by Caro LaFever
She’d begun her business a few months before graduating from the intensive six-month pastry and bakery program she’d signed on for right after getting her degree at Mercy College. Her tiny apartment’s little stove had pumped out hundreds of rolls and breads as she’d went on to serve a two-year apprenticeship with Jacques Boulanger at his famous shop, Korova Patisserie, in Soho.
Bread, she could do. She’d grown up with it.
Yet she’d always known pastry would be her calling card.
Slowly, she’d built a reputation with the small, family diners and then the ritzy ones. Instead of just buying her bread, a bread as good as her dad’s, they began to order a dozen of her fruit tarts. Then her city-famous caramel and chocolate éclairs. As fast as she learned her lessons with Jacques, she twisted the recipes and made them her own, much to her clients’ and Jacques’ delight. Eventually, she’d managed to sign deals with quite a few surrounding restaurants.
Then New York City’s most popular morning TV show had called.
Her mom hadn’t been happy about the show.
Her mom had dreamed of grandchildren.
Sophie figured kids were in the future—the far future. Right now, though, pastry was her perfect present.
Marching back into the main room, she turned on both mixers. She had two hours to get the brioche and scones done before Jorge came in to start the deliveries. Measuring the flour, eggs, and sugar into one spinning bowl and then the other, she began to hum.
Baking settled her like nothing else could.
Every bit of him slipped from her brain.
“Hey, Soph!” Tamika banged into the room, slamming the door behind her with a decisive clunk. The long white trails of her iPod earplugs hung from her ears and explained why she yelled her greeting.
“Hey, yourself.”
Her assistant’s dark eyes flashed with an excitement that was unusual. Tamika didn’t start all her engines until after her second cup of coffee. “What’s going on?”
Sophie’s humming stopped. “What?”
“There’s three guys standing outside in front of our door.” Her assistant rolled onto her toes as if about to take flight. “Paparazzi! At four in the morning!”
Tamika and Megan had become used to the occasional reporter after she’d joined the morning show. This level of excitement shouldn’t be happening.
I’ll send out a press release on our engagement so the news will hit the papers the morning after you move in.
“Oh. Crud.”
Tamika slung her coat off onto the rack and raced over to where Sophie stood. The mixers churned away, entirely forgotten. “Tell me. Because you wouldn’t believe what questions they were asking.”
“Well—”
The door blew open once more, bringing a flash, flash, flash of camera lights and a discordant mix of yelling. Her other assistant, Megan, blocked the growing crowd before banging the big door closed. Her eyes were wide and her red wool hat was askew. “What's going on?”
“This is very exciting.” Tamika pulled her phone from her jeans pocket and began texting.
“This is crazy.” Megan yanked off her hat and paced to the mixers, a frown of concern on her face. “They are saying…saying…” Her eyes dropped to Sophie’s left hand. “My God.”
The ring. The damn ring. She’d forgotten—
“Look, Tamika.” Before she could slip her hand behind her back, Megan latched onto it and yanked forward the damning evidence. “Sophie’s engaged.”
“Wait. What those reporters were shouting is true?” Her other assistant crowded around the other side of the mixer. “It’s beautiful, Soph.”
The ring was beautiful. She hated to admit that if only to herself, but it was beautiful. The center stone glowed—a golden fancy diamond. Around it wove a series of diamond studded petals, their gleaming, pure-white brilliance making the warmth of the center of the ring even more striking.
“I should take it off.” For good.
“If I had that on my finger,” Tamika kept staring, “there’d be no way I’d ever take it off.”
“I have to bake.” Sophie shook herself. This was her business. The business was most important—not standing around worshiping a ring.
Megan glanced up from the ring. “One of those reporters—”
“We all have to bake.” Tugging her hand out of the inspection zone, Sophie marched to the other mixer.
“Those reporters said you’re engaged to Alex Stravoudas.” Megan’s hushed voice filled the big room as if she were in a church.
“That’s what I heard, too.” Tamika’s usually booming voice turned faint. “I couldn’t believe it.”
She swiveled around and stared her assistants down. “I’m engaged. To Alexander Stravoudas. No big deal.”
Both sets of eyes staring at her widened.
Megan gulped. “This is a huge deal.”
“Yeah.” Tamika bobbed her head, her weaved ponytail bobbing. “Huge.”
“You said you didn’t like him, Soph.”
“Yes, well, things change.” She stared down into the mixer, monitoring the dough as it began to curl on the edges of the steel bowl. The memory of the last conversation she’d had about change came to her.
Anything can change. Quite quickly too. But you know that, don’t you, Sophia?
She kept staring at the dough, willing her assistants to leave the topic alone. However, Tamika and Megan had worked with her for two years now, and any professional courtesy had fallen away after long, sweltering hours standing by the ovens.
“You are so lucky,” Megan crowed as she danced to Sophie’s side. “He’s so hot.”
“Girlfriend.” Tamika’s long arms wrapped around her and lifted her in the air as if she were a doll. “You have definitely hit the jackpot with Mr. Stravoudas.”
Crud. This was the exact same reaction her best friends had given her last night. If it weren’t so awful and horrible, it would be hilarious. “Put me down.”
“He’s beautiful,” Megan cooed, her hands clasped in front of her like she was a starving child gazing at a Christmas feast.
Tamika bounced around, ignoring Sophie’s demand. “He’s rich.”
“That’s not why I’m—”
“He was never the right one for that Melanie girlfriend of yours.” Tamika nodded her head, the iPod’s earplugs bopping in a white line along her neck.
“Well, that’s true—”
“I’ve read everything about him.” Her other assistant’s hands tightened, her eyes going dreamy. “He’s perfect.”
“He’s not perfect.” Anger and frustration rippled from the pit of her gut and filled her voice. Each word spit out of her mouth with fervor. “Put. Me. Down.”
Tamika stopped and peered into her face, her brown eyes puzzled. “Why aren’t you happy?”
“She has to be happy.” Megan came to stand next to them, her face equally quizzical. “She’s marrying the Perfect Man.”
“I’m happy, okay?” She squeezed the words from her mouth. “But our clients aren’t going to be if we don’t start baking.”
She got plopped on her feet. Finally.
“We’re so glad for you, Soph.”
“Yeah, we are.” Tamika looked like she was about to pat her employer on the head, something she’d done a time or two when Sophie had been mad about something.
She stepped back. “Time to bake.”
The next two hours went by at a quick clip, filled with the smell of yeast and butter and vanilla. Racks of her favorite lime and ginger scones slid from the hot ovens while dough for the cream chocolate tarts rolled out on the steel tables. She kept her mind on the baking, answering all the excited questions with short, prickly answers. By the time Jorge appeared at the door, her two assistants had quieted down to giving her an odd glance every once and awhile.
“Well, well, well.” The older man stomped into the room, closing the door behind him. For the moment the door stood open, surprisingly, the
re was no longer any cacophony of reporters yelling questions and clicking off photographs.
“Where did the reporters go?” Megan stopped pounding the dough, appearing to be ready to launch herself at the door.
“They’re still there.” He waved away the question. “Some guards are keeping them back.”
“Guards?” Sophie couldn’t help her curiosity.
“Guards. I’m figuring they weren’t hired by you, huh, Soph?” Jorge brandished his usual papers in front of him. “What’s going on with this?”
She went back to rolling out the dough, ignoring him as she’d ignored her assistants. Still, the fact he’d sent guards to protect her burbled deep inside.
“She’s engaged.” Megan piped in, excitement filling her voice once more.
Tamika’s broad smile came back on her face after disappearing in the last hour. “She’s marrying Alex—”
“Stravoudas.” He marched to the steel table and stared at her. “I thought you didn’t even like the guy.”
I don’t. “I didn’t—”
“But he did say the other night you two were old friends.” The bald head cocked to the side.
“The other night?” Tamika pounced.
“He was here.” Jorge leaned on the table and finally smiled, pleased to have more gossip to share. “Two nights ago.”
“Gosh, Sophie.” Megan beamed. “You’ve been having this amazing love affair right under our noses. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Time to bake.” She clenched her fist, glad she’d taken off the ring as soon as she’d been able to. “Jorge. The brioche is ready to be delivered.”
All three of them stared at her for a second and then went right back to cooing and ahhhing over the tabloid articles about herself and the Perfect Man getting hitched.
Frustration made her want to hit something. Or someone. Even here, in her bakery, he was ruining everything. “I mean it—”
Her phone rang in the office.
A new order. She never ignored a new order.
Pacing into the dinky square room, she snatched up her phone. “Pure Pastry.”
“Sophie!”
Her mother. Sounding excited and happy. Which was unusual. Her mother normally personified the word irritated.
Crud. She straightened her back.
There could be no possible way her mother would have found out about this engagement all the way down in Florida where she and Sophie’s dad had retired two years ago.
No way.
“You’re getting married!”
She gritted her teeth. “Mom.”
“I was so excited when your Aunt Eileen called, even though it woke your father.”
She was going to kill her Aunt Eileen, who was as bad as Jorge when it came to buying the tabloids. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“I couldn’t believe my ears.” Her mother’s voice hushed, as if, like Megan, she was about to enter a church.
“Well, it happened—”
“I was a bit upset I hadn’t heard it from you, but I can understand how impetuous young people can be.”
“Mom--”
“I did that Googling thing. He’s very handsome.” Her mother went on. “Very rich.”
What was this about rich? Had she ever once proclaimed she wanted to marry rich? If she wanted to be rich, she’d get rich herself. “Mom—”
“I couldn’t have picked a better man for my girl.”
How could her mother possibly know he was a better man than all the other men she’d dated? Especially when he was clearly NOT. “Mom—”
“Your dad wants to talk to you.”
Oh. Help.
“Princess?” Her father’s gravelly voice rumbled into her ear. “What’s this I’m hearing?”
Sudden tears blurred her vision. Because she could hear it in her dad’s voice. He was happy, too. He’d always encouraged her dreams and complimented her on her independence, yet now, right here and now, she realized he’d also wanted her to be secure in a marriage. “Daddy.”
“I have to say, your man appears pretty impressive.” Her mother’s voice came, muffled in the background, cutting off her dad’s comments. “Yes, yes, Margaret. I’ll ask her. Sophie? Wasn’t this the young man who was engaged to your friend?”
“Yes, Dad, except…” The tears threatened to spill and she spun around to stare at the calendar on the wall to prevent any snoopy assistants figuring out her agitation.
“But your friend split with him, hmm?” Erich Feuer stopped and then started again. “Or that’s what your mother is telling me.”
“Yes.” This situation did make her appear pretty awful. At least from the outside. Was that how the tabloids were covering it? For once, she wished she’d snatched the papers from Jorge’s hands. “See, Dad, it’s a long story—”
“Well, I trust you, Princess.” Her daddy’s voice went soft. “You always have known what’s best for you.”
A blinding rage swept through her. She was going to have to make a call, sometime in the near future, and ruin her parents’ happiness. She was going to have to disappoint them and it was all Alexander Stravoudas’s fault. Sophie twisted the cell phone away in order to take in a gasping breath of fury mixed with distress.
A muffled “Let me have the phone,” echoed through the line and her mother came back on, her voice filled with joy. “Sophie?”
“Yeah, mom.”
“We’re going to come for a visit.”
Oh. God. No. “Mom, I don’t think—”
“Just a short one, nothing to worry about. We want to meet your man.”
Could anything be worse? “Mom—”
“We realize this is your busy time of year.” Her mother trilled on, oblivious to any of her daughter’s anguish. “We’ll stay with your Aunt Eileen so we won’t get in your way.”
Her dad hated staying with Aunt Eileen. She leaned on the wall, thinking about banging her head until she went numb for a couple of months. Still, she heard the determination in her mom’s voice. No matter what she said or did, her parents were coming. “You can stay at my place.”
There was a pause. “That will be a bit cramped…”
She sighed at the inevitable. “I’m not staying there right now.”
“Truly?” She could practically see her mom dancing a jig in her Florida condo. “You’re living with him.”
To Margaret Feuer, living with a man was a big deal. Sophie had spent many a teenage moment listening to lectures on not putting all your eggs in one basket and not giving away the milk for free and Rome wasn’t built in a day. Her mom did like her sayings. And the sayings had made an impact. She had never once lived with a guy. So, this was big.
Or it would be big if it were real.
“We’ll check on flights and let you know,” her mom warbled. “Plan on us staying for a couple of weeks through Thanksgiving.”
Fantastic. They’d be here for the ball.
Sophie banged her head on the wall.
Chapter 6
She wore an awful black box of a pantsuit.
Alex eased back on the limo’s leather-covered seat and stifled a groan. He supposed he should be gleeful about Sophia’s lack of looks and how people were going to judge her tonight. Especially after all the trouble she’d caused him during the past few months and the past few days. But the last thing he wanted was to walk into his city-famous happy hour with this woman on his arm looking like a frump.
A frump.
With him.
“Take your hair down.” Perhaps it would cover some of the horrible black of her suit. Didn’t the woman know there were different shades of black and that this particular shade made her skin look like dried bones?
She shot her annoyed glare at him. “Stop trying to remake me.”
They’d had this same conversation, with minor variations, during the last four days she’d lived with him.
Every morning she arrived in the kitchen with her hair stuffed into tha
t tight ponytail she always wore. Invariably, she had on some ugly fuchsia or pastel sweater with ratty jeans and ancient sneakers.
He’d offered to buy her some new sweaters.
She’d told him to mind his own business.
He’d told her that ratty jeans weren’t professional.
She’d sworn at him.
He’d mentioned getting some new sneakers.
She’d sneered.
Every evening they’d attended some function he needed to be at. He had to suffer through hours of staring at the top of her head, with her brown hair knotted into a motley chignon or twisted braid. Looking at her hair, though, was always better than looking farther down. Down meant encountering the flaps of another pantsuit covering any hope of a female figure. Did the woman even have a waist? She was a box from her big tits to her overly round hips.
That was bad enough.
What was worse, were the colors.
Neon blue. Metallic green. Garish pink.
The woman had no sense of style or color. Truly, she needed to meet his mother and sisters. The thought of that coming confrontation made him groan out loud.
“Are you sick?” She didn’t sound concerned. Rather, she sounded amused.
“What makes me sick is that thing you’re wear—”
Her little hand shot forward, palm facing him. “Stop right there. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“But you need it.”
She grunted a dismissal and swung around to stare through the window at the flashing lights of the city.
Alex grunted back at her and looked out his own window.
This morning, he’d hoped to see her in something other than ugly since today had been her TV show day. He’d even found himself lying in his bed last night wondering if she’d have her hair down for once or if she’d wear lipstick. He’d been stunned at how disappointed he’d been when she’d arrived in the kitchen looking even worse than usual.
“They do me over when I get there,” she’d explained.
“I would think you’d—”
“And why are you getting up every morning anyway?” She threw the words over her shoulder before running out the door, her long brown hair latched to the top of her head like a clump of mud.