Better Than Chocolate (Sweet Somethings Book 1)

by Rowan, J. Lynn

  “You’re just making excuses.” Tess shakes her head at me as she gathers her ingredients for the macaroons.

  “I’m not making excuses.”

  “I got a small business loan to start this bakery. You can do the same thing. You make a big enough name for yourself, along with a solid reputation, and capital’s gonna flow through the front door.” She separates three eggs, setting the yolks aside for another go at chocolate custard, and whisks the whites into a froth. “I have a business degree, but my brother does the books. He can help you out if you’re worried about the accounting end of things.”

  “Yeah, but―”

  “I didn’t start off this successful. I could barely pay rent for the first year. I slogged my way through after doing time in local candy shops and inn restaurants.”

  Powdered sugar puffs into my bowl. “You assume I actually want to open a bakery.”

  She holds up the whisk, almost flinging sticky egg whites at me. “You have a gift with this stuff. Maybe it’s because you research the hell out of recipes before plunging in, I don’t know. But you’re going to come up with a product people will want. The business is just the packaging.”

  “That’s what Ryan says,” I grumble, sifting dry ingredients over the grated butter.

  The whisk scrapes for a few more strokes before Tess speaks again. “If you want a successful bakery in Savannah, the only thing you need to work on is your southern drawl, Yankee-girl.” She ignores my glare and levels the whisk at me again. “Go to Sadie’s wedding. Take pictures and a video so I can see evidence of her mental breakdown. Loosen up a bit. Who knows? Maybe the best man is really hot.”

  Chapter 3

  MaMére’s Opinion

  Expedited processing ensures the timely arrival of my passport, and a gushing, detailed email from Sadie, with my flight and hotel information attached, hits my inbox a few days later.

  The night before I have to leave, I pace across my apartment, kitchen to living room window and back again, trying to explain the travel plans to my mom. Her voice hammers through my cell phone, and I hold it a good two feet from my ear to protect my ear drum.

  “She couldn’t get you a direct flight? And she’s got you staying two nights in San Juan?”

  Moxley sits in the doorway to the bedroom, his front paws tucked primly against the underside of his belly. The tip of his tail twitches with each of Mom’s words, amber eyes trailing my path across the floor.

  I know, I mouth at him, rolling my eyes.

  “It’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll take a shuttle from the airport to the hotel and back.”

  “I really don’t think you should go. Wait till Dad gets home and talk about it with him.”

  I drop onto the sofa, propping my bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. “I spent extra to get my passport application processed within two weeks. Everything’s booked, I have all my documentation, and Tess gave me the week off. I’ll drive up to Atlanta tomorrow morning to catch my flight.”

  The line buzzes for a moment, that weird cell tower silence when nobody’s talking. Did she hang up? You never know with Mom. She’s touchy like that.

  “This never would have happened if you’d just stayed home.”

  “What would never have happened?” A headache pricks the back of my eyes. I never know what Mom means when she says stuff like this. Does she mean getting roped into maid of honor duties at Sadie’s elopement? Or me meeting Sadie in the first place?

  “This is what happens when you get mixed up with these people who think they can do anything they want.”

  Ah. That ‘this would never have happened’. Because, you know, when I was a stupid teenager I let everybody walk all over me.

  “You and Dad agreed to send me out of state for college.”

  “I thought you’d come home after graduation. It’s lonely here without you.”

  Moxley deigns to join me on the sofa, purring as he jumps up and rubs his face on my arm. “Dad’s getting close to retirement. You guys could move down here.”

  Mom scoffs. “It’s hot in Georgia. And you have cockroaches and brown recluse spiders, which we don’t have here.”

  “There are these things called air conditioners and exterminators. I have both. And it’s nice and cool in the winter. Actually, spring and fall are really pleasant, too.”

  “You only have one bedroom in that tiny apartment.”

  I practically snort. “Geez, Mom, I didn’t mean live with me. There are other apartments in Savannah.”

  “Well, Dad likes the snow.”

  “He only says that until the first lake-effect storm hits.” The doorbell rings, and Moxley hisses as I shove him aside. “Gotta go, Mom. Somebody’s at the door.”

  “Wait, Carmella―”

  “Love you. Roaming charges will be a bitch if I call, so I’ll send you a text whenever my plane lands.”

  Hanging up, I dump my phone and the printouts with my travel information on the kitchen counter. The doorbell rings again.

  “I’m coming,” I call, hurrying to unlatch my five chains and deadbolts. Swinging the door open, I lean against the jamb and smile at my visitor. “Hi, MaMére.”

  The diminutive nut-brown woman shuffles in, bearing the wave of humidity from the corridor with her. She pats my arm as she passes me and sets a heavy shopping bag on the counter. MaMére isn’t her real name, but it’s what everyone calls her. Originally from Barbados, she spent the first fifty years of her life island-hopping around the West Indies, first with her family and then her husband. She claims she settled in Savannah after fleeing the Communist Revolution in Cuba in a raft, but she also has her immigration papers framed on her living room wall. The raft story is full of holes, but refuses to sink.

  “I brought some treats for your cat.” She lowers her Coke-bottle glasses to the tip of her nose and snaps her fingers toward the floor. “Where’s he at?”

  Moxley streaks across the apartment, voicing his appreciation for the promised treats with purrs and mews and the blatant display of his belly.

  “You’re going to spoil him.”

  “Cats are born spoiled.” She rubs the offered belly until Moxley writhes with delight. Straightening, she waves at the door. “Letting out all the cool air, Carmella. Come on, and don’t bother with the locks. MaMére will protect you.”

  The assorted deadbolts and chains are my concession to my mom for living alone, even though I’ve always felt safe in the Historic District. MaMére teases me about them every time she comes upstairs. She brags about not having any locks besides the one that came on her doorknob. But then, nobody in a ten-block radius would think of breaking into her apartment. She would probably recognize the thief and then snitch on him to his grandmother.

  “I appreciate you checking in on Moxley while I’m gone.”

  I pull my thank-you gift from the fridge: chocolate cream pie with a homemade graham cracker crust. Tess inspired me.

  “Mmm-hmm.” MaMére tilts her chin down, staring over her glasses.

  Does she even need them to see?

  “What?”

  “This trip be a bad idea,” she intones, one finger ominously raised.

  I start to laugh, but the serious slant of her mouth catches me.

  “The devil be sure to find you if you let him in.”

  Oh, that’s one of her favorite cliché tidbits. Her years of travel garnered a wide assortment of advice and sayings, which she loves to deliver anytime someone steps out of line.

  Like I’m apparently doing right now.

  I set the pie on the counter. “What are you talking about?”

  The finger wags once. “Miss Sadie leaving that nice young man, running off like some fool Cinderella, and dragging you into it.” She’s lived in Georgia long enough to pic
k up the local accent, but now her r sounds and word endings soften, her digraphs blur, and the cadence of her voice reverts to what I can only describe as the essence of Caribbean.

  “Oh, my God.” Maybe if I cover my face with the dish towel, she’ll stop.

  “Let me give you some advice.”

  The dish towel is not working. “Do you have to?”

  “Watch out for the devil’s tricks.”

  I groan, but she ignores me.

  “He likes to pop up when you don’t expect him, when you feel comfortable and safe. There’s bad business in this, Carmella, if you don’t pay attention.”

  I let the towel drop. “It might not be the nuclear Armageddon everybody seems to think.”

  “Then why didn’t Miss Sadie come out and say what went wrong, eh?”

  If only I had the answer to that question. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I get to St. Croix and talk to her in person. And why does everybody think I’m gonna get in trouble on this trip? I’m not that gullible.” Something twinges in the back of my brain. “Anymore.”

  She shakes her head. “No, but you don’t always see what you don’t want to see.”

  Trying to make sense of that last comment distracts me long enough for her to dig a can of tuna from her shopping bag, pop the top, and dump the contents into Moxley’s bowl.

  “My cat better not weigh fifty pounds by the time I get back.”

  “How are you getting to the airport?” She rinses the empty can and tosses it into my recycling bin.

  “I’m driving up to Atlanta tomorrow morning.”

  “You have to leave your car at the airport for a week?”

  “Well . . .” When I’ve flown home in the past, I’ve parked at Sadie and Ryan’s house out in the suburbs, and one of them drove me to the airport. That isn’t exactly an option this time. “I guess I’ll have to.”

  MaMére shakes her head again and picks up her shopping bag. “I can drive you.” She scoops a glob of chocolate custard from the center of the pie with her finger.

  “You don’t have a car. Or a driver’s license.”

  “We can take your car. I can leave it in your spot.”

  As much as I love her, there’s no way I’m letting her drive my brand new Honda Fit, unlicensed, four and a half hours home from Atlanta by herself. Never mind the question of who’ll pick me up from the airport.

  “No, really, it’s fine. People leave their cars at the airport all the time.”

  I hand over my extra house key, and MaMére buries it in the bottom of her purse. Safest place, she always tells me.

  “You let me know tomorrow morning if you change your mind.”

  “Thanks, MaMére, but it’s all good.”

  Chocolate cream pie and shopping bag in hand, she shuffles to the door. “Remember―”

  “I know. Devil, bad business, watch my back.” I drop a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. “Thanks again for Moxley.”

  She shouts at me through the door to knock it off when I start throwing deadbolts.

  Moxley sits on the kitchen counter, proper as a king, his tail twitching. He knows he’s not supposed to be up there, and he also knows no one will shoo him down all next week. I give him the evil eye, but he just gives it right back.

  “So you think you’re on vacation, too, huh?” I snuggle him, forehead to forehead, and scratch behind his ears until he purrs. “Enjoy it while you can, bucko. Your counter-sitting days are numbered.”

  Chapter 4

  An Unexpected Flight Companion

  Traffic at the airport exit is a nightmare, and full panic sets in as I pull into the last visible space in the parking lot. The lots are open twenty-four hours a day, and even though you can’t pass through the exit gate without your ticket and payment, I worry about my car being stolen. Which is why I always leave it at Sadie and Ryan’s house.

  After dragging my suitcase from the back, I lay my arms across the hatch. “Please be here when I get back.”

  To reassure myself, I press the Lock button enough times to elicit three beeps of my horn. Anti-theft alarm activated. It’s all I can do to protect my car from here on out.

  By the time I print my boarding pass, check my luggage, and suffer through security, thirty minutes remain before my flight boards in the terminal on the opposite side of the airport.

  This is the part of air travel I loathe with the proverbial fire of a thousand suns. Slinging my messenger bag across my body and checking the double knots in my sneaker laces, I begin the mad dash across the terminals to my gate. As only someone with my luck would expect, it’s the last one.

  The gate attendant takes a step back as I barrel toward her, boarding pass extended before me. Wary of my breathless weaving, she scans the barcode. I’m certain the little light will turn red, indicating that I’m at the wrong gate for the wrong flight.

  The scanner beeps, rather than buzzing.

  Green light go.

  “Enjoy your flight.” She hands back my boarding pass.

  With a relieved smile, I amble down the jet bridge and give the flight attendant a nod before turning toward the coach section of the plane. Just about every seat is filled, along with most of the overhead compartments. I squeeze down the aisle, shooting apologies to the two people I bump with my bag. I’m halfway down the length of the plane before I realize my seat number is nowhere to be seen.

  The flight attendant approaches, surprisingly quick on her high heels. “May I help you find your seat, miss?”

  Mouth open, puzzled, I show her my boarding pass.

  Her frown, likely due to my holding up the entire pre-flight check, flips into a toothy grin. “Oh, you’re in the wrong section.”

  Air travel sucks. “Wrong section?”

  She beckons me. “This way.”

  Clutching my boarding pass, I hurry after her as fast as the narrow aisle allows. I bump at least five people this time and try to ignore the dirty look from the harried mom wrangling two toddlers. The flight attendant finally pauses near the plane’s door, and I half expect her to send me back into the terminal. Instead, she draws aside the curtain separating First Class from the rest of the air travel peons.

  If she smiles any wider, she might break her face.

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  This must be an alternate universe. I have never flown First Class in my life. Am I the only wedding guest flying this way? Maybe I should rethink my preconceived notions about Nelson Mattingly. Either he’s showing off for Sadie, or he’s so stinking rich he can’t conceive of anyone flying coach. Based on what little Sadie told me, I’d go with the latter.

  The flight attendant’s smile turns wooden again. Now I really am holding up the flight.

  “Thanks,” I manage, easing past her.

  The curtain drops behind me, and I swear the cabin air is different up here. Like it’s been cycled through a purifier. Forget about the cushy leather seats. I’ve only glimpsed these seats through that exclusionary curtain, never dreaming I would ever have the chance to sink into one. As I start down the aisle, which is considerably wider than the one in coach, only one thought crosses my mind.

  I’m not dressed for First Class.

  While I doubt they’ll kick me out for my messy French braid, minimalist makeup, and the Green Day T-shirt I’ve had since college, I expect more than one disapproving stare from the men in business suits occupying the rest of the seats. I hold my messenger bag to my chest, hiding the logo on my shirt, and scan the seat numbers.

  “Ah, 3A.” I breathe in relief.

  Plus—bonus—I get the window seat. Except, it requires me to climb over one of the aforementioned businessmen. At least he’s not wearing his suit coat and tie. I clear my throat, and he looks up at me.

 
Awfully familiar eyes. Like semi-sweet chocolate chips.

  “Carmella?”

  “Ryan!” My voice comes out a mere croak.

  I drop my bag back to my side. Ryan certainly won’t judge me for my taste in music. Heat filters into my cheeks when he rises and makes room for me to slip by. I still can’t get my voice to work right as he takes my bag and stows it in the overhead compartment.

  This cannot be happening to me. This is a disaster. I’m on my way to Sadie’s wedding—her elopement! And her new fiancé booked my First Class seat next to her ex-fiancé, who also happens to be one of my best friends. What are the odds? Is this what MaMére meant about the devil finding me on this trip? Or is it just bad luck?

  Ryan settles next to me and I busy myself with buckling my seatbelt.

  “What are you―” he begins.

  I shush him, pointing to the front of the plane where the flight attendants are starting the pre-flight safety lecture. His eyes burn a hole in the side of my head, but I maintain my attention on how to turn my seat cushion into a floatation device in the event of a crash over open water. Once the flight attendants sit down and buckle themselves in for take-off, I close my eyes and lean back. The plane taxis onto the runway. According to the pilot, we’re third in line for take-off.

  “Carmella―”

  “Shut up until we’re in the air.”

  Flying is not my preferred method of travel, but I’m okay between take-off and landing. Unless we encounter turbulence. This is the first time in at least eight years I haven’t flown by myself—that is, without someone I know sitting beside me. Ryan’s presence calms me down, and I can focus on the craptastic problem at hand, rather than the jet engines revving up and that weird stomach-lurching moment when the plane lifts off the ground.