perk up. She…I don’t know…just sort of lost interest.” He shifted his weight, resting a hand on his hip. “About a week later, she got sick. It was like a bad flu she couldn’t shake. She was tired and listless most days and flat on her back nauseated others. It got so she didn’t have the energy to open the shop in the mornings. I can’t remember ever seeing someone go down so fast.”
She cocked her head to one side. “I asked Grant about her death, but he never answered my questions. Caro was always health conscious and meticulous about taking care of herself.”
Jack thought for a second, then shoved a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t like anyone else around came down with similar symptoms. My mom brought soups and custards, but Caroline didn’t seem to have any appetite. Once she started feeling poorly, she shelved her plans for the remodel.”
His statement reinforced the shock and sadness surrounding her heart. “Too bad. I bet she would have loved the result. Your suggestions add a lot to the place. What did you plan for the kitchen?”
“Let me show you,” Jack said, pointing toward the back of the space as he pulled another stack of drawings from his bag.
She followed him through the swinging door at the far end of the counter. The space was filled with griddles, fryers, grills, ovens, a stovetop and a large farm sink. Sturdy butcher-block counters, laid out neatly in front of the cooking area, looked neglected. The light coating of dust over most of the equipment and floor hit her like a forlorn ache. Faint footprints in the dust led from the rear door and the narrow, confined space that served as the pantry. The stockroom door was open and cooking supplies lined the shelves. She could serve breakfast tomorrow morning if she was inclined to turn the Closed sign around and invite people in.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Despite the beauty of Jack’s plans, she wouldn’t stay in town to run this business.
Turning her attention back to Jack, she caught the tail end of his comments about the electrical system. Darn, she should have been listening. Did he just utter the words complete overhaul? That sounded expensive.
“The electrical panel is in the pantry. Come on, I’ll show you what I mean,” he said, leading the way to the small room.
Steps dragging, she neared the narrow closet. Entering the pantry to grab ingredients had been a hated chore during the summers she’d worked for Aunt Caro. She despised small, confined spaces and the pantry topped the list of places to avoid. Still, it would only be a second. It shouldn’t take long to get a general idea of Jack’s recommendations. Especially since she wouldn’t be taking any of them.
Taking a reluctant breath, she followed his broad back into the closet. Unease slithered down her spine like an artic ice floe as he swung the door partially closed to reveal a steel-gray panel mounted on the wall behind it.
A cold sweat broke out
on her brow. Even thinking about Jack’s sexy factor didn’t help. In fact, the space felt narrower because of the presence of the very large man next to her. Her lifelong struggle with claustrophobia bared its claws and sunk them deep in her stomach.
“See how the conduit runs up the wall and over to the other side?”
She forced herself to tear her gaze from the door that led to freedom, and followed the path of Jack’s finger as he pointed out the metal snake sprouting out of the electrical box. Twisting to follow the line overhead, she bumped the door, nudging it with her hip.
The door slid shut with an ominous click.
Keep Reading
For more of Malin and Gunnar’s Story from
Bed Of Roses
Excerpt from Bed Of Roses, copyright 2015 by Gemma Brocato
Amazon
Chapter 1
“Malin!”
Malin Eckert jumped a second after Chloe shouted her name and pushed the door of the refrigerated case into Mal’s backside. Chloe’s attempt to get her attention resulted in Malin banging her head on the rack inside the unit, causing her teeth to clash together. Damn Monday morning. She backed out of the case, massaging the rising bump. She cast a baleful look at her shop assistant.
Chloe shut the door, cutting off the soft hum of the fans. “I’ve been calling your name forever.”
“Forever? Come on, Chloe. We’ve talked about your need to exaggerate before.” It was a character trait they’d worked to curb since the perky, happy, over-the-top girl had started working at The Secret Garden nearly a year ago. They hadn’t made much progress.
The chagrinned look in Chloe’s contact lens-enhanced turquoise eyes made it clear the girl didn’t think she’d stretched anything.
Mal shrugged, the gesture an admission that she was prepared to give up hope. “What did you need? Where’s the fire?”
“Oh. There’s no fire. Well, maybe there is. At least you might think so.”
Malin tilted her head, raised her eyebrows, and waved the long-stem rose she clutched between her fingers, silently urging the girl to get to the point.
Chloe grimaced, then spewed the rest of her message. “Mrs. Aubrey-Smith called. She’s on her way in.”
In the dim recesses of Malin’s mind, a mournful bell began tolling. Mrs. A.S. had become more than an annoying pebble in her shoe. The snooty matriarch had escalated into a giant freaking boulder from the day Malin had accepted the job as her darling Ashleigh’s wedding planner. Nothing, absolutely nothing, Mal had suggested was good enough for the society wedding of the century.
Malin dropped her head into her hands, scratching her cheek with the thorn on the flower she still held. “Ouch.” She dabbed her finger across the site of the stinging pain. She pulled her hand back and, sure enough, she’d drawn blood. “Just freaking perfect. Now I have to meet Bridezilla’s mom with blood on my face. Where’s my dad?”
“He’s in the garden.”
Anxiety mowed over her like a steamroller, crushing her lungs and making it hard to breathe. She had to get Dad out of sight. He’d exchanged harsh, ugly words with Mrs. A.S. early in their planning meetings. The woman insisted she never wanted to cross paths with him again, threatening to pull the contract from The Secret Garden. And she’d do it—of that Malin had no doubt. Then all the Aubrey-Smith society friends, Mal’s potential customers, would follow. Mal would be ruined.
She cast a frantic gaze around the shop and searched for a reason to send her father on an errand. When she spotted an arrangement on the countertop, she hurried across the room to shove the rose into the vase. The more expensive bloom wasn’t the perfect flower, but it worked for this emergency.
“Take Dad with you to deliver these. Then go get us coffee. Or ice cream, or anything you want. Keep him out of here for at least an hour, understand?” After adding two more creamy white carnations, Mal tucked a couple of sprigs of leather leaf into it, completing the look. She grabbed a spool of red and white ribbon, and with deft fingers, twisted a length into a bow while her shop assistance watched. “Chloe, go. I’ll be done with this by the time you round him up. Go!”
Her sharp command motivated Chloe to action. The girl’s spiky black hair bobbed wildly as she hustled toward the back of the flower shop to find Ben Eckert. They had to get him out of Dodge before a showdown with Granite Pointe, Massachusetts’ biggest snob. Mal’s stomach hurt. Pressing her hand against it, she tried to still the elephant-stomping-on-grapes pain.
Her cell phone rang, but after consulting the display, she ignored it. There wasn’t time to answer a call from a number she didn’t recognize. She reached behind her and grabbed the calligraphy pen she used to inscribe cards. It only took a second to ink the message that had come with the order on the answering machine overnight. She’d just crossed the last T when Chloe dragged Dad through the back door. Mal blew gently on the card to dry the ink.
Chloe admonished him as they entered the shop. “Ben, it’s January. It’s much too cold to sit outside without a coat. Where’s your jacket?”
“I left it on the hook. I was only going to be out there for a minute.”
Malin looked up sharply. Dad’s words were slurred. Please God, let it be because he was cold. Any other reason was unacceptable. His cheeks and nose were ruddy, but that wasn’t unusual since the temperature had hovered around forty all morning. “Dad, you okay?”
Dad’s broad, beaming smile did nothing to ease the ache of concern gnawing at her throat. They’d been doing so great. Except… Dad hadn’t talked about his AA sponsor in at least a week. Not good.
“Mal, my girl, I’m finer than frog’s hair this morning.” Dad’s eyes twinkled. “Young Chloe tells me Mrs. ASS is on her way in, and I’m being forced to vacate the premises. I was having a lovely break in your little garden. It’s probably best for me to leave since I don’t care for her attitude. Or the way she treats you.”
She shushed her dad as Chloe brought his coat from the back room and handed it to him. “Dad, do not call Mrs. Aubrey-Smith that. You’re in enough hot water with her as it is. I need this job. Without it, I can’t take a lease out on the shop on Charles Street.”
“Ach! I don’t know why you want to make more work for yourself. You’ve got a great thing going here.”
“Dad, it’s all part of the dream. Now, come on. You’re going with Chloe to deliver these flowers. Then get me the largest vanilla latte money can buy at Kaffeland. Tell them to add an extra espresso shot. I’m going to need it.”
She took the coat from his hands and helped him into it, stepping close enough to discreetly sniff. No telltale aroma of whiskey on his breath. Thank heavens. The constant worry over whether he was drinking again almost made her want a drink. It might relieve the anxiety but would not solve the problem.
She buttoned up his jacket as she spoke. A car with an obnoxious hood ornament careened into the slanted handicap parking space in front of the shop. In spite of the glare on the windshield, the matron of Granite Pointe society was visible and looked very determined. She flipped down her visor and ran a tube of pale pink Tom Ford lipstick around her collagen-injected lips. If a woman had the best looking lips cosmetic surgery could engineer, it stood to reason she’d buy a fifty-dollar lip color to enhance them.
Mal shook her head and turned her father toward the alley door where the delivery van was parked. Chloe scooted up next to them with the arrangement, muttered “good luck,” then urged Dad through the portal just as Mrs. A.S.’s shadow filled the wide, wood-framed glass door. As the woman entered, the silver bell jangled more than it tinkled, its response to all the negative energy sweeping into her store with the mother of the bride.
“Good morning, Mrs. Aubrey-Smith. What brings you in today?”
“Hello, dear.” The matriarch of Granite Pointe’s first family air-kissed Mal’s cheeks, right, left, then right again. “We need to completely change our selection for Ashleigh’s flowers.”
What the what? This would be t
he third, no fourth, time. Malin had to concentrate to keep from rolling her eyes. “I thought we’d settled on the tropical flowers. I know Ashleigh loved the colors.”
The bride had insisted on fuchsia roses, orange callas, and green orchids, claiming the colors made her happy. And Mal had already made arrangements to import the orchids at great expense. Her mind leaped through all the steps she’d need to take to stop the order.
Lines of disapproval dented the woman’s forehead. The last Botox injections must be wearing off. “Well, the Sheridan’s wedding was this weekend and they hijacked our color scheme. That took some nerve, if you ask me. All the same colors, right down to the sunset callas. Our wedding must be different.”
Okay, they were going to turn the world completely upside down because some other society bride had used similar colors? “Have you talked this over with Ashleigh? Does she want to change?”
Mrs. A.S. waved her fingers in the air, dismissing Mal’s question. “It does not matter. This is Ashleigh’s only wedding. It will be perfect.”
It wasn’t common for a mother to disregard her daughter’s wishes when planning a wedding, but it did happen. As far as it being her little precious’s only wedding, Mal had serious misgivings. Last week, when she’d delivered the mid-week floral arrangements for the lobby of the Bay Breeze Inn, she’d seen the bride sneaking past the front desk with a man who wasn’t her potential groom.
Mal opened her mouth but stuffed the words back in her throat. She could not alienate this client. “Okay. Well, there will be a charge to cancel the special order.”
The aging diva pursed her plump lips together, creating vertical crevices all around her mouth. It wasn’t a good look. “Money isn’t an object when entertaining guests.”
Her derisive tone carried an unspoken you simpleton. Mal believed only the woman’s impeccable breeding kept her from voicing it. Or maybe she simply considered Mal not worth the effort.
A Spirited Love (A Five Senses Short Book 2) Page 12