Delicious

by Lori Foster, Lucy Monroe, Sarah Little

  Her dedication to her job and to her employees was just one of the many things he loved about her.

  He shut the door behind him.

  Ivy’s head came up at the click of the lock sliding into place.

  His expression was as serious as a heartbeat; he knew because that’s how he felt. “I think we need to have another lesson in cooperation.”

  She blinked, her mouth opening and closing, but no words came out. “C-cooperation? Here?” she finally stuttered.

  He smiled, loving the catch in her voice, the feminine wariness combined with grudging interest in her beautiful brown eyes. “Here, sweetheart.”

  He crossed the room, just as he had the day before, but when he reached her side of the desk, instead of looming over her, he dropped to kneel in front of her.

  “Blake?” Her voice was so tiny, almost scared, and he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be okay, but there were other things that had to be said first.

  He took her hands in his. They were trembling, but then so were his. “I love you, Ivy Kendall. Will you marry me?”

  Tears started sliding down her cheeks, and she shook her head. “You can’t. You don’t. It’s just pity. Please, Blake, don’t . . .”

  He kissed her until her mouth went cooperative against his; then he pulled away. “I can. I do. It’s not and I will, for the rest of our lives.”

  “But you didn’t say anything when I told you I loved you.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m stubborn. You may have noticed.”

  She laughed, a small, breathy sound. “Yes, I had.”

  “I didn’t want to admit what I felt was love, not the times I was so disappointed I wanted to hit things when you didn’t show up for the management training seminars, not when I realized my desire for you was out of control and spurring me on to fantasize about you in a way I hadn’t ever done with another woman, not when you said you loved me and turned me on so bad, I lost what was left of my mind, not when seeing you getting dressed to go back to your room scared me worse than going sky diving for the first time, not even when you told me you couldn’t be with me because of your moon magnetism. But, honey, when you ran away from me and my proposal, even I wasn’t stubborn enough to keep denying my love.”

  “You didn’t propose. You offered to give me a baby.”

  “Same thing. I’m not a sperm donor; I’m a man. If I’m going to give you a baby, you are going to be wearing my ring on your finger.”

  “Oh, Blake.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I—”

  Wait a second. He let go of her hands to dig in his pocket. He came up with a small black velvet box and flipped it open. The square-cut moonstone with diamonds on either side of it winked up at them.

  He pulled the ring out and put it partway on her finger. “Yes?”

  She grinned, her eyes glistening with tears. “Yes.”

  “Thank you, God.”

  She laughed, and he pushed the ring all the way on and then kissed her until she was plastered against his front, kneeling on the floor with him.

  Then he gave her another lesson in cooperation and had to stifle her shouts of pleasure with his mouth.

  Much later they were snuggled into his queen-size bed after Ivy announced their upcoming marriage to the staff.

  Everyone congratulated them, but none of her employees were surprised. Trudy said it had been obvious to all of them for months that Ivy was in love with the big boss. They were just glad he had shown enough smarts to return her feelings.

  “I’m not going to like being separated from you during full moons until I get pregnant,” she said, rubbing her hand over his tight abdomen.

  They had made love again, this time her giving him a lesson in cooperation. He’d even let her tie his hands to the old-fashioned bedposts to do it. He was free again, and his arms were locked around her as if he’d never let go.

  He lunged up and over her, his face fixed in a scowl. “Who said anything about being separated?”

  “You can’t—”

  “You’ve got to stop making erroneous assumptions, woman. They’re going to get you into trouble one of these days.”

  “Thanks for the advice, but—”

  “I’ve got a fishing cabin in Vermont, and we can retreat there for a few days every month.”

  “You can’t leave your business like that.”

  “Actually, I can. I am the boss, but my plan is to work remotely. I’ve been thinking about it, and we can insulate the second bedroom against magnetic fields and make it my office. I’ll do the same for my study at home as a safety precaution. You won’t be able to go in those two rooms. I’m sorry about that, but it’s better than being separated once a month.”

  “You would do that for me?” she asked, making no effort to hide the awe she felt at the prospect.

  His scowl deepened. “Of course. I love you, or did you think saying that meant I just wanted to get you in the sack?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Look, I want to be with you. Always. And I’d like to wait to have kids for a year or so. That means we need a solution to your monthly magnetic moments.”

  “You want to wait to have children?”

  “Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to be married for a while first, but I do want your babies, Blake.”

  “And the idea of you having them is the biggest turn-on I’ve ever known except for when you tell me you love me.”

  But waiting for a year or so sounded good. It meant he really was marrying her because he wanted to be with her, not because he was trying to help her fix her problem. The man had to love her a lot to have already worked out the solution he had.

  She wiggled her hips against him. “You said me telling you I love you turns you on?”

  “Yes,” he growled.

  “I love you, Blake. I love you. I love you. I love you . . .”

  His laughter ended on a groan of desire, and they made love again, this time both of them totally secure in the knowledge this marriage was going to happen for all the right reasons and their love was real and strong enough to last a lifetime.

  FULL MOON PIE

  Sarah Title

  To Mary Ellen – Because nobody loves you like your sister.

  One

  “Is she out there yet?”

  Dan Fields dropped the blinds to the office window at the sound of his assistant’s voice. Mrs. Harris came up behind him, filling his nostrils with the sweet, powdery smell of her . . . well, he wasn’t sure where the sweet, powdery smell came from. But it was a smell he always associated with sweet, gray-haired ladies of a certain age, which Mrs. Harris certainly was.

  Maybe not so sweet.

  Especially now, as she pinched the blinds open and gave a knowing “ah.”

  Yes, of course she was out there. A few days a month, every month, she was out there from late morning until well after most of the businesses downtown had closed. And she always had a steady stream of customers for the entire day. A few days a month, and then she disappeared.

  And every day, he looked for her.

  Mona and her stupid pink truck.

  Apple of My Pie.

  Who would have thought that a small town in Ohio would embrace something as trendy as a food truck? But the people of Delicious had always been pretty open-minded, especially when it came to food, and especially when that food highlighted the golden delicious apples that made the town famous. Well, famous in Ohio.

  Everybody said Mona was a genius with her baking; she managed to create treats that combined cutting-edge flavors with the comfort that only homemade baked goods could provide. She always managed to get the apples to taste just right, even this early in the season.

  Not that Dan would know.

  “I’m going to go down and see what she has this morning. You sure you don’t want anything?”

  He knew Mrs. Harris was a professional, distinguished,
accomplished woman, so there was no possible way that she had just winked at him. He just grunted at her and returned to his desk.

  No, he didn’t want anything from Mona Miller. He had spent the past few years very specifically not buying anything from Mona. Not that he wasn’t tempted. The first time she came to a meeting of the Delicious Small Business Association, her idea for a mobile bakery was just that, an idea. Dan loved it, at first. He thought it was creative and had great growth potential. And judging by the way his colleagues fell on the samples she brought in, she would be successful. He had watched as they grabbed every last crumb, leaving nothing for him, but he didn’t mind. He was distracted.

  He had tried to be professional about it, but there was no denying that Mona looked, well, delicious. She was short but curvy, and she had a mass of crazy, brown curls that framed her eyes, eyes that were such a pale green they were almost gold. They were amazing eyes. And that smile. When he offered her suggestions on how to file the right paperwork for her permits, she had smiled at him, and her whole face lit up.

  That was them, in a nutshell. She had wild, inventive ideas; he had paperwork. Not that there was a “them.” Just a smile that made his heart stop, and a business plan that he could, if he was being generous, call erratic.

  Normally he made a point of buying local—after all, his accounting firm would never survive without the support of the Delicious business community. “Accounting firm” might be a slight exaggeration – it was just him and Mrs. Harris. But they did all right. They had regular customers and a solid reputation, and he was even thinking of taking on a business school intern when the semester started.

  So how could he, as a responsible small business owner, one who paid his taxes and his bills and had a lease on an actual building, support a woman who clearly did not take the rigorous work of owning a small business seriously? One who worked frivolous hours and ignored the tremendous growth potential in this town so she could maintain those frivolous hours?

  A food truck! She couldn’t get a real bakery? And pink! Ridiculous. Branding was important, he got that, but pink? A pink truck and pink shirts—and apples weren’t even pink!

  And the name—Apple of My Pie. When he had first heard it, he liked it. It had a whimsical quality that suited what he thought were her start-up plans. Apparently, though, whimsical was a way of life for Mona. Every time he heard that business name now, it made his teeth hurt.

  He hated the cutesy name and the cutesy truck and the cutesy little pink tank top she wore as she handed out muffins and tarts and pie and . . . whatever else she sold. So far Mrs. Harris had just brought back turnovers and the occasional pie to take home when her grandchildren were in town. Each one smelled amazing, and if the satisfied sighs Mrs. Harris emitted as she licked her fingers clean were any indication, each one tasted amazing, too.

  But that was not for Dan. He turned back to his e-mail. He had work to do.

  Mona grabbed a bite of an apple turnover before turning back to Joe Gunderson. She probably shouldn’t help customers with her mouth full, but Joe didn’t care. He liked a girl who ate, he told her. And if he wasn’t eighty years old and half blind, she would have been flattered.

  Frankly, she was still a little flattered. It was nice to be appreciated.

  The turnover was good. The golden delicious apples that made the town of Delicious famous were a little early, but they had baked up amazingly well. She shouldn’t be surprised; it was a full moon. She couldn’t mess it up if she tried. She thought Joe would probably like them, so she threw one into the white box she was loading up with assorted fruit tarts for him. It would be a nice surprise for him when he got home.

  She handed Joe his change and tied his box with red-and-white string. That was probably her favorite part of the bakery. She loved that string. It reminded her of small towns and neighbors who liked each other, and it suited Delicious to a T. She slapped on a pink Apple of My Pie sticker and handed the box across the little counter that folded down from the window cut into the side of the truck. As soon as she was sure he had a good grip on it (he promised he would never drop any of the stuff he bought from her—but he was eighty, after all), she stood up to stretch her back.

  She loved her little pink truck, but leaning over to help all of these customers was rough work. It was better than when she first started out, when she was selling baked goods out of the trunk of her hatchback. That had been one really good thing to come out of her limited interactions with the Delicious Small Business Association. Its members were all really supportive in helping her get funding to upgrade to her dream vehicle, even if some of them balked when she proved that she was serious about painting it pink. Dan the Accountant, known as Khaki Dan among her girlfriends, had been especially . . . not into it. But she knew he saw a food truck as just a stepping stone to a “real” bakery, as he called it. Mona humored him, even though she also knew a full-time business was impossible for her.

  Her truck had shelves and refrigeration, and she did her best to make it look homey and welcoming. After a lot of false leads, she’d finally found it cheap on eBay. The guy selling it said it was a retired cupcake truck from Chicago, but it smelled suspiciously like falafel when it was delivered. Fortunately, she had had plenty of time in between baking spurts to fix it up. Joe’s nephew, Dylan, owned a kitchen supply store and he’d agreed to work on it in exchange for her catering his daughter’s college graduation party (fortunately, the party fell on a full moon) and a selection of goodies for his wife’s monthly book group. So Dylan had ripped out the old gas grill that didn’t work anymore and put in a warming oven, and tuned up all of the refrigerators and the solar generator on top of the truck.

  Then Mona had given it a thorough cleaning, scrubbing every surface within an inch of its life, scouring out any unsavory old-food smells. When she could move her arms again, she contemplated the peeling paint job, and her future. This venture had to work, and going halfway was not an option. So, despite Khaki Dan’s protests, she had painted it pink.

  And so Apple of My Pie, Mobile Bakery, was born. She still did most of the baking at home, where she had spent all of the money she inherited from her grandmother on a massive kitchen overhaul. The demand for her food was so great that she still relied on insulated shopping bags for the extra inventory. Business was good. Business was really good. So good that she was finally ready to stop worrying about the fact that this venture would only be part-time, because she could finally afford to live on the money she made with her limited schedule.

  She checked her watch. The lunchtime rush was about to begin, so she pulled the German apple cake out of the warming oven, then switched it off. Even with the fans going, Apple of My Pie could turn into, well, an oven, especially as the summer sun beat down in the afternoon. She pulled a pink bandana out of her jeans pocket and wiped her forehead, then tied her hair back with it. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail that morning, but her curly mop was no match for Ohio summer humidity, and she knew she looked like a frizzy mess.

  She started slicing the cake into squares and putting them out on the little paper trays she used for plates, then stacked them under the dome of the old-fashioned cake plate she had superglued to the counter. Apple cake was a specialty of hers, and a lot of her regulars came by just for a slice of it. She laid out a tray mixed with cookies and berry tarts next to it—her regulars could usually be counted on for an impulse buy.

  She wasn’t sure exactly why she looked up when she did, but, then, it always took her by surprise. There he was, going into the mom-and-pop diner down the street.

  Khaki Dan.

  She thought he had been avoiding her ever since Apple of My Pie hit the road. He hadn’t accepted the invitation she’d extended to the whole SBA when she had her opening day street party. He never stopped by like the other small business owners did. He never even seemed to look at her food truck.

  She thought she had done something to offend him, but whenever she saw him anywhere els
e—in the park, at the library, at the one bar in town—he was nice enough. He smiled and exchanged small talk, and she thought she even saw some interest in those piercing blue eyes of his—interest she was definitely willing to reciprocate. But then she would pull up in Apple of My Pie, and it was like she had put a sack over her head. A sack filled with month-old garbage that said, “I Hate Accountants.” He didn’t just ignore her when she worked; he seemed insulted by her.

  Not that he didn’t have opportunities to be cordial. Every day, like clockwork, he and his well-fitting khakis went into the diner at noon. Every day, according to Marylou, he ordered a turkey sub with lettuce, tomato, light on the mayo, extra pickle. He drank black coffee, never pop, and always skipped dessert.

  Which was probably how he stayed so fit.

  Truth be told, that was what Mona had noticed about him first. After all, it’s not every day that you see a nicely dressed, not-wearing-a-wedding-ring, good-looking guy in a small town like Delicious. She sort of resented that such a catch could be such a jerk. It seemed like a cruel trick on womankind.

  But apparently Mona, or Food-Truck-Mona, was his only pet peeve. Marylou said he was actually a very nice guy and a good tipper, and Mrs. Harris, one of her best customers, worked for him and had nothing but good things to say. But he sure didn’t like Mona. And she wanted to find out why.

  By the time the lunch rush was over, she had almost forgotten about Khaki Dan, but then she heard the distant tinkling of the bell to the diner, and out he came, briefcase in one hand, to-go coffee in the other. Black coffee. Who could drink coffee without anything in it? This was a man who needed some sweetness in his life.

  “Hey!” she called out, and waved. He looked up, startled, then looked behind him. “Yes, you!” she shouted, then gestured for him to come over. Even from down the street she could see his eyebrows scrunch up in consternation, but he started toward her anyway, his loafers leading his reluctant legs. And what legs they were. Damn, that man could fill out a pair of khakis.