by Lisa Jackson
He picked a table near the counter and Rachel brought him his breakfast sandwich and coffee. She had flour in her hair and a little on her chin.
“Take a load off.” He motioned to the chair across from him at the bistro table.
“I’ve got rolls in the oven I have to check on.” She made small talk with all the other customers but never with him. Maybe he looked like the Big Bad Wolf.
“What’s that?” Poking out of her apron pocket was the top of a form that looked suspiciously like the front page of the application for the Old Watermill House. “You bidding on the mill house?”
Her face turned red and Boden had his answer. He’d known he’d have competition, but the space seemed too large for a bakery, unless she wanted to start selling to supermarkets and restaurants and needed a commissary kitchen.
“Why? Are you?”
He’d only told Ingrid and the group of possible investors, not wanting to advertise his future plans until the place was his. But he didn’t want to lie, either. “Yup. For a brewery and taproom with a restaurant. What’s your proposal?”
Her face had instantly gone from sunny to dark. “I’m still up in the air with exactly what I want to do.” Which Boden knew was a polite way of saying, “It’s none of your damn business.”
“Right,” he said, wondering why she was being so secretive. By tomorrow all the applicants would be going before the council, and although the pitches were being made in private, in a town like Glory Junction it would take, oh, about five seconds for word to spread.
“I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.” She turned and walked away.
He watched that very fine ass of hers disappear behind the counter and remembered why he disliked her so much.
CHAPTER 3
Rachel thought her presentation before the council went well. Better than well. She’d nailed it. All those years as a litigator had trained her to make an eloquent and compelling case, though she preferred the tranquility of her kitchen to the combativeness of a courtroom.
As she’d laid out her proposal, she saw Rita Tucker, the mayor, and a couple of the council members nodding their heads. They particularly liked the fact that Rachel would be keeping her Main Street bakery in addition to the full-service restaurant.
But where she really had them was with her revenue projections. If everything went as planned, the project would be quite lucrative. More so than a knitting store, which she knew firsthand was Hattie Taylor’s proposal. Hattie already owned the Yarn Barn in the Starbucks strip mall and wanted to expand to a larger space where she could give classes and open a small store with locally made sweaters, afghans, and other knitted items. It was a great idea and Hattie was a doll, but half the time her sweet little shop was empty.
Boden was Rachel’s fiercest opponent. Not only was Old Glory wildly popular—and she was guessing just as profitable—but also the entire town fawned over him. Her biggest hope was that the city council didn’t want another bar in Glory Junction. It was a distinct possibility. Between Old Glory and the resort hotels there were a number of places for people to get their drink on and then drive on the windy, mountainous roads. A potentially deadly mixture and with any luck a major justification for the city to choose her over him.
Her thoughts must’ve conjured him, because on the way out of city hall she nearly collided with Boden.
“Sorry, I was looking at my phone.” He nudged his head at the council chambers. “You make your pitch?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” she said, noticing that he’d worn a tie. She’d never seen him in anything other than jeans, a flannel shirt, and biker boots. In the summer he wore T-shirts that stretched across his wide chest, showed off a pair of bulging biceps and a tattoo of a beer-filled stein. The knot was a little crooked and she itched to straighten it.
“How’d it go?”
“Great,” she said with confidence.
“What did they ask you?”
The last thing she wanted to do was give anything away. She and Boden were competitors after all. She was always on her guard for the snake in the grass, posing as a charming suitor. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice . . . “You haven’t gone yet?”
“Nope, I’m up in ten minutes.” He held up a folder, which must’ve been his presentation.
She’d used a PowerPoint. More professional.
“I’ve never seen you dress like that.” He waved his hand over her suit, a leftover from her lawyer days. “Sharp.” His mouth curled up when he said it, leading her to believe that he thought just the opposite.
Not that she cared.
“You too. Nice tie.” A little fatter than what was in style. And crooked.
“Thanks. It’s my good-luck tie.” He flashed a cocky grin. “Want to have a drink tonight to celebrate?”
Was he trying to get her goat because he thought he had this in the bag? “Seems premature, don’t you think? They’re not announcing the winning bid until after Christmas.”
“I just meant celebrating that it’s over. I don’t know about you, but my proposal took a lot of effort and planning.”
“Mine too,” she said, and even to her own ears it sounded defensive. Even bitchy. At the same time, she didn’t want to be a pushover. Not with Boden, who was starting to raise her hackles. Too friendly. Too agreeable. Asking her out for drinks. What was next? Sleeping with her, then stealing her job, or in this case her real estate? “Maybe another time. I’ve got a long night ahead of me, prepping for the wedding. And I’m leaving first thing Christmas morning to go to my folks’.”
“Roger that. I just figured at some point you’d take a break and we could toast each other. No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He started to walk away.
“Did you get anyone to help pass the Champagne?”
“Yep, I’m good.” He tapped on his watch. “I better get going.”
“Uh-huh. Good luck,” she said because it seemed rude not to.
Rachel took Main Street back to the bakery, where Sam was running the store while she was away. She had three other employees, including two high school kids who helped on the weekends. But for the most part, she did all the baking herself. When she got the Old Watermill House she planned to hire a few full-time bakers so she could focus more on running the two businesses. Not that she would ever give up being in the kitchen entirely. She loved it too much to quit. And in a warped sort of way she had Jeremy to thank for that.
When he got the chief counsel job at Dole—the one that was supposed to be hers—it forced her to reevaluate her life. That’s when she decided it was time to follow her bliss. And here she was, taking the next step. It was a huge investment, but her heart told her it was worth it.
Rachel pulled her coat tighter, dodging patches of snow on the sidewalk in her high heels. The wind howled and the sky had turned dark, even though it wasn’t even noon yet. The idea of lugging food and all her catering equipment to the Canadell house in this weather was daunting. But the gig paid well and would help toward her mill house project.
Boden had sure come on confident that he’d won the bid. Wasn’t that just like him? Always so self-assured. She did have to admit that he looked good in a necktie, even if he couldn’t pull off a Windsor knot to save his life. He’d also shaved. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him before without a layer of scruff or at least a shadow. Either way, he had an arresting face; Rachel would give him that.
She wondered what his drink invitation was about. He’d never shown a romantic interest in her before. In fact, he’d always been cordial but standoffish where she was concerned. This sudden desire to have drinks seemed more like an opportunity for him to gather intel since they were competing for the same space. Or maybe Jeremy had her overanalyzing every exchange with a man because the decision was now up to the council.
It didn’t really matter, because there would be no drinks. Boden wasn’t for her, nor was she for him. The next time she got involved with a man, they would be on
totally different career tracks. A doctor, a plumber, a certified public accountant, anything but a lawyer or someone in the restaurant industry.
By the time she got inside the bakery, her toes were frozen. She quickly popped into her tiny office and exchanged her high heels for a pair of warm socks and clogs. Sam had turned on the Christmas playlist Rachel had compiled, and the music sent a rush of warmth through her. She loved the holidays. The food, the cheer, the decorations, just everything about it.
Sam stuck her head inside. “We’ve already run out of pumpkin spice muffins.”
“I’ll bake another batch.”
“How did it go?”
“Good . . . I think. Boden was going in as I was coming out.”
“You’ll get it over him,” Sam said, and cocked a brow. “I’d be happy to console him when the city makes the announcement. We can get a room somewhere and I’ll—”
“Stop it. Find yourself a nice young man.” What was everyone’s obsession with Boden Farmer? “What makes you so sure?”
“You’ve got Oprah on your side. No one would dare go up against Oprah.”
Rachel laughed. She’d gotten a lot of mileage out of that silly list but doubted it held weight as far as the city was concerned. She’d done the best she could do; now it was out of her hands. “We’ll see. I just have to be patient and wait,” which wouldn’t be easy. She’d never been good at relinquishing control.
“Besides the muffins, anything else I should know about?”
Sam shook her head. “Not that I can think of . . . oh, your bride called. She’s freaking out about the weather. Says the forecast is predicting a storm.”
“That was the chance she took by scheduling her wedding this time of year. I’ll call her . . . calm her down. We’ll probably get a good dump of snow, but the county will clear the roads.” It was a ski resort town. Life went on regardless of stormy weather.
“I’ll go ahead and start preparing for the lunch onslaught,” Samantha said. “And FYI: There’s also been a run on gingerbread scones. You may want to make more of those, too.”
Customers were buying them by the dozen to take home.
“I’m on it.” Rachel headed to the kitchen, planning to call her nervous bride as soon as she got the muffins in the oven and her scone batter started.
Outside, she could see a flurry of white. Small flakes had started falling and with the streetlights draped in garland it felt like she was looking into a snow globe. She took a second to take it all in and sighed with delight. Glory Junction was prettier than a Christmas card.
Ten minutes later the rush started, and by the time Rachel stopped to take a breather it was four o’clock. Pretty soon, a new crop of people would flood the bakery before closing to pick up special orders and take advantage of Rachel’s nearly day-old half-off sale. There wasn’t a whole lot left in the cases.
She had just enough time to call back her bride and then start the prep for tomorrow’s big wedding. It was going to be a long night. Boden’s drink offer floated through her head and she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Rachael grabbed the last of her freshly baked pumpkin spice muffins and a cup of coffee and took them with her to her office. Nibbling, she dialed the phone.
“Hey, Tara, it’s Rachel Johnson calling you back.”
“It’s snowing. I got to my aunt’s house about an hour ago and since then I swear we’ve gotten two feet.”
Rachel didn’t think so. “It’ll be fine. We knew there was a strong chance of snow. Think of how beautiful it’ll look. A fairytale white wedding. Are most of your guests here?”
Tara took a deep breath over the phone. “Many of them. They’re staying at the Four Seasons.”
“When are you headed to your parents’?” The house was a good ten miles out of town, up in the mountains. Luckily, it was a county-maintained road.
“Not until tomorrow. My wedding planner wants to give the decorators plenty of space.” Rachel knew that was code for the wedding planner didn’t want an antsy bride second-guessing their work. “Foster is going tonight with the flowers. The stylist is coming to my aunt’s first thing to do my hair and makeup. Then I’m riding up with my dad. My mom’s going earlier to make sure everything looks good.”
“Is the groom here?”
“At the Four Seasons.”
“Then it sounds like you’re all set,” Rachel said. “A little snow won’t get in the way.”
“I guess not. You’re good, right? You won’t have any trouble getting the food up the mountain?”
“Nope.” Other than the hassle of maneuvering in the cold and wet, Rachel had catered events in worse conditions than these. “I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
“I e-mailed you the code to get inside.”
Rachel hung up and for the next five hours she prepped, making the dough for her yeast rolls, preparing twelve dozen tiny quiches, and brining two twenty-pound turkeys. A giant pot of butternut squash soup simmered on the stove. Tomorrow she’d reheat it and serve the soup in minimugs. The rest she’d prepare the morning of the reception. The only thing left to do tonight was put the finishing touches on Tara and Dan’s wedding cake.
Instead of going fussy, the bride and groom had opted for a traditional bûche de noël in white chocolate and planned to supplement dessert with apple pie. Rachel thought it was a delightful nod to the holidays.
Before leaving, she wrapped everything in plastic, packed boxes with her ingredients, and lined up a row of ice chests. In the morning, Sam and Leslie would help her load everything into the bakery truck. Tara’s parents’ kitchen boasted multiple ovens, prep sinks, and a Sub-Zero fridge the size of a restaurant’s. It would be a pleasure to finish the wedding meal there in the quiet hours, before the rest of the crew showed up and the festivities started.
On her way home, she drove slowly on the slick roads. It had stopped snowing, but the streets hadn’t yet been cleared and the two-mile trip was a bear. The minute she got inside, she flipped on the lights and turned on the heat. Her town house was a cozy two-bedroom with an open floor plan, a large stone fireplace, a good-size kitchen, and views of the mountains to die for. Rachel loved it, even if it meant sharing a wall with her neighbors. It was new construction and most of the residents were part-timers who came on the weekends to ski. On the weekdays, it was quiet and a nice respite from the bakery.
Her answering machine flashed. The only ones who insisted on calling her on a landline were her parents, who were self-proclaimed Luddites. She pressed the button.
“Rachel, it’s your mother.” Rachel’s mouth ticked up. As if she didn’t know her mother’s voice. “Just checking to see what time you’re coming. Your sister, Jack, and the girls are staying over Christmas Eve. The girls will be anxious to open their gifts in the morning.” There was a long pause as if she was waiting for Rachel to respond. “Call me.”
Rachel glanced at the mantle clock. It was too late to call. She’d touch base with her mother first thing in the morning. It was a four-hour drive to Atherton, where her parents lived. If she left early enough she could be there in time for Christmas brunch. But first she had a wedding to get through.
* * *
It was still dark outside when her alarm went off. Rachel showered and dressed in layers, packing a pair of black pants and a crisp white tuxedo blouse that she’d change into for the reception. She loaded her car and headed to the bakery, but the wind and snow made seeing difficult. Rachel hoped the weather died down by the time she drove up the mountain.
Sam and Leslie were waiting when she got there. They had already filled the ice chests and were busy packing up her equipment. She’d delivered the dinnerware and serving pieces days ago so the decorators could set up the buffet tables and Foster could place the flowers. It was one less thing she’d have to carry, thank goodness. They loaded the van and Rachel did a quick walk through the kitchen to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
“You sure you don’t want o
ne of us to come with you?” Sam asked.
“Yes, but I’ll need you both at around three, so leave yourself plenty of time to get there.” In this weather, traffic moved at a snail’s pace. Folks up from the city who weren’t used to driving in the snow.
“We will. You’re sure you’re okay to unload on your own?”
“I’ll be fine. Just hold down the fort, here.” The bakery was closing early and she expected a morning rush with customers picking up their special orders.
She hopped in the driver’s seat and took it slow. The snow hadn’t let up and the plows weren’t out yet. All she had to do was make it ten miles. By noon, city and county workers would clear the streets. She crawled along the windy road, her windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the flurry of flakes sticking to the windows. Soon, she’d have zero visibility.
At one point, she found a turnout, pulled over, and cleaned the glass with a scraper. It was time for new blades on her wipers. She started off again, climbing higher into the pines as the wind lashed the van, making it rock back and forth. The snow kept coming, but she could see the sun slipping through the clouds and figured by midday the worst of it would be over. Tara and her wedding planner had studied the weather patterns for Christmas Eve in the Sierra, going back ten years. Snow and wind, but nothing epic. Nothing that would prevent prepared guests from getting to the venue.
By the time she pulled up to the big circular driveway, she had to steady her nerves. The drive had been hairier than she’d expected. There was a familiar-looking pickup parked by the service door. It took her a few seconds to process that it was Boden’s. Why he was here this early was a mystery. She got down from the cab and opened the tail lift to start unloading. Halfway to the house, he came down the driveway and greeted her, shielding his eyes with his hands.
“I’ll move my truck so you can back in and get closer to the door.” He took the ice chest from her and started back to the house.