Raspberry Crush

by Jill Winters

  "Okay, okay," Seth said with a laugh. "Let's see here. It's called Lannigan Consulting. Very inventive, I know. As of August we're finally in the black, which is great. And basically what we do is help start up small companies."

  "Wow, that's amazing!"

  Seth shrugged as if it were no big deal, but there was a hint of pride behind his modesty. "What about you? Are you looking to get back into Web design? Or do something different?"

  "Something different, but I have no idea what," she said with a sigh, feeling like a post-Gen-X cliché. "Part of me thinks I should—I mean, of course I should—but... I don't know. I guess what I like about working at Bella Donna is the freedom... the independence. The cake decorating is fun, and sometimes I can really use my imagination—sometimes I'll work in the back on a cake for a couple hours, and I won't even realize so much time has passed." She shrugged. "It's fun. And also, I have more time to myself, when I can just sketch or paint at home...." Suddenly she realized she'd been droning on, so she wrapped it up. "Basically, I'm clueless."

  Grinning, he said, "I understand."

  The waitress came over and set down their meals; Billy ordered another Diet Coke, and Seth told the waitress to bring some extra lemon when Billy forgot to ask. He actually remembered that?

  "Well, whatever you do next, I think it should be something artistic," he said, picking up his burger. "You're such an incredible artist, Billy. Hey, do you still carry your sketch pad everywhere?"

  "Yeah, I guess," she said, grinning at him.

  "Do you remember that time we went to Starbucks, and there was a drawing class there?"

  "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, the memory hitting her like a bolt of lightning. How could she have forgotten? A group of students who'd come into Starbucks to sketch customers and attempt to capture the local culture. Each seemed to zero in on one person as their subject, and the girl who'd sketched Billy had ogled her relentlessly, making it extremely obvious that she was drawing her, and then didn't even have the decency to draw something flattering.

  "She made me look like a big Weeble," Billy said now.

  Seth laughed, shaking his head. "It was only because you were wearing that big wool sweater and you had your hair all pulled up." So he remembered that, too.

  "You're just trying to make me feel better," she said with an almost flirty tilt of her head.

  The way Seth smiled at her touched her heart; it was casual, like he knew her well, like they were really friends again. Suddenly her palms felt itchy and clammy, and, unwittingly, she rubbed them on her thighs, burning up the denim but barely noticing. He was too tempting. But she just had to remember two little words: Mark Warner. Synonymous with two more little words: future potential.

  "Listen, Billy," Seth said, setting down his burger. "I... well, I asked you to lunch for more than just catching up." He looked like he was struggling for the right words. "Well the truth is... it's just so great to see you again and... I wanted you to know that I'm really sorry about the way things ended."

  "It's okay," she said quickly, anxious to segue to a new topic.

  "No, really, I just want you to know that..."

  God, what? That he regretted the past? She did, too, but the past was done so why bring it up now? Their breakup was old news, and even though they'd dated only a few months, it was painfully old. "Seth, it's ancient history." Hint, hint. "Don't even worry about it. How's your burger?"

  "Well, I just wanted you to know that it was really hard to leave, but I felt it was the opportunity of a lifetime—"

  "Of course," Billy piped in. "It's totally understandable. Let's just be friends and move on." Of course that sounded lame and trite, but she was a desperate woman. Getting dumped gracefully was one thing; having to talk about it was another. Besides, there actually was some truth to what she was saying. She did want to be friends with him now, whereas four years ago she couldn't deal with that prospect. In fact, after one or two e-mails, she'd stopped keeping in touch altogether because it was the only way she felt she could get over him.

  "Okay," he said, smiling, and touched her wrist affectionately. Breath hitched in her throat at the contact. He didn't let go. Her heart picked up speed as Seth's fingers lingered on her skin. Slowly, his thumb applied gentle pressure, then began rubbing back and forth, almost seductively.

  Wait a minute, what was going on here? Did he want to be friends or not? If she wasn't mistaken, Seth was charming her now—working her, arousing her—in a way that seemed anything but platonic.

  "Billy..." he said, circling his thumb on her wrist with a maddeningly slow rhythm. Braving a glance up at him from under her lashes, Billy found his gaze locked on her, hungry and potent, and she blurted the first thing that came to mind.

  "I have a boyfriend."

  Inevitably, this was the guilt talking. For Pete's sake, she was having a clandestine lunch with her ex, and getting turned on at the table. And the really frustrating part was that this wasn't like her at all. She was fiercely loyal by nature, and she liked Mark; she didn't want to jeopardize anything there, even if he did occasionally annoy her with his social-butterfly routine.

  "Oh," Seth said, sounding caught off guard. Withdrawing his hand, he sat straighter in the booth. "I mean, that's great that you have a boyfriend. I'm not surprised—you're a catch, Billy," he added lightly—casually—and went back to his burger. "I'm glad things are going so well for you," he threw in.

  Uh-huh. Well, this lunch had just taken a bizarre turn... but then, who was she kidding? Practically every moment since Seth came back had been off-puttingly surreal.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, while Billy was asking the waitress for a third Diet Coke, Seth was sitting there feeling like an asshole. Who the hell did he think he was? Of course Billy had a boyfriend. The girl was sweet, smart, fun, and lusciously sexy. Her eyes were pale blue and guileless. Her personality was warm and inexplicably magnetic. Christ, what on earth had he been thinking?

  But he hadn't been thinking. Just acting on instinct. Just going with the moment. It seemed like every time he was with Billy, his body raged out of control. His cock throbbed, his balls ached, and he lost all common sense. Hell, it was stupid anyway; he had a life and a business in Seattle. He was only going to be in Massachusetts a couple more weeks—why was he so fixated on being with her?

  Okay, that was it. Things were going to be different now. He had to focus on what really mattered: selling his mom's house, keeping up with his business, and getting back to Seattle in a reasonable amount of time. If he kept focusing on his lust for Billy, he'd never get anything done. Get your head straight, he thought. Both of them.

  Chapter 12

  "So what did you say?" Corryn asked.

  "What could I say?" Billy said, stirring her drink. "I told him I was seeing someone. I'm sure I misread it anyway. He was probably just being nice. Nothing even happened, but I still feel so guilty."

  "Then I guess Mom's done her job."

  They'd met after work at George, a dim, moody bar on Boylston. This was the first chance Billy had had to fill her sister in on what happened at the jubilee on Saturday night and her lunch with Seth today. She supposed part of what made this afternoon so unsettling was the recollection of that long, sizzling moment at the jubilee—right before the scream—when she could've sworn Seth was about to kiss her.

  "What did Seth say when you told him about Mark?" Corryn asked now.

  "Nothing, really," Billy replied with a shrug. "Except that he's happy for me. Jeez, does he always have to be so nice?"

  Corryn let out a laugh. "Yeah, what is up with you and these nice boys? First Seth, now Mark—and both are decent-looking. What's your secret?" Billy just rolled her eyes as she slurped her raspberry crush. "Is anything else bothering you?" Corryn asked gently.

  "No..." Except that she couldn't stop thinking about kissing Seth, and that was frustrating—plus, she knew that thinking about it was wrong, so that was frustrating. If only she could re
place her spicy, erotic fantasies about Seth with ones of Mark, but it was hard.

  "Well, speaking of men," Corryn said, "guess who I ran into on Saturday night while I was hanging out with Pike?"

  "Who?"

  "That guy from the T." Billy looked at her sister questioningly, and Corryn clarified: "The charmer who tweaked my nipple—but it turns out he didn't."

  Billy's eyes shot up. "Ew, him? Wait—he didn't do it? You mean you actually asked him about it?" she said, giggling.

  "Of course. I couldn't just let it go. But I believe him. Now that I talked to him, it doesn't seem like his style."

  "How long did you guys talk?"

  "Not long. And then I basically made a fool of myself."

  "How?" Billy asked skeptically, because Corryn's negative portrayals of herself often lacked authenticity.

  "He asked me to go for coffee, and I acted like a complete dumb-ass. I acted like I never even heard of coffee."

  "Why do I have the feeling you're exaggerating?"

  "No, it's true—oh, but I did find out his name. It's Joe Montgomery. He's a homicide detective."

  "Wait a minute," Billy said. "Joe Montgomery? I know him!"

  "What?"

  "I know Joe," Billy said again, her face lighting up with a smile. "I mean I used to know him. He's friends with Seth."

  "Oh... wow," Corryn said, feeling a pang of disappointment. Somehow this Joe thing had been her little intrigue. Knowing that he was connected to Billy and Seth made her feel more exposed—more vulnerable. "Small world..."

  "God, this is great!" Billy continued excitedly. "Joe is such a nice guy; you should totally go for it!"

  "Whoa, go for what?" Corryn said, putting up her hands to slow her sister down. "He's cute, but we talked for two minutes. I'm not planning to see him again."

  "Why not? You like him; I'm sure he likes you—you're single; he's single—"

  "Billy, please, I've told you, I don't want to date," Corryn said, then, "He's single?"

  "Divorced," Billy replied eagerly. "Oh, that's perfect, too—he's divorced; you're divorced—you guys can sit around bashing your exes together."

  "What a treat."

  "C'mon, if you're not going to have a hot romance for yourself, then do it for me," Billy pleaded. "Let me live vicariously through you."

  Corryn scoffed. "What are you talking about? You have Mark."

  Hmm... Interesting theory. But did anyone really have Mark? Billy was beginning to wonder. Sure, everything seemed great on the surface, but it was hard to get close to someone who had a million friends and little free time. Then again, an everlasting relationship and a soul-deep connection were probably a lot like hot sex—they would simply come with time.

  Right?

  * * *

  She had the next day off from work, so she figured it was finally time to meet Kip, the wonder headhunter, and watch him work his magic. Adrienne was home right now, literally waiting on bated breath, salivating for details about Gladys's son, the powerhouse.

  Yet when Billy arrived at the shabbily run-down building off of Tremont Street and climbed three flights of creaky steps to the Belding Personnel "suite," she began to doubt Kip's power. Maybe it was wrong to jump to conclusions, but it was kind of hard not to when her first impression of Belding Personnel was peeling paint and dry rot.

  She knocked lightly on the door and heard papers rustling frantically on the other side. Then feet shuffling... then the thump of someone tripping... then someone whispering, "Shit!" Finally the door swung open. A skinny guy in his twenties with a frosted goatee, who was slightly out of breath, smiled down at her. "Hi, Kip?"

  "Hello, sweetie," he enthused, and offered her a cool, clammy handshake. "Come in. God, I feel like I already know you, the way my mother always goes on about you!" That seemed hard to believe, because Gladys had met her only once, and had persistently called her Bailey. Kip led her over to his desk, which was about a twelve-inch journey. The office had a musty kind of quality that hopefully came from not opening the windows enough, and not from asbestos. "Please have a seat," Kip said. He dropped into his chair and wheeled it forward with a squeak.

  "I appreciate your meeting with me on such short notice," Billy said, tenderly sitting down in the wobbly, torn chair that faced Kip's desk.

  "No problem. I was thrilled to finally match the name with the face," he said.

  Which name? she thought sardonically, then pushed her flippancy aside. Really, she should be serious about this—this was her career at stake. Working at the bakery was a fun, diverting sideline, but she was twenty-seven years old already. She needed to be hitting the proverbial pavement, breaking back into the corporate scene, and, with any luck, Kip would help her do that.

  While Kip got organized, Billy shifted a little in her seat to get comfortable. As it was, she didn't feel quite like herself today in a black suit and high heels. It was her standard interview outfit, which was considerably tighter today than when she'd bought it six months ago. She'd obviously gotten spoiled working at Bella Donna in soft, warm sweaters and faded blue jeans, and right now she missed the worn comfort of her battered green velvet coat.

  "Okaaaay... let's seeee here... Got your résumé," Kip said, rooting around on his desk for the sheet that Corryn had faxed over for Billy that morning. "Let me just find it... un momentitooo..." After a few more minutes of shuffling, he said, "Well, while I'm looking for it, why don't you tell me more about yourself?"

  Billy gave him her professional history, in brief—-which wasn't difficult, because it was brief—and Kip nodded profusely while he rooted around his office. "Ah! Here it is," he said, finally locating her résumé and scanning it briefly. "Looking good... Web design experience, advanced computer skills, degree from BC—nice. The old-boys' network loves that."

  Billy supposed that was a good thing—to an extent.

  "Let's see here... Net Circle... three and a half years. So what happened there?" Kip asked, looking up.

  "Oh, the company declared bankruptcy. It just couldn't bear the declining market."

  "Ouch," he yelped sympathetically, and set her résumé down on his cluttered desk. "Okay, let's be honest. You're looking for a thriving, fast-paced environment where you can apply your natural creativity, and where you can grow, right?"

  "Yeah, definitely," Billy said, perking up. Gee, when he put it like that, it sounded pretty good. She recalled the surge of elation she'd felt when she'd presented the Renoir cakes at the jubilee. She wanted to feel that rush again, and if she could get paid for it, even better.

  "Fabulous, because it just so happens that I have a supremo fit for you."

  "Really?" she said, leaning forward with anticipation.

  "There's a position that's just opened up for a smart, detail-oriented, and fabulously creative individual—how does that sound?"

  "Wow, that sounds great! Where's the job?"

  "Tuck Hospital in Dorchester," he replied... much to Billy's disappointment. Okay, not to be a diva, but working in a hospital hadn't been remotely what she'd had in mind. She supposed it had to do with her heightened fear of her own mortality—similar to why she'd never watched ER for all the endless years it aired, also why she compulsively avoided televised surgeries and movies about killer viruses. It was a little quirk of hers.

  But, on the other hand, the mature thing to do would be to keep an open mind. "Okay..." she said now, trying to conceal her uneasiness. "And what would I be doing there?"

  "Well, in the terrific position that's currently available, you'd be working in the Infectious Disease Unit—you know, greeting incoming patients, and attending to some basic administrative needs."

  Hmm... "Basic administrative needs" was suddenly not sounding so creative, and the prospect of greeting patients before they got treated for their infectious diseases wasn't all that enticing. "Kip, I'm sorry," she said, chucking maturity out the window. "But I really don't want to work in a hospital. It's just a personal preference—a strong p
ersonal preference."

  Kip looked flummoxed by that one. "Well, it's a great job, Billy," he said, with an edge to his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago.

  "I'm sorry," she said again. "It's just not for me."

  Now he looked a little peeved. "O-kaaaaay," he said, and shuffled some more papers on his desk. "If you're suuuure..."

  "I am, but thanks for thinking of me," she said brightly. "Um, are there any other positions open that I could interview for? I'm pretty open, you know, besides hospitals." Oh, wait, maybe she should specify that she also wasn't crazy about cemeteries, prisons, and nuclear-waste dumps, before they had another misunderstanding.

  But as it turned out, there was no need. Kip cut the meeting short, saying, "You know, let me look through my client portfolio and give you a call, okay, sweetie?" Even though he'd called her "sweetie," Billy sensed that Kip's flamboyant positivity had dwindled.

  "Okay, great, just give me a call," she said, smiling amiably, and left his office.

  As soon as her high heels hit the pavement, her cell phone rang. Jeez, did her mother have some kind of sixth sense?

  "Yes?" she answered, assuming it was her mom, though she couldn't see the number in the glare of the sun.

  "Hello, may I speak with Billy Cabot, please?"

  It wasn't her mom—it was a man. With some sort of an accent, too.

  "This is Billy," she said, pressing her free hand to her other ear to block out the sound of traffic as she walked toward Government Center.

  "Why, hello!" he said. "This is Greg Dappaport of the Churchill Dappaports." Now she recognized that accent! (Did she say accent or affectation?) It was the quasi-English man with the slicked hair and silk neckerchief whom she'd met at the jubilee. The one who'd been arguing with Ted Schneider on the beach.

  "Am I catching you at an inconvenient time?" he asked.

  "Um, no."

  "Oh, wonderful, because I would love to discuss your work." Huh? What work? "I got your mobile phone number from Sally Sugarton; I hope that's all right."